All that we did, all that we said or sang
Must come from contact with the soil.
--William Butler Yeats, The Municipal Gallery Revisited
AFTER 17 years grubbing underground it emerges for a week of song and sex, dumps its next generation into the soil, then goes stiff, its God-given lifespan used up. That sums up a cicada’s life. Short but happy.
Hankering for earfuls of that cicada song, the beloved and I went back to that cheap bed-and-board that looks over an eyeful of Taal Lake. Cicadas haunted an adjacent lot grown with avocado and mango trees draped with sayote vines on their boughs—that lot cum trash dump is also an open-air chamber of sorts for a cicada chamber orchestra.
There was triangular planetary pattern in the heavens and a full moon that Friday night—‘twas supposed to signal a sad shake up in the media, why, a giveaway tabloid to MRT and LRT commuters turned in an obituary issue on May’s last day. A day when rural parishes turned festive with Santacruzan processions as homage to onset of rains and the monsoon season.
It was a perfect night: the lake surface was glass, dainty moon delicious like siopao bola-bola on heaven’s platter, unseen cicadas had burst like crotch-tight briefs into song, I was having a post-prandial drink and the beloved was having her period.
Now, these aren’t your usual cicadas, smaller shriller trillers called kulilis or kuliglig. These ones are as fat as a thumb with two pairs of transparent wings sheathing a body daubed in deep-hued-gold and emerald. They won’t be easy to spot once they hug a twig and blend in camouflage with freshly sprung buds and leaves. And they’re called paagang, so I was told decades back.
Maybe it’s the hankering for music elemental, airs and tunes that resonate deep down and within. Maybe I’ve caught some paagang ages back and wondered why such a thumb-size critter could sift the air, breathe through its spiracles while thrumming out sustained several notes at one throw.
Uh, that note is a call to sex. But there’s much more to it than an invitation to copulating frenzy.
Paagang sounds out a sustained shh:r-r-e-e-n-n-g-g in a 3- or 4-minute blast, ceases for a minute or two like a boxer between rounds then resumes the trill.
Earfuls of that can get on your nerves. But that’s the sort of sound that’s different from the brainless blabber that infects cramped neighborhoods in most cities.
That’s supposedly a sacred sound that belongs to Hindu faith systems—the paagang trill is a call to a goddess, a nudge to certain nerve centers in the body in which the goddess may dwell and unfold her blessings of beauty, persistence. and prosperity. Am I blessed?
That trill ought to kindle enthusiasm, uh, that comes from Greek en theos= “the gods within.”
So I join that fecund company, if only in the last few days of their song-and-sex binge, humming along like an infected human and nudging the gods within.
As Piero Ferruci would have it in Inevitable Grace: “The word humility (also human) is derived from the Latin humus, meaning "the soil." Perhaps this is not simply because it entails stooping and returning to earthly origins, but also because, as we are rooted in this earth of everyday life, we find in it all the vitality and fertility unnoticed by people who merely tramp on across the surface, drawn by distant landscapes.”
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Blow job satisfaction
HINDI man naungkat ang antas ng suweldo at samut-saring kalagayan sa gawain, igiit na lang natin ang kawikaan na maaaring naging sangkap na ng matinong diskarte sa pamumuhay—a little integrity is better than any career.
Mga kapatid sa kayod ni cabalen Gov. Among Ed Panlilio ng Pampanga ang nangunguna sa mga may mataas na antas ng kasiyahan sa gawain o job satisfaction sa mahigit 27,000 naghahanapbuhay sa U.S. nitong 2006. Halos siyam bawat 10 kabilang sa hanay ng clergy ang nagsabi na nasisiyahan sila sa kanilang trabaho.
Pangalawa sa mga talagang nasisiyahan sa kanilang gawain ang mga bumbero—apat bawat lima ang ganado. At halos apat bawat limang physical therapists ang nagpahayag na ganado rin sila sa daloy ng kanilang gawain.
Ikaapat sa mga talagang nasisiyahan sa kanilang kayod ang mga manunulat—74% ang nagpahayag ng kasiyahan at pagiging kuntento sa kanilang ginagawa. Hindi nga pala lahat ng manunulat ay matatawag na editor at reporter.
Kabilang ang mga editor at reporter—sila ang tinatawag na peryodista-- sa hanay ng mga pulis, detective, registered nurse, at accountant na 50% lang ang nagsasabing nasisiyahan sa kanilang trabaho. Ibig sabihin: bawat 2 sa kanila, isa ang ganado’t kuntento—isa ang hindi.
“Work occupies a large part of each worker’s day, is one’s main source of social standing, helps to define who a person is and affects one’s health both physically and mentally. Because of work’s central role in many people’s lives, satisfaction with one’s job is an important component in overall well-being,” paliwanag ni Tom Smith, direktor sa isinagawang general social survey ng National Opinion Research Center ng University of Chicago.
Panlima sa mga kuntento’t masaya sa gawain ang special education teachers— maaaring mga nagtuturo ng pagluluto, yoga, bonsai, topiary, pottery, handicrafts, painting, martial arts, canine toilet training, Kama Sutra techniques, astrology at samut-saring dagdag na kaalaman na karaniwang panlibangan o pansariling kalinangan ang pakay. Ganado ang pito bawat 10 sa kanila.
Nasa ika-anim ang mga guro—69% o halos pito bawat 10. Ikapito ang education administrators na gaya ng gawain ng katotong Panfilo O. Domingo, ganado ang 68%.
Mahirap maungkat ang mga sanhi kung bakit kuntento’t humahango ng kasiyahan sa kanilang gawain ang mga taong ito. Pero may matingkad na katangian ang mga hanapbuhay na nagbibigay ng kasiyahan, ayon kay Tom Smith: “The most satisfying jobs are mostly professions, especially those involving caring for, teaching and protecting others and creative pursuits.”
Teka, nakakalito ‘to. Iginiit na kasiya-siya ang professions—nangunguna sa mga ganado’t nasisiyahan sa gawain ang mga nasa clergy. Na karaniwang tumatanggap ng sangkatutak na confessions. Say, the most satisfying professions take confessions?
Wala kaming nabungkal na nurses na talagang limpak-limpak ang tinatabo. Pero wala sila sa listahan ng mga kuntento’t nasisiyahan sa kanilang ginagawa—pero nasa healthcare profession ang physical therapists na ikatlo sa mga talagang ganado sa kanilang gawain. Tila musmos sa kanilang pangangalaga ang mga matanda na nabiktima ng brain attack o stroke at mga sakuna—tuturuan muli ng paglalakad, gagabayan sa bawat hakbang, pangungunahan sa calisthenics at mga payak na pagkilos ng mga bahagi ng katawan. Meron bang tinatawag na intrinsic pay o walang katumbas na bayad sa ganoong gawain?
Baka meron naman.
Teka, physical therapists. The rapists? Baka kaya sila ganado’t kuntento.
Isangkalan muli ang naibandilang sanhi: A little integrity is better than any career. Walang isang katagang katumbas ng integrity sa ating wika. I’d hazard that where such gunshot word that codifies an idea is missing in a language, the idea is likely to be missing in the people using such a language. So we’re rather clueless on what integrity is. Or privacy. After all, basic patterns of our mind emerge from the structure of our speech, the workaday language we use.
So let’s hazard a guess to integrate integrity into our way of thinking as Filipinos. Integrity = kabuuan ng pagkatao. Paano ba bumuo ng pagkatao? ‘Tangna hindi ‘yung infantry o pagputok sa matris ng tarugo bata ang nabubuo.
May pamantayang sinusundan sa pagbuo ng pagkatao. How to make whole the Tao in you? Mauungkat na natin si Lao Tse, isa ring Asyano pati na ang kung ilang salinlahi ng tao na sumunod sa mga panuntunan niya. Paano nga mabubuo ang pagkatao? Payak ang tuntunin. Mauungkat sa mga lipunan ng Asia. Code of honor. Do. Tao. Tahaking landas. Na umiiral ang panuntunan para itanghal at ingatan ang dangal.
Do? Say, scandal-hounded farm minister of Japan commits suicide, that’s honest-to-goodness bushido. A P1.2-billion fertilizer scam hounds one Joc-joc Bolante who makes himself scarce, that’s hindot na tarantado.
Sa isang panlipunang kaayusan na nagpapahalaga sa pakikisama’t pakikigaya sa nakararami kaysa pagpapahalaga sa karangalan ng sarili, tiyak na wala ngang katuturan at hindi mauunawa ang kabuluhan ng dangal.
So we’re a career-driven people, we turn our backs on this neck of the backwoods; we’ll find a career everywhere in the world. We equate career with job security and cash rewards, do we not?
And we’re not exactly an integrity-driven people. So let’s not look for integrity in the people who install as our leaders because the masses where we drew them from are similarly lacking in integrity.
Being busy is one of the basic necessities to be content.
But a little integrity is better than any career.
Mga kapatid sa kayod ni cabalen Gov. Among Ed Panlilio ng Pampanga ang nangunguna sa mga may mataas na antas ng kasiyahan sa gawain o job satisfaction sa mahigit 27,000 naghahanapbuhay sa U.S. nitong 2006. Halos siyam bawat 10 kabilang sa hanay ng clergy ang nagsabi na nasisiyahan sila sa kanilang trabaho.
Pangalawa sa mga talagang nasisiyahan sa kanilang gawain ang mga bumbero—apat bawat lima ang ganado. At halos apat bawat limang physical therapists ang nagpahayag na ganado rin sila sa daloy ng kanilang gawain.
Ikaapat sa mga talagang nasisiyahan sa kanilang kayod ang mga manunulat—74% ang nagpahayag ng kasiyahan at pagiging kuntento sa kanilang ginagawa. Hindi nga pala lahat ng manunulat ay matatawag na editor at reporter.
Kabilang ang mga editor at reporter—sila ang tinatawag na peryodista-- sa hanay ng mga pulis, detective, registered nurse, at accountant na 50% lang ang nagsasabing nasisiyahan sa kanilang trabaho. Ibig sabihin: bawat 2 sa kanila, isa ang ganado’t kuntento—isa ang hindi.
“Work occupies a large part of each worker’s day, is one’s main source of social standing, helps to define who a person is and affects one’s health both physically and mentally. Because of work’s central role in many people’s lives, satisfaction with one’s job is an important component in overall well-being,” paliwanag ni Tom Smith, direktor sa isinagawang general social survey ng National Opinion Research Center ng University of Chicago.
Panlima sa mga kuntento’t masaya sa gawain ang special education teachers— maaaring mga nagtuturo ng pagluluto, yoga, bonsai, topiary, pottery, handicrafts, painting, martial arts, canine toilet training, Kama Sutra techniques, astrology at samut-saring dagdag na kaalaman na karaniwang panlibangan o pansariling kalinangan ang pakay. Ganado ang pito bawat 10 sa kanila.
Nasa ika-anim ang mga guro—69% o halos pito bawat 10. Ikapito ang education administrators na gaya ng gawain ng katotong Panfilo O. Domingo, ganado ang 68%.
Mahirap maungkat ang mga sanhi kung bakit kuntento’t humahango ng kasiyahan sa kanilang gawain ang mga taong ito. Pero may matingkad na katangian ang mga hanapbuhay na nagbibigay ng kasiyahan, ayon kay Tom Smith: “The most satisfying jobs are mostly professions, especially those involving caring for, teaching and protecting others and creative pursuits.”
Teka, nakakalito ‘to. Iginiit na kasiya-siya ang professions—nangunguna sa mga ganado’t nasisiyahan sa gawain ang mga nasa clergy. Na karaniwang tumatanggap ng sangkatutak na confessions. Say, the most satisfying professions take confessions?
Wala kaming nabungkal na nurses na talagang limpak-limpak ang tinatabo. Pero wala sila sa listahan ng mga kuntento’t nasisiyahan sa kanilang ginagawa—pero nasa healthcare profession ang physical therapists na ikatlo sa mga talagang ganado sa kanilang gawain. Tila musmos sa kanilang pangangalaga ang mga matanda na nabiktima ng brain attack o stroke at mga sakuna—tuturuan muli ng paglalakad, gagabayan sa bawat hakbang, pangungunahan sa calisthenics at mga payak na pagkilos ng mga bahagi ng katawan. Meron bang tinatawag na intrinsic pay o walang katumbas na bayad sa ganoong gawain?
Baka meron naman.
Teka, physical therapists. The rapists? Baka kaya sila ganado’t kuntento.
Isangkalan muli ang naibandilang sanhi: A little integrity is better than any career. Walang isang katagang katumbas ng integrity sa ating wika. I’d hazard that where such gunshot word that codifies an idea is missing in a language, the idea is likely to be missing in the people using such a language. So we’re rather clueless on what integrity is. Or privacy. After all, basic patterns of our mind emerge from the structure of our speech, the workaday language we use.
So let’s hazard a guess to integrate integrity into our way of thinking as Filipinos. Integrity = kabuuan ng pagkatao. Paano ba bumuo ng pagkatao? ‘Tangna hindi ‘yung infantry o pagputok sa matris ng tarugo bata ang nabubuo.
May pamantayang sinusundan sa pagbuo ng pagkatao. How to make whole the Tao in you? Mauungkat na natin si Lao Tse, isa ring Asyano pati na ang kung ilang salinlahi ng tao na sumunod sa mga panuntunan niya. Paano nga mabubuo ang pagkatao? Payak ang tuntunin. Mauungkat sa mga lipunan ng Asia. Code of honor. Do. Tao. Tahaking landas. Na umiiral ang panuntunan para itanghal at ingatan ang dangal.
Do? Say, scandal-hounded farm minister of Japan commits suicide, that’s honest-to-goodness bushido. A P1.2-billion fertilizer scam hounds one Joc-joc Bolante who makes himself scarce, that’s hindot na tarantado.
Sa isang panlipunang kaayusan na nagpapahalaga sa pakikisama’t pakikigaya sa nakararami kaysa pagpapahalaga sa karangalan ng sarili, tiyak na wala ngang katuturan at hindi mauunawa ang kabuluhan ng dangal.
So we’re a career-driven people, we turn our backs on this neck of the backwoods; we’ll find a career everywhere in the world. We equate career with job security and cash rewards, do we not?
And we’re not exactly an integrity-driven people. So let’s not look for integrity in the people who install as our leaders because the masses where we drew them from are similarly lacking in integrity.
Being busy is one of the basic necessities to be content.
But a little integrity is better than any career.
The real score on the Ylmas-Ruffa break-up (Warning: weak language!)
BUT what’s strong language? Probably a lot of sound and fury adding up to zilch.
Maybe something like the bundle of seed words in a tigalpo, not even pronounced above a whisper—merely muttered under the breath to induce slow dehydration of body fluids on the intended victim. Ghastly death follows.
But it takes summoning the body’s reserves of intrinsic energies to pronounce such a death sentence on the deserving. Before such pronouncements can be made, an initiate often goes through a back-wracking regimen in the military arts, even pursues a monastic life—something like plain down-to-earth living, opulent grab-at-the-heavens thinking.
In the 1990s, doctor of alternative medicine Masaru Emoto found out that water has the ability to retain information, be influenced by thoughts, music, especially prayers. In an experiment, he asked a Buddhist monk to say blessings to a Petri dish of toxic water taken from a highly polluted lake. The blessed water turned up purified—the Buddhist monk’s blessing was a likely culprit to the transformation.
More than two-thirds of the human body is water. Water which—as the Masaru Emoto tests show-- turns out to be quite gullible at keeping choicest chunks of filth and tripe dumped into it, say, the real score behind an Ylmas Bektas-Ruffa Gutierrez break-up, the falling out of a Gladys what’s-her-surname from Eat Bulaga, or the coming out in the open of an Ogie Alcasid-Regine Velasquez romance… ugh nauseam.
It’s likely idle chatter works out the same toxic effect on the body fluids.
And if you’re a Sufi wont to the prescribed daily regimen of calling on a name of the Almighty corresponding to “Taker of Life”— or “killer” in plain Arabic—the aqueous biochemistry somehow follows the invocation. You become.
Or you’re probably into mantra yoga sowing the daily cycle of seed words into your systems; you’ve even picked out a most beautiful aspect of the Divine, the bloodthirsty Durga whose myriad arms bear motley weapons of mass destruction and obliteration. You’re cool. Aum namaste!
You could be into Zen, dumping tons and tons of invocations to serenity in the eye of tornadoes and cyclones in your biochemical make-up. Let peace in the eyesight of tropic howlers be in you, bro.
Now, it should DAWN on our good old physician comrades-in-the-healing-arts Net Billones and George Abordo why this writer is inexplicably choosy when it comes to people he’d chat up with in earnest. Why, stupidity is a water-borne disease. It’s virulently contagious.
Hey, something called tigalpo was cited earlier. A bundle of seed words, probably gibberish or too arcane to decipher, enunciated sans pomp and pomposity of a court of justice. A quaint packet of seed words for sowing not unlike the pesky Gmelina tree species whose invasive roots suck dry every droplet of water.
Those aren’t words that heal. They cause the contrary. Anyway, a shriveled corpse can be pumped up to decent plumpness with a few gallons of formaldehyde solution—any decent embalmer can do that.
Those are the most likely candidates for pretty strong language.
Ah, I’ve grown fond of talking to the plants that I’ve often kept company—they don’t indulge much in idle chatter or brainless banter.
Too, plants are wont to use weak language.
Maybe something like the bundle of seed words in a tigalpo, not even pronounced above a whisper—merely muttered under the breath to induce slow dehydration of body fluids on the intended victim. Ghastly death follows.
But it takes summoning the body’s reserves of intrinsic energies to pronounce such a death sentence on the deserving. Before such pronouncements can be made, an initiate often goes through a back-wracking regimen in the military arts, even pursues a monastic life—something like plain down-to-earth living, opulent grab-at-the-heavens thinking.
In the 1990s, doctor of alternative medicine Masaru Emoto found out that water has the ability to retain information, be influenced by thoughts, music, especially prayers. In an experiment, he asked a Buddhist monk to say blessings to a Petri dish of toxic water taken from a highly polluted lake. The blessed water turned up purified—the Buddhist monk’s blessing was a likely culprit to the transformation.
More than two-thirds of the human body is water. Water which—as the Masaru Emoto tests show-- turns out to be quite gullible at keeping choicest chunks of filth and tripe dumped into it, say, the real score behind an Ylmas Bektas-Ruffa Gutierrez break-up, the falling out of a Gladys what’s-her-surname from Eat Bulaga, or the coming out in the open of an Ogie Alcasid-Regine Velasquez romance… ugh nauseam.
It’s likely idle chatter works out the same toxic effect on the body fluids.
And if you’re a Sufi wont to the prescribed daily regimen of calling on a name of the Almighty corresponding to “Taker of Life”— or “killer” in plain Arabic—the aqueous biochemistry somehow follows the invocation. You become.
Or you’re probably into mantra yoga sowing the daily cycle of seed words into your systems; you’ve even picked out a most beautiful aspect of the Divine, the bloodthirsty Durga whose myriad arms bear motley weapons of mass destruction and obliteration. You’re cool. Aum namaste!
You could be into Zen, dumping tons and tons of invocations to serenity in the eye of tornadoes and cyclones in your biochemical make-up. Let peace in the eyesight of tropic howlers be in you, bro.
Now, it should DAWN on our good old physician comrades-in-the-healing-arts Net Billones and George Abordo why this writer is inexplicably choosy when it comes to people he’d chat up with in earnest. Why, stupidity is a water-borne disease. It’s virulently contagious.
Hey, something called tigalpo was cited earlier. A bundle of seed words, probably gibberish or too arcane to decipher, enunciated sans pomp and pomposity of a court of justice. A quaint packet of seed words for sowing not unlike the pesky Gmelina tree species whose invasive roots suck dry every droplet of water.
Those aren’t words that heal. They cause the contrary. Anyway, a shriveled corpse can be pumped up to decent plumpness with a few gallons of formaldehyde solution—any decent embalmer can do that.
Those are the most likely candidates for pretty strong language.
Ah, I’ve grown fond of talking to the plants that I’ve often kept company—they don’t indulge much in idle chatter or brainless banter.
Too, plants are wont to use weak language.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
...kung matinik ay malalim
LIKAS ang liksi pero hindi nagmamadali. Ganoon yata ang napulot na gawi sa sangkaterba naming pusa. Malalim at matining na tubig na umaagos ang lamyos ng karaniwang galaw. Mula sa mahinahong pagmamatyag na halos hindi kumikislot pati himaymay ng laman, kisap-matang lintik na iigkas ang buong katawan kapag sumagpang sa tinambangan.
Kaya kibit-balikat lang sa nahapyawang ulat kamakailan na pinakamabilis daw sa buong mundo ang mga taga-Singapore sa paglalakad. Sa loob ng 10.55 segundo, mahigit 18 metro o 60 talampakan ang layo ng nilakad ng karaniwang taga-Singapore.
Nakabuntot sa bilis ang mga taga-Copenhagen (10.82 segundo). Pangatlo ang mga nasa Madrid—10.89 segundo sa layong 18 metro o 60 talampakan. Ah, marami tayong ginaya sa mga taga-España pero hindi tayo nahawa sa liksi nila.
Sinukat ang bilis-hakbang ng tao sa 35 siyudad sa daigdig. Lumitaw: mga taga-Singapore ang pinakamatulin. Salpak sa nangungunang 20 ang mga nasa lungsod sa Europe, kasama ang Guangzhou sa China na pumasok sa ikaapat, ika-19 lang ang Tokyo.
Huwag ungkatin kung bakit hindi kabilang sa ginawang pagsusuri ang Metro Manila.
Sa mga lungsod na may malapad na bangketa na malalakaran ng tao isinagawa ang pagsusuri. Santambak ang sagabal na puwesto ng mga tindera’t tindero pati na mga tambay o nakatunganga sa halos alinmang lansangan ng Metro Manila. Sasablay lang ang pagsusuri sa tulin ng lakad-Pinoy na kailangang dumaan sa obstacle course.
Idagdag din na limang tonelada yata ang bigat ng bayag o sinlapad ng palanggana ang hinaharap ng mga nasa Metro Manila. Kaya hindi talaga naglalakad. Parang kuhol na umuusad lang. Pahilahod kung humakbang. Kukutuban na may talamak nang arthritis o osteoporosis.
Saka sa abot-hiningang layo na 18 metro, tiyak na sasakay na lang sa bus, jeepney o de padyak para makarating doon.
Huwag nang isangkalan ang sawikain. “Ang naglalakad nang matulin kung matinik ay malalim.” Hindi angkop sa usapin. Nasusukat kasi ang bilis ng pagsulong ng pamumuhay sa mismong lungsod—damay pati na ang buong bansa—sa bilis ng lakad ng mga tagaroon. (Hindot: hindi pala ako gumagamit ng kupal na katagang “residente.”)
Nakagisnan na ngang makupad sa lakad sa Pilipinas, nahawa na sa ganoong umiiral na kapansanan ang bagal ng lakarin sa bansa—santambak din ang mga asal tindera, tindero’t tambay at sampay-bakod saanmang tanggapan na pawang maglalatag ng santambak na hadlang. Obstacle course. Red tape.
Iniugnay nga pala ang pagsusuri sa bilis-lakad sa 35 siyudad sa daigdag sa pag-angat ng antas ng sakit sa puso o coronary heart disease ng mga naroon. (Hindot talaga: itinakwil ang kumag na katagang “residente.”)
Pero hindi naman inungkat ni inihayag sa pagsusuri ang incidence level of coronary heart disease sa Singapore, Copenhagen o Madrid. Para talagang matiyak na nakabuntot ang sakit sa puso sa nagkukumahog na lakad.
Mauungkat naman sa Department of Health na numero uno ngang killer disease sa Pilipinas ang sakit sa puso—kahit pa matumal ang usad ng kabuhayan ng taumbayan, kahit na usad-kuhol ang paglalakad ng karaniwang tao saanmang nagsisikip na sulok ng Metro Manila.
Isang paraan sa moving meditation o malalim na pagliliming kumikilos ang paglalakad, ayon sa aming matanda—na ilang igpaw lang yata’t hindi aabot sa 10 segundo ang layong 18 metro sa kanya.
Dapat daw manuot sa himaymay ng laman sa buong katawan ang bawat lapat ng hakbang. Dapat namnamin mula talampakan hanggang ulunan ang suyuan ng lupa at sariling yapak—upang maisalin ng lupa ang mga katangian nito sa naglalakad.
As the old man would have it: It’s all about being at home with one’s body that is nourished fully by the earth beneath, in equipoise between tension and relaxation. Mapupulot din daw ang ganoong halimbawa sa aming mga pusa.
Kaya kibit-balikat lang sa nahapyawang ulat kamakailan na pinakamabilis daw sa buong mundo ang mga taga-Singapore sa paglalakad. Sa loob ng 10.55 segundo, mahigit 18 metro o 60 talampakan ang layo ng nilakad ng karaniwang taga-Singapore.
Nakabuntot sa bilis ang mga taga-Copenhagen (10.82 segundo). Pangatlo ang mga nasa Madrid—10.89 segundo sa layong 18 metro o 60 talampakan. Ah, marami tayong ginaya sa mga taga-España pero hindi tayo nahawa sa liksi nila.
Sinukat ang bilis-hakbang ng tao sa 35 siyudad sa daigdig. Lumitaw: mga taga-Singapore ang pinakamatulin. Salpak sa nangungunang 20 ang mga nasa lungsod sa Europe, kasama ang Guangzhou sa China na pumasok sa ikaapat, ika-19 lang ang Tokyo.
Huwag ungkatin kung bakit hindi kabilang sa ginawang pagsusuri ang Metro Manila.
Sa mga lungsod na may malapad na bangketa na malalakaran ng tao isinagawa ang pagsusuri. Santambak ang sagabal na puwesto ng mga tindera’t tindero pati na mga tambay o nakatunganga sa halos alinmang lansangan ng Metro Manila. Sasablay lang ang pagsusuri sa tulin ng lakad-Pinoy na kailangang dumaan sa obstacle course.
Idagdag din na limang tonelada yata ang bigat ng bayag o sinlapad ng palanggana ang hinaharap ng mga nasa Metro Manila. Kaya hindi talaga naglalakad. Parang kuhol na umuusad lang. Pahilahod kung humakbang. Kukutuban na may talamak nang arthritis o osteoporosis.
Saka sa abot-hiningang layo na 18 metro, tiyak na sasakay na lang sa bus, jeepney o de padyak para makarating doon.
Huwag nang isangkalan ang sawikain. “Ang naglalakad nang matulin kung matinik ay malalim.” Hindi angkop sa usapin. Nasusukat kasi ang bilis ng pagsulong ng pamumuhay sa mismong lungsod—damay pati na ang buong bansa—sa bilis ng lakad ng mga tagaroon. (Hindot: hindi pala ako gumagamit ng kupal na katagang “residente.”)
Nakagisnan na ngang makupad sa lakad sa Pilipinas, nahawa na sa ganoong umiiral na kapansanan ang bagal ng lakarin sa bansa—santambak din ang mga asal tindera, tindero’t tambay at sampay-bakod saanmang tanggapan na pawang maglalatag ng santambak na hadlang. Obstacle course. Red tape.
Iniugnay nga pala ang pagsusuri sa bilis-lakad sa 35 siyudad sa daigdag sa pag-angat ng antas ng sakit sa puso o coronary heart disease ng mga naroon. (Hindot talaga: itinakwil ang kumag na katagang “residente.”)
Pero hindi naman inungkat ni inihayag sa pagsusuri ang incidence level of coronary heart disease sa Singapore, Copenhagen o Madrid. Para talagang matiyak na nakabuntot ang sakit sa puso sa nagkukumahog na lakad.
Mauungkat naman sa Department of Health na numero uno ngang killer disease sa Pilipinas ang sakit sa puso—kahit pa matumal ang usad ng kabuhayan ng taumbayan, kahit na usad-kuhol ang paglalakad ng karaniwang tao saanmang nagsisikip na sulok ng Metro Manila.
Isang paraan sa moving meditation o malalim na pagliliming kumikilos ang paglalakad, ayon sa aming matanda—na ilang igpaw lang yata’t hindi aabot sa 10 segundo ang layong 18 metro sa kanya.
Dapat daw manuot sa himaymay ng laman sa buong katawan ang bawat lapat ng hakbang. Dapat namnamin mula talampakan hanggang ulunan ang suyuan ng lupa at sariling yapak—upang maisalin ng lupa ang mga katangian nito sa naglalakad.
As the old man would have it: It’s all about being at home with one’s body that is nourished fully by the earth beneath, in equipoise between tension and relaxation. Mapupulot din daw ang ganoong halimbawa sa aming mga pusa.
Out of memories and awareness
WITH two kids barely out of their toddling years in tow, I paid a visit to that house a sneeze off a military camp that you and your Hukbong Mapagpalaya ng Bayan comrades-in-arms were set to assault sometime back in the 1950s, ah, how time flies, Ka Takyo.
With their rangy leanness and steel-taut wiry physique so rare in these days of the obesity epidemic, my kids could have been your grandsons had I sired them off your daughter Shelley—no, that wasn’t her name but that’s what I called her. That’s after an author who wrote Frankenstein. The novel somehow told me that grand dreams patched out of corpses’ carcass can come to life, but don’t expect such dreams to smell like roses.
Shelley and I, we had then fire in our loins and a blaze of suns in our eyes. We got away with arson, oh, ‘twas her that I had in mind for the lyrics I had wedged in that three-act gangster musical I wrote in the early 1980s. Something called Ang Pangalan Niya ay Bien Aligtad. Sampay-Bakod na Mamamayan ng San Roque. Katulad Natin. The first few verses went like this:
Kalabitin ang gatilyo ng damdamin
Ako’y sa ‘yo, gitara mo, kalabitin.
Katawan kong gapok
Dalhin mo sa rurok
Sa liyab ng apoy
Nais kong matupok…
Hamog na may himig
Sa akin idilig
Ang buong magdamag
Sa akin itigis.
Near dusk as the dying rays of the sun laps at Shelley’s mien, her cheeks effuse a spread of rose petals as she gazes at me with shy longing with her doe eyes. Effusions like that lead to fusion. Tinder lips and flint crotches are struck. Make that stuck. Sparks fly between partners in crime. Tender arson ensues.
I’ve learned from neighbors that the entire family moved to Canada. Shelley found a job there. You died there. Your remains lie there. In Canadian soil which is quite quaint, there’s not much earthworms to be dug up in Canadian soil. There must be oodles and oodles of earthworm predators in that foreign land.
During that visit, I had espied something wonderful that entwined its spindly arms like tender tendrils on a tar-dark lamp post a few steps off what was once your home, Ka Takyo. ‘Twas a cultivar of Jasminum sambac or sampaguita. Sumpa kita, wasn’t that the tender phrase from which our national flower got its name? It’s a pledge of love, I guess.
That particular cultivar whose embrace blotted out the charnel color of the lamp post, Southern Tagalogs call that sampaguitang lalaki. The flowers resemble a maiden’s nipples chockfull of milk. And that sampaguitang lalaki was in showy flowering. It made a Milky Way set off in lush green out of that pitch-black lamp post.
I construe the sight as a sigil of sorts. A national symbol struggling out of impoverished soil toward a stun of flowering. My eyes ached at the sight.
So we proceed out of painful memory and aching awareness. Jasminum sambac our national flower came from India and Indians have been flocking to this neck of the woods for God knows how long. They have been thriving. They’ve plunked down hereabouts their talents—ah that parable Jesus Christ told to multitudes about talents being taken away from the individual who wouldn’t make use of such a talent.
Aside from Indians, there is now a steady influx of Taiwanese, mainland Chinese and South Koreans to the homeland that you have left, Ka Takyo.
I’ve talked to some of ‘em. I even made horizontal diplomatic ties with a South Korean damsel. Talaga palang masarap ding lantakan ang kikim chee. I’m having sekantots, oops, second thoughts about what they’re telling me. They’re telling me that they love our homeland and there are a lot of opportunities here. They assure me our homeland is something short of paradise. Some piece of prime real estate worth regaining. Uh, have we lost it or we’re about to?
I do believe them. I miss Shelley though. More than memory, there’s this awareness that that grand dreams patched out of corpses’ carcass can come to life. We can’t expect such a quilt work of dreams to smell like roses.
With their rangy leanness and steel-taut wiry physique so rare in these days of the obesity epidemic, my kids could have been your grandsons had I sired them off your daughter Shelley—no, that wasn’t her name but that’s what I called her. That’s after an author who wrote Frankenstein. The novel somehow told me that grand dreams patched out of corpses’ carcass can come to life, but don’t expect such dreams to smell like roses.
Shelley and I, we had then fire in our loins and a blaze of suns in our eyes. We got away with arson, oh, ‘twas her that I had in mind for the lyrics I had wedged in that three-act gangster musical I wrote in the early 1980s. Something called Ang Pangalan Niya ay Bien Aligtad. Sampay-Bakod na Mamamayan ng San Roque. Katulad Natin. The first few verses went like this:
Kalabitin ang gatilyo ng damdamin
Ako’y sa ‘yo, gitara mo, kalabitin.
Katawan kong gapok
Dalhin mo sa rurok
Sa liyab ng apoy
Nais kong matupok…
Hamog na may himig
Sa akin idilig
Ang buong magdamag
Sa akin itigis.
Near dusk as the dying rays of the sun laps at Shelley’s mien, her cheeks effuse a spread of rose petals as she gazes at me with shy longing with her doe eyes. Effusions like that lead to fusion. Tinder lips and flint crotches are struck. Make that stuck. Sparks fly between partners in crime. Tender arson ensues.
I’ve learned from neighbors that the entire family moved to Canada. Shelley found a job there. You died there. Your remains lie there. In Canadian soil which is quite quaint, there’s not much earthworms to be dug up in Canadian soil. There must be oodles and oodles of earthworm predators in that foreign land.
During that visit, I had espied something wonderful that entwined its spindly arms like tender tendrils on a tar-dark lamp post a few steps off what was once your home, Ka Takyo. ‘Twas a cultivar of Jasminum sambac or sampaguita. Sumpa kita, wasn’t that the tender phrase from which our national flower got its name? It’s a pledge of love, I guess.
That particular cultivar whose embrace blotted out the charnel color of the lamp post, Southern Tagalogs call that sampaguitang lalaki. The flowers resemble a maiden’s nipples chockfull of milk. And that sampaguitang lalaki was in showy flowering. It made a Milky Way set off in lush green out of that pitch-black lamp post.
I construe the sight as a sigil of sorts. A national symbol struggling out of impoverished soil toward a stun of flowering. My eyes ached at the sight.
So we proceed out of painful memory and aching awareness. Jasminum sambac our national flower came from India and Indians have been flocking to this neck of the woods for God knows how long. They have been thriving. They’ve plunked down hereabouts their talents—ah that parable Jesus Christ told to multitudes about talents being taken away from the individual who wouldn’t make use of such a talent.
Aside from Indians, there is now a steady influx of Taiwanese, mainland Chinese and South Koreans to the homeland that you have left, Ka Takyo.
I’ve talked to some of ‘em. I even made horizontal diplomatic ties with a South Korean damsel. Talaga palang masarap ding lantakan ang kikim chee. I’m having sekantots, oops, second thoughts about what they’re telling me. They’re telling me that they love our homeland and there are a lot of opportunities here. They assure me our homeland is something short of paradise. Some piece of prime real estate worth regaining. Uh, have we lost it or we’re about to?
I do believe them. I miss Shelley though. More than memory, there’s this awareness that that grand dreams patched out of corpses’ carcass can come to life. We can’t expect such a quilt work of dreams to smell like roses.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Lugod sa gulugod
GULUGOD ng lupa ang turing sa bato. Lumamig na putik na ibinuga ng bulkan, mga nagsanib nang kalansay ng bahura o coral, lastillas o mga bilugang tipak ng batong pulos mababang uring silicon ang sangkap, adobeng bulik, escombro, batong dapi o limestone na tahasang calcium carbonate at kauring pangunahing sangkap ng buto ng hayup ang taglay… hahaba ang talaan natin kapag inisa-isa ang kani-kanilang pangalan.
Gulugod kaya higit na kaalaman ang kailangan para maisalansan nang matino—haligi na’y pader pa ng ititindig na tahanan. At katuwang na ng mga nakatindig na tahanang bato ang mga angkan ng panginoong maylupa’t maunlad na mangangalakal. Nakalublob lang sa bahay kubo o dampa ang mga hapay at lupaypay ang kabuhayan.
Nagtitindig ng tahanan mula sa mga sangkap na maapuhap sa kapaligiran. Dayami’t putik ang pinaghahalo sa pamamaraang wattle-and-daub na matutunghayan sa mga dampa ng dukha sa China. Suson-susong tipak ng yelo ang kabuuan ng igloo ng mga Eskimo. Pinatuyong dayami’t putik ang mga dampa sa kabundukan ng Mexico. Tagni-tagning bahura’t bato mula dalampasigan ang karaniwang tahanan ng mga Ivatan sa Batanes.
Mga Ivatan lang yata ang nangahas na bumuo ng bahay na bato, hindi man sila mula sa angkan ng mga panginoong maylupa o maunlad na negosyante.
Pansinin na pawang bato ang mga sinaunang simbahan saanmang kuyukot at tumbong ng ating tinubuang lupa. Hindi naman siguro ipinagbawal ng mga fraile sa mga Indio ang pagpapatayo ng mga dampa na yari sa bato—na matatagpuan nga sa mga liblib na lupalop ng Mexico, na kinapadparan din ng mga fraile’t sinakop din ng España.
Mas mataas na antas ng kaalaman sa pagtitindig ang kailangan para sa masinop na pagsalansan at paghahanay ng mga tipak ng bato. At kailangan din ng malalim na imbak ng tiyaga at sigagig. Matagalan ang pagtibag mula sa mga pampangin ng ilog o dagat. Matagalan din ang paghubog sa mga tipak sa angkop na laki na magiging sangkap sa ititindig na tahanan.
Batid na natin ngayon ang pahalang na ugit ng lakas o lateral stress at pabagsak o vertical stress sa nakatindig na istruktura. Naaangkupan ngayon ng steel reinforcing bars—lalo’t buhos ang kongkreto na hindi na kailangang isalansan, titigas na lang.
Mas malalim at matalim na kaalaman ang hinihingi ng batong paninindigan.
Kaya gumagamit ng mga kasangkapan sa pagtitindig. Mauungkat na straight edge ang isa pang taguri sa ruler o panukat ng haba—no ruler can be crooked, a ruler should be always straight edged or it loses its edge and becomes a crook which isn’t useful for setting things straight.
Can the structure stand true and not collapse if the ruler is a crook?
Sa mga dampa, barong-barong at mahinang uring istruktura lang puwede ang tiwaling tindig—hindi sa istrukturang nakasandig sa batong gulugod ng daigdig.
Palaruan nga pala ng unos at daluyong ang mga dako ng kapuluan na nakaharap sa Pacific Ocean—tuwinang mahahagupit ng mahigit 20 bagyo taun-taon. Nagkalat lang ang mga tipak ng tumigas na putik na isinuka ng bulkan, mga batong buhay, escombro at nagsanib nang kalansay ng bahura sa kapaligiran doon.
Sumulong na ang materials technology pati na mga pamamaraan ng masinop na pagtabas ng bato—may carborondum at diamond-tipped cutting saws. At hitik na hitik ang kabatuhan sa paligid, nananatiling tiwangwang na para bang payo ng yumaong Dr. Jose Protacio Rizal ukol sa buhay na walang kabuluhan at pakinabang—hindi naging bahagi sa pagtatag at pagtindig ng gusali.
Hikahos pa rin talaga sa kaalaman ukol sa mga lihim ng matikas na batong pagtindig.
Iba yata ang mga Ivatan. Habang ang karamihan ay uugod-ugod, may naitindig, itinanghal sila na mga lugod mula sa gulugod.
Gulugod kaya higit na kaalaman ang kailangan para maisalansan nang matino—haligi na’y pader pa ng ititindig na tahanan. At katuwang na ng mga nakatindig na tahanang bato ang mga angkan ng panginoong maylupa’t maunlad na mangangalakal. Nakalublob lang sa bahay kubo o dampa ang mga hapay at lupaypay ang kabuhayan.
Nagtitindig ng tahanan mula sa mga sangkap na maapuhap sa kapaligiran. Dayami’t putik ang pinaghahalo sa pamamaraang wattle-and-daub na matutunghayan sa mga dampa ng dukha sa China. Suson-susong tipak ng yelo ang kabuuan ng igloo ng mga Eskimo. Pinatuyong dayami’t putik ang mga dampa sa kabundukan ng Mexico. Tagni-tagning bahura’t bato mula dalampasigan ang karaniwang tahanan ng mga Ivatan sa Batanes.
Mga Ivatan lang yata ang nangahas na bumuo ng bahay na bato, hindi man sila mula sa angkan ng mga panginoong maylupa o maunlad na negosyante.
Pansinin na pawang bato ang mga sinaunang simbahan saanmang kuyukot at tumbong ng ating tinubuang lupa. Hindi naman siguro ipinagbawal ng mga fraile sa mga Indio ang pagpapatayo ng mga dampa na yari sa bato—na matatagpuan nga sa mga liblib na lupalop ng Mexico, na kinapadparan din ng mga fraile’t sinakop din ng España.
Mas mataas na antas ng kaalaman sa pagtitindig ang kailangan para sa masinop na pagsalansan at paghahanay ng mga tipak ng bato. At kailangan din ng malalim na imbak ng tiyaga at sigagig. Matagalan ang pagtibag mula sa mga pampangin ng ilog o dagat. Matagalan din ang paghubog sa mga tipak sa angkop na laki na magiging sangkap sa ititindig na tahanan.
Batid na natin ngayon ang pahalang na ugit ng lakas o lateral stress at pabagsak o vertical stress sa nakatindig na istruktura. Naaangkupan ngayon ng steel reinforcing bars—lalo’t buhos ang kongkreto na hindi na kailangang isalansan, titigas na lang.
Mas malalim at matalim na kaalaman ang hinihingi ng batong paninindigan.
Kaya gumagamit ng mga kasangkapan sa pagtitindig. Mauungkat na straight edge ang isa pang taguri sa ruler o panukat ng haba—no ruler can be crooked, a ruler should be always straight edged or it loses its edge and becomes a crook which isn’t useful for setting things straight.
Can the structure stand true and not collapse if the ruler is a crook?
Sa mga dampa, barong-barong at mahinang uring istruktura lang puwede ang tiwaling tindig—hindi sa istrukturang nakasandig sa batong gulugod ng daigdig.
Palaruan nga pala ng unos at daluyong ang mga dako ng kapuluan na nakaharap sa Pacific Ocean—tuwinang mahahagupit ng mahigit 20 bagyo taun-taon. Nagkalat lang ang mga tipak ng tumigas na putik na isinuka ng bulkan, mga batong buhay, escombro at nagsanib nang kalansay ng bahura sa kapaligiran doon.
Sumulong na ang materials technology pati na mga pamamaraan ng masinop na pagtabas ng bato—may carborondum at diamond-tipped cutting saws. At hitik na hitik ang kabatuhan sa paligid, nananatiling tiwangwang na para bang payo ng yumaong Dr. Jose Protacio Rizal ukol sa buhay na walang kabuluhan at pakinabang—hindi naging bahagi sa pagtatag at pagtindig ng gusali.
Hikahos pa rin talaga sa kaalaman ukol sa mga lihim ng matikas na batong pagtindig.
Iba yata ang mga Ivatan. Habang ang karamihan ay uugod-ugod, may naitindig, itinanghal sila na mga lugod mula sa gulugod.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Puzaza
HINDI naman alam ng kumag na Batman na matalim ang kanyang mga kuko’t pangil. Kaya laging mag-iiwan ng mga kalmot, galos, gurlis, pawang mababaw na sugat sa balat ang kanyang mga paglalambing sa sinuman sa amin.
Hindi naman lahat ng pusa—puzaza ang naging term of endearment namin sa kanila, halaw sa batlaya ng pamumunga na naglalakbay sa bigwas ng hangin, si Pazuzu. Hindi lahat ng pusa’y dumaraan sa ganoong yugto ng pagtuklas sa kanyang mga kapisan sa pamamahay. Lalo na ang mga tinatawag na pusang hindi ibilnilang, iniligaw o itinapon na lang dahil dagdag na bibig din na dapat paglaanan ng kahit tirang pagkain.
Pero mayroon ngang yugto ng pagtuklas sa paligid pati sa mga makakasalamuha. Kailangang mailimbag sa katawan at diwa ang mga batayan at sandigan ng mga magiging gawi’t gawa. Mas masinop nga ang pusa sa ganitong pagtatakda, sa tinatawag na biological imprinting process. Tao man ay dumaraan sa ganoong landas ng masinsinan at masinop na pagtuklas.
May mapupulot na aralin sa mga kumag na pusa—na karaniwang mas matapat sa latag at lawak ng kanilang kikilusang lupain. Feline loyalty ba ang itatawag sa ganoon dahil pusa? O napakababaw na pagmamahal sa ginagalawang at nagtutustos na lupain. Napapalapit na yata sa itinuturing natin na pagmamahal sa bayan…
“Aling pag-ibig pa ang hihigit kaya
Sa pagkadalisay at pagkadakila
Kundi pag-ibig sa tinubuang lupa
Aling pag-ibig pa?
Wala na nga, wala…”
Salpak na salpak pala sa pamantayan ng bayaning Gat Andres Bonifacio ang biological imprinting process na tinutupad ng mga pusa—lalo na ng mga pusang gala. Kapag lubusan kasing nasinop ang naturang paraan ng pagsanib ng katawan at diwa sa ginagalawang kalawakan ng lupain hanggang sa mga hangganan nito sa papawirin, lalapat naman ang pamantayan ni Loren Eiseley—“man is an expression of his landscape.” Magiging mabunying pahayag ng lawak at hangganan ng lupain ang taong tumatahan doon.
Kinukutuban tuloy na hindi naman masuyong paglalahad ang tinutupad ng lupain kundi pagsusuka lang. Hindi marahil masikmura ang mga sumampid sa pisngi ng lupalop na pawang nakatunganga, ni hindi nagtatangka na tuklasin, sinupin at pagyamanin ang himaymay ng buhay ng lupa.
Kaya heto na nga, nakaamba na ang Taiwan at China na himukin ang ating bansa sa matagalang lease agreement. Uupahan ang mga nagkalat na tiwangwang na lupain sa napakaraming panig ng Pilipinas. Dayuhan na ang magsisinop, magpupunla ng mga mapapakinabangang halaman para matustusan ang kani-kanilang pamayanan.
Ah, igiit ang pagiging makabayan. Ipangalandakan sa kung saan-saan ang masidhing pagmamahal sa tinubuang lupa na kung ihahambing sa singkapan ng sinta, tigang na tigang pala’t uhaw na uhaw sa umaatikabo’t umuusok sa pusok na kaplugan.
Kapag itinustos ang pagmamahal, tutumbasan o susuklian, hihigitan pa ang inialay na pagmamahal.
Kaya dapat na sigurong itaktak, ipukpok na bundok sa ating tuktok ang tumitining nang tanong.
Mahal naman kaya tayo ng sariling tinubuang lupa? Baka naman pare-pareho lang tayong sampid na hindi na masikmura’t tahasang isinusuka na ng ating lupain?
Sandosena na ang pusa naming alaga. Bawat isa sa kanila’y nagdaan nga sa biological imprinting process. Nag-iwan sila ng mga galos at gurlis na pawang mababaw na sugat sa balat—madaling maghilom, mumunti ang naiiwang pilat na pawang lagda ng pagligwak ng galak at sigwa ng tuwa.
Pero may mga napupulot na aralin at kabatiran sa mga kumag na pusa. Mas mahapdi kaysa sugat sa laman dahil bumabaon at umaarok sa lalim ng aming kaalaman.
Ah, love those adorable pussies…
Hindi naman lahat ng pusa—puzaza ang naging term of endearment namin sa kanila, halaw sa batlaya ng pamumunga na naglalakbay sa bigwas ng hangin, si Pazuzu. Hindi lahat ng pusa’y dumaraan sa ganoong yugto ng pagtuklas sa kanyang mga kapisan sa pamamahay. Lalo na ang mga tinatawag na pusang hindi ibilnilang, iniligaw o itinapon na lang dahil dagdag na bibig din na dapat paglaanan ng kahit tirang pagkain.
Pero mayroon ngang yugto ng pagtuklas sa paligid pati sa mga makakasalamuha. Kailangang mailimbag sa katawan at diwa ang mga batayan at sandigan ng mga magiging gawi’t gawa. Mas masinop nga ang pusa sa ganitong pagtatakda, sa tinatawag na biological imprinting process. Tao man ay dumaraan sa ganoong landas ng masinsinan at masinop na pagtuklas.
May mapupulot na aralin sa mga kumag na pusa—na karaniwang mas matapat sa latag at lawak ng kanilang kikilusang lupain. Feline loyalty ba ang itatawag sa ganoon dahil pusa? O napakababaw na pagmamahal sa ginagalawang at nagtutustos na lupain. Napapalapit na yata sa itinuturing natin na pagmamahal sa bayan…
“Aling pag-ibig pa ang hihigit kaya
Sa pagkadalisay at pagkadakila
Kundi pag-ibig sa tinubuang lupa
Aling pag-ibig pa?
Wala na nga, wala…”
Salpak na salpak pala sa pamantayan ng bayaning Gat Andres Bonifacio ang biological imprinting process na tinutupad ng mga pusa—lalo na ng mga pusang gala. Kapag lubusan kasing nasinop ang naturang paraan ng pagsanib ng katawan at diwa sa ginagalawang kalawakan ng lupain hanggang sa mga hangganan nito sa papawirin, lalapat naman ang pamantayan ni Loren Eiseley—“man is an expression of his landscape.” Magiging mabunying pahayag ng lawak at hangganan ng lupain ang taong tumatahan doon.
Kinukutuban tuloy na hindi naman masuyong paglalahad ang tinutupad ng lupain kundi pagsusuka lang. Hindi marahil masikmura ang mga sumampid sa pisngi ng lupalop na pawang nakatunganga, ni hindi nagtatangka na tuklasin, sinupin at pagyamanin ang himaymay ng buhay ng lupa.
Kaya heto na nga, nakaamba na ang Taiwan at China na himukin ang ating bansa sa matagalang lease agreement. Uupahan ang mga nagkalat na tiwangwang na lupain sa napakaraming panig ng Pilipinas. Dayuhan na ang magsisinop, magpupunla ng mga mapapakinabangang halaman para matustusan ang kani-kanilang pamayanan.
Ah, igiit ang pagiging makabayan. Ipangalandakan sa kung saan-saan ang masidhing pagmamahal sa tinubuang lupa na kung ihahambing sa singkapan ng sinta, tigang na tigang pala’t uhaw na uhaw sa umaatikabo’t umuusok sa pusok na kaplugan.
Kapag itinustos ang pagmamahal, tutumbasan o susuklian, hihigitan pa ang inialay na pagmamahal.
Kaya dapat na sigurong itaktak, ipukpok na bundok sa ating tuktok ang tumitining nang tanong.
Mahal naman kaya tayo ng sariling tinubuang lupa? Baka naman pare-pareho lang tayong sampid na hindi na masikmura’t tahasang isinusuka na ng ating lupain?
Sandosena na ang pusa naming alaga. Bawat isa sa kanila’y nagdaan nga sa biological imprinting process. Nag-iwan sila ng mga galos at gurlis na pawang mababaw na sugat sa balat—madaling maghilom, mumunti ang naiiwang pilat na pawang lagda ng pagligwak ng galak at sigwa ng tuwa.
Pero may mga napupulot na aralin at kabatiran sa mga kumag na pusa. Mas mahapdi kaysa sugat sa laman dahil bumabaon at umaarok sa lalim ng aming kaalaman.
Ah, love those adorable pussies…
Friday, April 20, 2007
Dalit sa dalita
SANGKILOMETRO ang layo ng sambahayan ng mga sampid pero araw-araw na may tatlo hanggang lima na nagmumula doon para umamot ng talbos ng kamote o malunggay na nakalatag sa bakuran nina Luz. Sa habilin “Sana magtanim na lang din kayo sa bakuran ninyo” itutugon ng sinuman ng nanghingi na “Wala kaming bakurang tatamnan.” O magkikibit-balikat. Hindi na lang kikibo. Pero tuloy lang din sa pamumupol ng talbos.
Napasigasig namang magpanibagong usbong ang tagpi ng kamote’t tulos ng malunggay kina Luz. Walang humpay sa pag-aalay ng matatalbos. Masarap ang inabraw na kamote’t malunggay na nilahukan ng dinikdik na luya, ilang tipak na kamatis, sandakot na tuyong tagunton at santasang malabnaw na kanaw ng bagoong—lalo na’t kagayak ng kaiinin lang na kanin.
Higit sa sandipa ang lupa sa magkabilang gilid ng lansangan—na tumatakbo ng higit pa sa tatlong kilometro, paagos na dadaanan at lalampasan pa ang sambahayan ng mga sampid. Pulos damong mutha lang ang nakatihayang tila suson-susong parausang pokpok na naghihintay ng mga babarukbok, inot na kumakaway sa hampas ng hangin at hamog.
Hindi kaya nasisipat o nakikita ng mga sampid, hindi kaya sila naaakit o nahahalina o nalilibugan sa hubad na magkabilang baywang ng lansangan?
Nang simulan daw nitong isang may katok yata sa tuktok ng pandalas na kaplog ng dulos at gulok sa nakabukakang tipak-tipak na kamunduhan sa magkabilang panig ng lansangan, tumanggap daw ng katakut-takot na libak at kantiyaw sa mga nagdaraang sampid.
Sa hindi madaling sabihing sabi, tinarakan ng mga buhay na muhon—tigtatlong magulang na tangkay ng kamote at taba-habang tarugo ng malunggay—ang baywang ng lansangan. Humayo, lumayo’t nakarami ng kantot.
Sarap ng pakiramdam talaga kapag tumatagaktak ang pawis lalo’t humaharurot sa ganoong pagbarurot.
Nakatikom man na hiwang mahiwaga ang alinmang lupa, tiyak na kakatas at maglalawa kapag tinarakan ng punla.
Huwag nang ungkatin sinuman ang utuging santo na gumawa ng ganoong kalibog-libog na himala.
Pero dahil walang kalibog-libog ang mga nakatungangang sampid at dukha, hindi naman pinamarisan, tinularan o ginaya ang naturang ginawa. Lalo lang silang nagsumigasig sa paggawa ng marami pang bata. Na kailangang palamunin marahil ng bunton-buntong talbos ng kamote’t malunggay.
O kung isasaalang-alang ang pananaw sa umiiral na kalagayan ng kahirapan daw, dapat lang silang sampid na maging mayaman dahil yumayaman ang lupa kapag doon sila tinabunan.
Samantala, unti-unting nagsilago ang mga itinulos na punla. Na basta na lang tinuwaran ng sinumang hinayupak na iyong may katok yata sa tuktok at tatlo ang taling sa ulo ng uten—aba apat pala ang nunal kaya sagad-buto’t sa kung saan-saang pook, lupa’t lupalop umiilandang at humuhulagpos ang iwing libog.
Kasagsagan ng tagtuyot noon sa Mindanao nang umagos ang mga ulat na namamatay daw sa gutom ang mga bata sa mga liblib na lalawigan. Maghapon daw naghahagilap ng mahuhukay na lamang-ugat na name-- na nagtataglay ng mabagsik na lasong oxalic acid at hindi pa matukoy na alkaloids at steroids. Ginagayat sa maninipis na tipak ang name, isisilid sa sako saka tatlo hanggang limang araw na ibinababad sa ilog para mapalis ang lason. Gawgaw lang ang malalabi sa mga tipak ng name-- isasaing na tila kanin, gagawing maruya o puto kaya. Maraming paslit at matanda ang namatay. Nalason sa name.
Opo, tatlo hanggang limang araw na dapat nakababad ang isinakong name sa agos ng ilog.
Opo, marami pong ilog doon na mapagsasalukan ng tubig.
Maididilig naman ang tubig sa mga tangkay ng ipupunlang kamote— hindi ito nakakalason.
Hindi pa po endangered species ang kamote. Maraming mapagkukunan ng maipupunlang tangkay. Hindi na kailangan pang dumayo sa bakuran nina Luz na kalapit ng Antipolo Christian Fellowship Church para humakot ng punla.
Napasigasig namang magpanibagong usbong ang tagpi ng kamote’t tulos ng malunggay kina Luz. Walang humpay sa pag-aalay ng matatalbos. Masarap ang inabraw na kamote’t malunggay na nilahukan ng dinikdik na luya, ilang tipak na kamatis, sandakot na tuyong tagunton at santasang malabnaw na kanaw ng bagoong—lalo na’t kagayak ng kaiinin lang na kanin.
Higit sa sandipa ang lupa sa magkabilang gilid ng lansangan—na tumatakbo ng higit pa sa tatlong kilometro, paagos na dadaanan at lalampasan pa ang sambahayan ng mga sampid. Pulos damong mutha lang ang nakatihayang tila suson-susong parausang pokpok na naghihintay ng mga babarukbok, inot na kumakaway sa hampas ng hangin at hamog.
Hindi kaya nasisipat o nakikita ng mga sampid, hindi kaya sila naaakit o nahahalina o nalilibugan sa hubad na magkabilang baywang ng lansangan?
Nang simulan daw nitong isang may katok yata sa tuktok ng pandalas na kaplog ng dulos at gulok sa nakabukakang tipak-tipak na kamunduhan sa magkabilang panig ng lansangan, tumanggap daw ng katakut-takot na libak at kantiyaw sa mga nagdaraang sampid.
Sa hindi madaling sabihing sabi, tinarakan ng mga buhay na muhon—tigtatlong magulang na tangkay ng kamote at taba-habang tarugo ng malunggay—ang baywang ng lansangan. Humayo, lumayo’t nakarami ng kantot.
Sarap ng pakiramdam talaga kapag tumatagaktak ang pawis lalo’t humaharurot sa ganoong pagbarurot.
Nakatikom man na hiwang mahiwaga ang alinmang lupa, tiyak na kakatas at maglalawa kapag tinarakan ng punla.
Huwag nang ungkatin sinuman ang utuging santo na gumawa ng ganoong kalibog-libog na himala.
Pero dahil walang kalibog-libog ang mga nakatungangang sampid at dukha, hindi naman pinamarisan, tinularan o ginaya ang naturang ginawa. Lalo lang silang nagsumigasig sa paggawa ng marami pang bata. Na kailangang palamunin marahil ng bunton-buntong talbos ng kamote’t malunggay.
O kung isasaalang-alang ang pananaw sa umiiral na kalagayan ng kahirapan daw, dapat lang silang sampid na maging mayaman dahil yumayaman ang lupa kapag doon sila tinabunan.
Samantala, unti-unting nagsilago ang mga itinulos na punla. Na basta na lang tinuwaran ng sinumang hinayupak na iyong may katok yata sa tuktok at tatlo ang taling sa ulo ng uten—aba apat pala ang nunal kaya sagad-buto’t sa kung saan-saang pook, lupa’t lupalop umiilandang at humuhulagpos ang iwing libog.
Kasagsagan ng tagtuyot noon sa Mindanao nang umagos ang mga ulat na namamatay daw sa gutom ang mga bata sa mga liblib na lalawigan. Maghapon daw naghahagilap ng mahuhukay na lamang-ugat na name-- na nagtataglay ng mabagsik na lasong oxalic acid at hindi pa matukoy na alkaloids at steroids. Ginagayat sa maninipis na tipak ang name, isisilid sa sako saka tatlo hanggang limang araw na ibinababad sa ilog para mapalis ang lason. Gawgaw lang ang malalabi sa mga tipak ng name-- isasaing na tila kanin, gagawing maruya o puto kaya. Maraming paslit at matanda ang namatay. Nalason sa name.
Opo, tatlo hanggang limang araw na dapat nakababad ang isinakong name sa agos ng ilog.
Opo, marami pong ilog doon na mapagsasalukan ng tubig.
Maididilig naman ang tubig sa mga tangkay ng ipupunlang kamote— hindi ito nakakalason.
Hindi pa po endangered species ang kamote. Maraming mapagkukunan ng maipupunlang tangkay. Hindi na kailangan pang dumayo sa bakuran nina Luz na kalapit ng Antipolo Christian Fellowship Church para humakot ng punla.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
No thanks for the mammary
WHEN personal medical history is plied out to kindle earnest conversation or friendly banter strays into citing an array of exotic ills, allergies or hypochondriac infirmities one’s body wears like a swathe of military service decorations, such talk might be fashionable confession. Or much of it is bellyaching in lieu of breast-beating, maybe lavish indulgence to solicit sympathies or draw attention.
New York-based science fiction and fantasy writer Steve Carper plunged himself into earnest research after learning in 1978 that milk, dairy products and milk-laced food wouldn’t agree with his tummy. He learned a lot more about the quaint condition he suffers from. By 1996, he had turned up a volume, a 330-page straight-teller called Milk is Not for Everybody (Living with Lactose Intolerance) that is a joy to read.
Lactose intolerance isn’t a unique fad he picked up from any of about 3 billion people in the world that are lactose intolerant—virtual sitting ducks caught in the crossfire of a multi-million dollar advertising battle as two multinationals seek to corner a $100-million market in products for the lactose intolerant.
So there’s much lucre to be made from lactose intolerance which, as Carper had it worded "is not a disease, not a syndrome, not a disorder. It is the normal state of humanity and always has been throughout history."
Normal it is for one’s innards suddenly turning into a catastrophe zone: "Rumblings, gases, noises, explosions, rushing water and general commotion—a bout of lactose intolerance makes my insides feel like Tokyo in the midst of an attack by Godzilla. Amazingly, all that sound and fury comes not from a 100-foot-tall monster, but from a mere fraction of an ounce of (milk) sugar hidden in a delicious and nutritious meal."
Now, that makes sense with a sense of humor shining through.
Milk sugar-induced agony seems nothing to carp about: "You can define lactose intolerance simply as letting your lactose intake exceed the production of an enzyme called lactase, but that’s like dismissing the national deficit as nothing more than letting spending exceed taxes. It’s true as far as it goes, but if you want to do anything about the deficit it helps to know some basics about economics, party politics and what a trillion is. Digestion, fortunately is somewhat simpler to explain."
Carper lets out punch lines at himself and the whacked-out state of national affairs. But to even out, he takes a dig at doctors predisposed to brewing names in medical journals to latch a tab on what they thought to be a disease.
For convenience, he settles for "lactose intolerance" since no such "popular equivalent name exists for the ability to digest lactose, just as there is no term for the state of having a broken leg."
Water, vitamins and minerals are tolerable goodies directly absorbed in the digestive tracts— but other food molecules are too large and too complex in their biochemistry to be similarly processed. The body produces specialized proteins called enzymes to render molecules of protein, fat and carbohydrates into less complicated basic components—amino acids, fatty acids and simple sugars that can now be sifted into the bloodstream. This is what digestion boils down to.
Milk is water-doused sugar technically called lactose, thanks to mom’s mammary, we’re all born with a sweet tooth. Each molecule of lactose in milk is a fusion of two simple sugars glucose and galactose. Lactase is the digestive enzyme assigned the task of tearing down lactose into tenable bits fit for absorption into the bloodstream. If lactase isn’t there or its production has been stopped in the digestive tract, milk intake spells tummy trouble.
As last and weakest among intestinal enzymes, lactase is also the first to go: "The lactase-making ability of a few may diminish in their first year of life. Many more will keep their lactase high enough through age five and only then see a drop. And many more people simply keep producing sufficient lactase and never have lactose intolerance at any time in their lives."
About one fifth to one in every three people with lactose intolerance wreak havoc on their alimentary by taking a full glass of milk—and two glasses a day, as a TV ad prescribes will trigger a riot of sorts in tummies of nine among 10 lactose intolerance sufferers.
That doesn’t mean sufferers have to avoid milk and milk-based products like the plague. Say, butter is almost entirely milk fat—and is likely to inflict greater horrors on the circulatory system. Cheese is from milk protein and sheds off lactose remains via processing and aging—it takes two kilos of milk or cheese to equal the lactose content in two glasses of milk, a famished gourmand might as well eat a horse than dump two kilos of butter or cheese down his gullet.
And there are traditional sour milk preparations—yogurt, kumiss, kefir and acidophilus milk—with beneficial bacterial colonies swimming in them and churning out lactase of their own to break down up to 40% of milk’s lactose content.
Milk squeezed out of a cow’s teats is a niggardly 5% lactose, mom’s is 7% but dried milk products pack up to 80% that the sufferer need not inflict on his insides.
Despite those ads that bombard the sound bite "You never outgrow your need for milk," the hankering for milk can be outgrown and serious thought should give way to a craving for teats. Thus, Carper lets out a caveat: "If you believe everything you read, lactose intolerance may be the most widespread medical condition in the U.S."
He cites a veteran in gastrointestinal research who dismisses the hype about lactose intolerance: "Marketers are overdoing the severity of the problem."
The woes can be downright alimentary but there’s mounds of monies that can be realized from lactose intolerance— sales of lactase enzyme pills, reduced-lactose milk products and nondairy milk alternatives now exceed a fat $200 million a year in the U.S. alone.
Lactose intolerance can spawn such social gaffes as farting in sweet sorrow or too many a visit to the comfort room but, as Carper asserts, "adults do not die from lactose intolerance, nor do they need extensive testing, prescription drugs, or hospitalization.
"From a doctor’s point of view, lactose intolerance is hardly a sexy issue (nor a very profitable one, if you want to be cynical). Doctors can’t fairly be blamed for fir considering lactose intolerance to be a relatively minor concern."
And in the Philippines in which one of every five Filipinos make do with less than P50 a day for three square meals, pay for the semblance of a roof over his head and a quilt work of rags to clothe himself, lactose intolerance might be taken for a luxury food item that only the moneyed can enjoy.
New York-based science fiction and fantasy writer Steve Carper plunged himself into earnest research after learning in 1978 that milk, dairy products and milk-laced food wouldn’t agree with his tummy. He learned a lot more about the quaint condition he suffers from. By 1996, he had turned up a volume, a 330-page straight-teller called Milk is Not for Everybody (Living with Lactose Intolerance) that is a joy to read.
Lactose intolerance isn’t a unique fad he picked up from any of about 3 billion people in the world that are lactose intolerant—virtual sitting ducks caught in the crossfire of a multi-million dollar advertising battle as two multinationals seek to corner a $100-million market in products for the lactose intolerant.
So there’s much lucre to be made from lactose intolerance which, as Carper had it worded "is not a disease, not a syndrome, not a disorder. It is the normal state of humanity and always has been throughout history."
Normal it is for one’s innards suddenly turning into a catastrophe zone: "Rumblings, gases, noises, explosions, rushing water and general commotion—a bout of lactose intolerance makes my insides feel like Tokyo in the midst of an attack by Godzilla. Amazingly, all that sound and fury comes not from a 100-foot-tall monster, but from a mere fraction of an ounce of (milk) sugar hidden in a delicious and nutritious meal."
Now, that makes sense with a sense of humor shining through.
Milk sugar-induced agony seems nothing to carp about: "You can define lactose intolerance simply as letting your lactose intake exceed the production of an enzyme called lactase, but that’s like dismissing the national deficit as nothing more than letting spending exceed taxes. It’s true as far as it goes, but if you want to do anything about the deficit it helps to know some basics about economics, party politics and what a trillion is. Digestion, fortunately is somewhat simpler to explain."
Carper lets out punch lines at himself and the whacked-out state of national affairs. But to even out, he takes a dig at doctors predisposed to brewing names in medical journals to latch a tab on what they thought to be a disease.
For convenience, he settles for "lactose intolerance" since no such "popular equivalent name exists for the ability to digest lactose, just as there is no term for the state of having a broken leg."
Water, vitamins and minerals are tolerable goodies directly absorbed in the digestive tracts— but other food molecules are too large and too complex in their biochemistry to be similarly processed. The body produces specialized proteins called enzymes to render molecules of protein, fat and carbohydrates into less complicated basic components—amino acids, fatty acids and simple sugars that can now be sifted into the bloodstream. This is what digestion boils down to.
Milk is water-doused sugar technically called lactose, thanks to mom’s mammary, we’re all born with a sweet tooth. Each molecule of lactose in milk is a fusion of two simple sugars glucose and galactose. Lactase is the digestive enzyme assigned the task of tearing down lactose into tenable bits fit for absorption into the bloodstream. If lactase isn’t there or its production has been stopped in the digestive tract, milk intake spells tummy trouble.
As last and weakest among intestinal enzymes, lactase is also the first to go: "The lactase-making ability of a few may diminish in their first year of life. Many more will keep their lactase high enough through age five and only then see a drop. And many more people simply keep producing sufficient lactase and never have lactose intolerance at any time in their lives."
About one fifth to one in every three people with lactose intolerance wreak havoc on their alimentary by taking a full glass of milk—and two glasses a day, as a TV ad prescribes will trigger a riot of sorts in tummies of nine among 10 lactose intolerance sufferers.
That doesn’t mean sufferers have to avoid milk and milk-based products like the plague. Say, butter is almost entirely milk fat—and is likely to inflict greater horrors on the circulatory system. Cheese is from milk protein and sheds off lactose remains via processing and aging—it takes two kilos of milk or cheese to equal the lactose content in two glasses of milk, a famished gourmand might as well eat a horse than dump two kilos of butter or cheese down his gullet.
And there are traditional sour milk preparations—yogurt, kumiss, kefir and acidophilus milk—with beneficial bacterial colonies swimming in them and churning out lactase of their own to break down up to 40% of milk’s lactose content.
Milk squeezed out of a cow’s teats is a niggardly 5% lactose, mom’s is 7% but dried milk products pack up to 80% that the sufferer need not inflict on his insides.
Despite those ads that bombard the sound bite "You never outgrow your need for milk," the hankering for milk can be outgrown and serious thought should give way to a craving for teats. Thus, Carper lets out a caveat: "If you believe everything you read, lactose intolerance may be the most widespread medical condition in the U.S."
He cites a veteran in gastrointestinal research who dismisses the hype about lactose intolerance: "Marketers are overdoing the severity of the problem."
The woes can be downright alimentary but there’s mounds of monies that can be realized from lactose intolerance— sales of lactase enzyme pills, reduced-lactose milk products and nondairy milk alternatives now exceed a fat $200 million a year in the U.S. alone.
Lactose intolerance can spawn such social gaffes as farting in sweet sorrow or too many a visit to the comfort room but, as Carper asserts, "adults do not die from lactose intolerance, nor do they need extensive testing, prescription drugs, or hospitalization.
"From a doctor’s point of view, lactose intolerance is hardly a sexy issue (nor a very profitable one, if you want to be cynical). Doctors can’t fairly be blamed for fir considering lactose intolerance to be a relatively minor concern."
And in the Philippines in which one of every five Filipinos make do with less than P50 a day for three square meals, pay for the semblance of a roof over his head and a quilt work of rags to clothe himself, lactose intolerance might be taken for a luxury food item that only the moneyed can enjoy.
Friday, April 13, 2007
Sleeping with the enemy, grappling with “he-manity”
Santa Clarang pinong-pino
Kami po sana’y bigyan n’yo
Ng asawang labingwalo
Sa gulpe walang reklamo.
Saint Clare most mild
Please do give us
Eighteen spouses
Who won’t gripe if they’re mauled.
LOVELORN males on a pilgrimage to Obando town in Bulacan some 30 kilometers north of Manila pray and sway skip and hop to a lilting folk tune in homage to Sta. Clara. The patron saint is believed to listen to requests for a fiancé. A reworked version of the same folk tune is often sung in booze binges of Filipino men folk—the drinking devotee brashly asks for a retinue of wives, a harem to serve him without qualm or complaint even if he thrashes anyone in such a string of mistresses in his fold.
That reworked folk tune betrays a mindset that afflicts the Filipino male. It is an affliction that may likely have been ingrained by some 300 years of convent trysts with fat padres and over 50 years of necking in cinema shadows with film demigods—it’s an acculturation process that reduced women to the level of chattels and playthings. We may have grappled with it in a try to struggle and prevail. Or we must have lost badly, embraced and acquiesced to our conquerors. So we took to their ways. Adopt their norms we unwittingly did.
Well-stacked Roma Batarra (not her real name) doesn’t look her age— flirty-something, maybe in her “thrifties” as she tightly holds the purse strings to a thriving publication business. She defied norms, typified the strong woman of substance who runs a tight household and a weekly tabloid. But she sounded like a lost waif as she sobbed a torrent about how her much younger live-in partner beat her black and blue.
Batarra caught him in flagrante with a much younger lover. But he wasn’t sorry getting caught. He was sore at Batarra for getting in his way and whims.
So she caught most of the blows the live-in partner rained at her. Nearly bashed to a pulp, Batarra bawled him out of the house, which she owns. The young man stormed out, still heaping verbal abuse and threats at her.
Batarra wielded her influence as a crusty tabloid journalist and got back at the errant partner whose threats of bodily harm were carried out on him. That interesting story how she got even didn’t break as news. She confided to an erstwhile editor how she got even, got herself together and moved on, sense of self-esteem intact. Body bruises can heal.
Not all bruises heal as seen in this bit lifted off a police blotter: “Insp. Mario Monilar, homicide section chief told this newspaper that they are still waiting for the documents such as marriage contract and death certificate before they could file a parricide case against the husband.
“The wife’s remains are now at the St. Ignatius Chapel… She left behind a one-year old girl.
“The girl’s aunt told investigators the dead woman was a battered wife and had long been taking the abuses.”
Cases of violence against women (VAW) that found their way into police blotters bloated from 1,100 cases in 1996 to 7,383 by 2004. The highest recorded number of VAW cases in the police department peaked in 2001 at 10,343. Both the 2004 police and social welfare records show that battering and rape are the most common types of reported cases.
Battery cases could be construed as attempts to induce abortion: six of ten battered women were brutalized during pregnancy. While a child sired on the missus can be living proof of male potency, an additional mouth to feed can wreak havoc on the man’s earning capacity.
Every now and then Eileen Corporal (not her real name) meets up with advertising honchos, looking like she had gone through 12 rounds with a wannabe Manny Pacquiao to whom she had been married for 20 years. She’d rather not talk about those bouts. She can leave her man anytime she wishes to—she is an heiress to extensive farmlands in Bulacan, she has a stable job that pays well—but she’d rather tough it out. She was brought up, her mindset shaped in time-honored values, maybe quite feudal but she hasn’t outgrown that. She isn’t looking forward to recurring return bouts to count her mounting losses. She can take the beatings.
Unlike Eileen, Siglynd (an alias) snapped after three children and 18 years of toughing it out as a human punching bag totally dependent on her tormentor for financial support: "I thought, if I got past the experience of being a battered wife for so many years, then I could cope with any other trials that come my way."
She sought help from a non-government organization espousing women’s rights. The NGO taught her about her rights and helped her obtain a court-issued restraining order for the husband to cease and desist from mauling her. She now runs a thriving cargo hauling business and sends all her children to school on her own.
In unflinching reminiscence, she muses: "My inspiration are my children. They were also my source of strength during the times that my husband was beating me up. I cannot afford to be weak since my children and I have no one to depend on but myself. I also give credit to the NGOs that not only helped me to stand on my own, but more importantly, helped me banish the trauma from my experience through counseling. Being finally free from my husband, I've now learned to appreciate my self-worth."
In recent years lawmakers have arrayed a legal arsenal to stem the rising tide of violence perpetrated on women and children. The weaponry includes:
RA 7877 Anti-Sexual Harassment Law:
RA 8353 Anti-Rape law - elevation of rape as crime against person; expanding the definition of rape to include marital rape-- 9 of 10 battered women experienced marital rape:
RA 8505 Rape Victim Assistance Act;
RA 6955 Anti-Mail Order Bride Law:
RA 9262 Anti-Violence Against Women and Children Law: and
RA 9208 Anti-trafficking in Persons Act.
Buried in Congress is a bill throttled to death by so-called Pro-Life lobbyists and their lawmaker minions, the Responsible Parenthood and Population Management Act. It is grounded on obligations of national and local governments to deliver basic services including basic health, reproductive health and family planning, with penalties for public officials who shall prohibit or intentionally restrict the delivery of legal, medically safe reproductive health care services including family planning. The bill doesn’t prescribe two-child family as ideal family size.
Legal weaponry aside, women’s rights advocates such as the Cebu-based Lihok Pilipina Foundation have also helped battered women to stand their ground, regain their bearings, and assert their humanity. Tessie Banaynal Fernandez brought the organization to life in 1985 as a group of 20 women to discuss among themselves primary health care, herbal medicines and family problems.
While a clutch of statutes can be wielded in defense of women’s rights, chucking off Jurassic thinking and repressive cultural norms ought to be the more telling tack: "The propensity to do violence begets more violence. When children witness violence, they grow up thinking that it is okay to found a family where violence exists.
"I think one significant indicator of development and all of the things we are fighting for is being able to uphold the personal integrity of each person. Until we have that, violence in the homes, in the fight for properties or land, and everything else cannot be entirely solved," she points out.
Monday, April 09, 2007
Palayain ang mga bihag!
“SANDOSENANG tangke ng saxitoxin ‘tong bihag ko ngayon dito sa buwangan, este, buwagin, oops, bulwagan ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Magkakaubusan dito kapag hindi ninyo ibibigay ang mga kursunada ko. Binabalaan ko kayo! Sumunod kayo sa mga sasabihin ko. Kung hindi—magkakaubusan dito!”
Sa dagundong ng kulog na babala, nabahala ang mga sumugod na kawagad ng pulisya. Nagkatinginan sa isa’t isa habang tinatahip ng kaba ang mga dibdib nila.
“Pa’no ba ‘to, bossing? Pulos seksi daw ang hostage niya. Sandosena. Sapak ‘yan! Katakamtakamtakamtakam…”
“Baka mga pin up na artista sa kalendaryo, ser. Isang hubo tabong 36-24-36 na kukuwentahin ang mga kurbada bawat 30 araw—365 araw na kaligayahang makikita santaon.”
“Seksi na, oks in pa ang sabi. Ibig sabihin, pwedeng pwede nating pasukan.”
“Oo nga. Hinayupak din talaga ‘tong hostage-taker. Parang alam ang weakness natin. Talagang malambot ang mga puso natin kahit iigkas sa tigas ang… Men, we have to cordon the area. Let no meddling media muddle this crisis. Lalala lang ang sitwasyon kapag pumapel ‘yang mga hindot na taga-media.”
Nalalagas ang mga maigting na sandali. Humahaginit na pagong ang usad ng isang oras. Rumaragasang tila alon sa imburnal ang pagdagsa ng mga usyoso sa paligid ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Kasunod na bumuhos ang mga nagtitinda ng taho, nilagang mais, inihaw na isaw, fishballs, sorbetes, kendi, yosi, mani, balut, chicharon, pati na ahente ng punerarya.
“Baka pakawala ‘yan ng kandidatong barangay kakawat o kupitan de barangay na mababa ang ratings sa voters survey. Magpapakodak lang sa mga fotog ng diyaryo. Papakuha sa mga taga-TV. Libreng media mileage nga naman.”
“Ba’t hindi pa humihirit ng gusto n’ya?”
“Hindi naman civil engineer o may-ari ng iskul bukol na gaya no’ng Armando Ducat. Pero kapag humirit ‘yan na kailangang tiyakin na makakatapos sa kolehiyo ‘yung mga seksing hostage, babakas na ‘ko kahit sa isang scholar. Bibigyan natin ng special tutoring.”
“Baka naman talent manager ng mga isasalya sa Japan. O baka fashion designer na may alagang rumarampa. Kaya siguro pulos seksi ang bihag ng hinayupak na ‘yan. Ni hindi nga pumapalag ‘yung hostages. Ni walang pumipiyok.”
“Kapag hiniling niyan na maging hostage negotiator si Kris Aquino o si Joey de Leon nalintikan na tayo. Basta kailangang makakuha tayo ng autograph saka magpapakodak tayo. Group picture para masaya.”
Kulog na dumagundong ang tinig mula sa public address system. Tinig ng hostage taker. Kalmadong kalmado.
“Pakakawalan ko ang mga bihag na saxitoxin dito sa session hall. Meron ditong special session para paghati-hatian nila ang pork barrel na ibubuhos sa huling linggo ng kampanya bago maghalalan. Tiyak na dadanak dito sa low density lipoproteins, babaha sa karumal-dumal na cholesterol! Tiyakin ninyo na walang makakalabas dito! Walang makakalabas!”
Kunot-noo ang bawat pulis na nakatutok sa krisis. Mahirap nga namang mahiwatigan ang katuturan ng low density lipoproteins na tila malapit na kamag-anak ng liposuction.
Kumakagat na ang dilim nang mag-ikaanim ng gabi. Walang maulinig ni masagap na ingay mula sa mga pinid na pintuan ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Biglang-bigla, nakarinig ng malakas na pagaspas ng pakpak mula sa itaas. Bigwas ng bagwis na lumikha ng mga mumunting buhawi. Hindi magkamayaw sa gitla ang mga miron, media at pulisya. Isang nagliliwanag na anyo ang palayo, patungo sa kaitaasan, pasagasa sa araw—hindi matiyak kung manananggal ba o anghel kaya.
Limang oras matapos makatakas paitaas ang inaakalang hostage taker, inihayag ng sumuring forensic pathologist ang sanhi ng pagkamatay ng mahigit 250 kinatawan sa Casa de Hijodiputados.
“Paralytic shellfish poisoning— ghastly death induced by STX. Saxitoxin. A dose of 0.2 milligram can kill a man of average weight. A thousand times deadlier than nerve gas. The STX released in that chamber was more than enough to kill thousands…”
Sa dagundong ng kulog na babala, nabahala ang mga sumugod na kawagad ng pulisya. Nagkatinginan sa isa’t isa habang tinatahip ng kaba ang mga dibdib nila.
“Pa’no ba ‘to, bossing? Pulos seksi daw ang hostage niya. Sandosena. Sapak ‘yan! Katakamtakamtakamtakam…”
“Baka mga pin up na artista sa kalendaryo, ser. Isang hubo tabong 36-24-36 na kukuwentahin ang mga kurbada bawat 30 araw—365 araw na kaligayahang makikita santaon.”
“Seksi na, oks in pa ang sabi. Ibig sabihin, pwedeng pwede nating pasukan.”
“Oo nga. Hinayupak din talaga ‘tong hostage-taker. Parang alam ang weakness natin. Talagang malambot ang mga puso natin kahit iigkas sa tigas ang… Men, we have to cordon the area. Let no meddling media muddle this crisis. Lalala lang ang sitwasyon kapag pumapel ‘yang mga hindot na taga-media.”
Nalalagas ang mga maigting na sandali. Humahaginit na pagong ang usad ng isang oras. Rumaragasang tila alon sa imburnal ang pagdagsa ng mga usyoso sa paligid ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Kasunod na bumuhos ang mga nagtitinda ng taho, nilagang mais, inihaw na isaw, fishballs, sorbetes, kendi, yosi, mani, balut, chicharon, pati na ahente ng punerarya.
“Baka pakawala ‘yan ng kandidatong barangay kakawat o kupitan de barangay na mababa ang ratings sa voters survey. Magpapakodak lang sa mga fotog ng diyaryo. Papakuha sa mga taga-TV. Libreng media mileage nga naman.”
“Ba’t hindi pa humihirit ng gusto n’ya?”
“Hindi naman civil engineer o may-ari ng iskul bukol na gaya no’ng Armando Ducat. Pero kapag humirit ‘yan na kailangang tiyakin na makakatapos sa kolehiyo ‘yung mga seksing hostage, babakas na ‘ko kahit sa isang scholar. Bibigyan natin ng special tutoring.”
“Baka naman talent manager ng mga isasalya sa Japan. O baka fashion designer na may alagang rumarampa. Kaya siguro pulos seksi ang bihag ng hinayupak na ‘yan. Ni hindi nga pumapalag ‘yung hostages. Ni walang pumipiyok.”
“Kapag hiniling niyan na maging hostage negotiator si Kris Aquino o si Joey de Leon nalintikan na tayo. Basta kailangang makakuha tayo ng autograph saka magpapakodak tayo. Group picture para masaya.”
Kulog na dumagundong ang tinig mula sa public address system. Tinig ng hostage taker. Kalmadong kalmado.
“Pakakawalan ko ang mga bihag na saxitoxin dito sa session hall. Meron ditong special session para paghati-hatian nila ang pork barrel na ibubuhos sa huling linggo ng kampanya bago maghalalan. Tiyak na dadanak dito sa low density lipoproteins, babaha sa karumal-dumal na cholesterol! Tiyakin ninyo na walang makakalabas dito! Walang makakalabas!”
Kunot-noo ang bawat pulis na nakatutok sa krisis. Mahirap nga namang mahiwatigan ang katuturan ng low density lipoproteins na tila malapit na kamag-anak ng liposuction.
Kumakagat na ang dilim nang mag-ikaanim ng gabi. Walang maulinig ni masagap na ingay mula sa mga pinid na pintuan ng Casa de Hijodiputados. Biglang-bigla, nakarinig ng malakas na pagaspas ng pakpak mula sa itaas. Bigwas ng bagwis na lumikha ng mga mumunting buhawi. Hindi magkamayaw sa gitla ang mga miron, media at pulisya. Isang nagliliwanag na anyo ang palayo, patungo sa kaitaasan, pasagasa sa araw—hindi matiyak kung manananggal ba o anghel kaya.
Limang oras matapos makatakas paitaas ang inaakalang hostage taker, inihayag ng sumuring forensic pathologist ang sanhi ng pagkamatay ng mahigit 250 kinatawan sa Casa de Hijodiputados.
“Paralytic shellfish poisoning— ghastly death induced by STX. Saxitoxin. A dose of 0.2 milligram can kill a man of average weight. A thousand times deadlier than nerve gas. The STX released in that chamber was more than enough to kill thousands…”
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Gone to seed
MANONG Willie Baun insists that Republic has been rated substandard. It wouldn’t set or cure properly. More appropriate for mixing tough mortar suitable for construction purposes would be the old-fashioned quicklime or apog made from burnt, pulverized seashells and corals, usually wrapped in peppery betel leaf plus a bit or two of areca nut for the traditional chew—nganga-- that is believed to toughen fangs.
We thought that brand name of Portland cement suggested a stwrong republic. Stwrong may take out the sting and honey of spelling bees but it has a nice wring to it.
Now we have to make do with quicklime as we chew like ruminants at the cud of such sound bite or insufferable cackle as “Itanim sa Senado.” That last term refers to a major branch of the national government that draws up, reviews, amends, or chucks outright certain laws. That fat branch is housed in a building that stands on a Pasay City landfill site, more likely on shifting sands or fine aggregate that usually go into mortar or concrete mixture for pouring.
Rustic old-timers, the simon-pure, and the naïve will likely take such a behest of planting something into a major branch as a job strictly for horticulturists—most voters aren’t exactly into that line of work that calls for a certain technique in asexual propagation. We shudder at the repercussions and implications of such a mode of propagation…
Such mode of asexual propagation is called grafting.
Just maybe an undertaking like that calls for the expertise of, well, undertakers.
Why, quicklime or apog is used to cover rotting corpses to stanch the stench. Talagang pakapalan ng apog ang kailangan upang matakpan ang karima-rimarim na sansang at alingasaw.
Centuries back, parishioners were asked by curates to bring eggs to the parish—the albumin was mixed with burnt seashells and corals—apog—as binder for huge blocks of adobeng bulik cut off river banks or hewn off mountains, and piled high upon another without reinforcing steel bars that became the enduring architecture of ages old churches. Yolks turned up as must ingredient for chocolate espesso or were made as custard that went into equally yummy leche flan, tocino del cielo, or brazo de Mercedes.
With an ubiquitous cackle like “Itanim sa Senado,” we can pore over the fond memories of yesteryears when we went out for some hormone-tugging task as paniningalang pugad, that is, gazing up at some heavenly yet downy dark delights nestling between the thighs of an unsuspecting chick. A hen sounds out a cackle after laying an egg, does she not?
The cackle must have been a hen’s cry of apprehension and protestation over the prospect of its unhatched young getting spirited to the local parish. And the unborn is spilled out, its white thrown into a gooey amalgam of powdered burnt shells and corals, the fetus-to-be whipped up into a potage of custard that faintly echoes through the centuries the Church’s unflinching stand against family planning and women’s reproductive rights.
So how do we make sense of that cackle, “Itanim sa Senado?”
One, it calls for a lot of quicklime or apog.
Two, an undertaker ought to be called for such an undertaking.
Three, all it takes is 60 days for bok choi, pak choi or hakusai—Brassica rapa-- to grow from seed and go to seed. This crap, oops, we mean crop needs a lot of manure.
Four, whatever ye sow ye shall reap a thousandfold.
Five, that’s GO in both Cantonese and Nihongo, mwa-ha-ha-haw!
We thought that brand name of Portland cement suggested a stwrong republic. Stwrong may take out the sting and honey of spelling bees but it has a nice wring to it.
Now we have to make do with quicklime as we chew like ruminants at the cud of such sound bite or insufferable cackle as “Itanim sa Senado.” That last term refers to a major branch of the national government that draws up, reviews, amends, or chucks outright certain laws. That fat branch is housed in a building that stands on a Pasay City landfill site, more likely on shifting sands or fine aggregate that usually go into mortar or concrete mixture for pouring.
Rustic old-timers, the simon-pure, and the naïve will likely take such a behest of planting something into a major branch as a job strictly for horticulturists—most voters aren’t exactly into that line of work that calls for a certain technique in asexual propagation. We shudder at the repercussions and implications of such a mode of propagation…
Such mode of asexual propagation is called grafting.
Just maybe an undertaking like that calls for the expertise of, well, undertakers.
Why, quicklime or apog is used to cover rotting corpses to stanch the stench. Talagang pakapalan ng apog ang kailangan upang matakpan ang karima-rimarim na sansang at alingasaw.
Centuries back, parishioners were asked by curates to bring eggs to the parish—the albumin was mixed with burnt seashells and corals—apog—as binder for huge blocks of adobeng bulik cut off river banks or hewn off mountains, and piled high upon another without reinforcing steel bars that became the enduring architecture of ages old churches. Yolks turned up as must ingredient for chocolate espesso or were made as custard that went into equally yummy leche flan, tocino del cielo, or brazo de Mercedes.
With an ubiquitous cackle like “Itanim sa Senado,” we can pore over the fond memories of yesteryears when we went out for some hormone-tugging task as paniningalang pugad, that is, gazing up at some heavenly yet downy dark delights nestling between the thighs of an unsuspecting chick. A hen sounds out a cackle after laying an egg, does she not?
The cackle must have been a hen’s cry of apprehension and protestation over the prospect of its unhatched young getting spirited to the local parish. And the unborn is spilled out, its white thrown into a gooey amalgam of powdered burnt shells and corals, the fetus-to-be whipped up into a potage of custard that faintly echoes through the centuries the Church’s unflinching stand against family planning and women’s reproductive rights.
So how do we make sense of that cackle, “Itanim sa Senado?”
One, it calls for a lot of quicklime or apog.
Two, an undertaker ought to be called for such an undertaking.
Three, all it takes is 60 days for bok choi, pak choi or hakusai—Brassica rapa-- to grow from seed and go to seed. This crap, oops, we mean crop needs a lot of manure.
Four, whatever ye sow ye shall reap a thousandfold.
Five, that’s GO in both Cantonese and Nihongo, mwa-ha-ha-haw!
Friday, October 06, 2006
Tanod ba 'yan?
FLABBERGASTED?
Our favorite professor from the UP School of Economics won’t be. Neither would she fire off another fusillade of columns at the Tanodbayan which, by its label alone implies the nation’s sentry that bars the entry of corruption and shenanigans in government service.
Prof. Solita Collas Monsod who ought to have been elected as a lawmaker in Senate had forewarned us about the Tanodbayan training its gunsights on small fry rather than sizeable targets.
She had told us that all that bluster the Tanodbayan had mustered was merely talking the talk—not really walking the walk.
We didn’t fell off our chair nor were we seized by fits of hiccups. We’re enjoying bellyfuls, laughing ourselves hoarse at the prank the Tanodbayan pulled off on the Supreme Court and the Senate.
A Senate panel took the first crack at the shady P1.3-billion contract for of automated counting machines awarded by the Commission on Elections to Mega Pacific Consortium. That deal ran roughshod over Comelec’s own bidding rules. A series of public hearings carried out by the Senate nudged out facts from a battery of witnesses that pointed up anomalies in the Comelec-Mega Pacific deal. At the close of such hearings, aghast lawmakers called for the resignation of Comelec honchos tainted by the anomaly.
In 2004, the Supreme Court ruled that the P1.3-billion contract as illegal. The High Court averred: “Truly, the pith and soul of democracy-- credible, orderly, and peaceful elections-- have been put in jeopardy by the illegal and abusive acts of the Comelec.”
That ought to have hammered the final nails on the coffin of a rotten deal.
Like a bizarre telenovela twist, Tanodbayan ignored Senate findings and the Supreme Court ruling.
Tanodbayan went a step further by overturning whatever the Senate and Supreme Court have established—why, everyone involved in that stinking deal came out smelling like roses.
Call that Tanodbayan move a practical joke, a gag’s punchline, whatever that can tickle the nation’s funny bones. Indeed, Tanodbayan has tremendous reserves of humor to keep us roaring with laughter.
Even so, our favorite UP School of Economics mentor would likely ply her witty parting shot to the Ombudsman: “Tanod ba ‘yan?”
Our favorite professor from the UP School of Economics won’t be. Neither would she fire off another fusillade of columns at the Tanodbayan which, by its label alone implies the nation’s sentry that bars the entry of corruption and shenanigans in government service.
Prof. Solita Collas Monsod who ought to have been elected as a lawmaker in Senate had forewarned us about the Tanodbayan training its gunsights on small fry rather than sizeable targets.
She had told us that all that bluster the Tanodbayan had mustered was merely talking the talk—not really walking the walk.
We didn’t fell off our chair nor were we seized by fits of hiccups. We’re enjoying bellyfuls, laughing ourselves hoarse at the prank the Tanodbayan pulled off on the Supreme Court and the Senate.
A Senate panel took the first crack at the shady P1.3-billion contract for of automated counting machines awarded by the Commission on Elections to Mega Pacific Consortium. That deal ran roughshod over Comelec’s own bidding rules. A series of public hearings carried out by the Senate nudged out facts from a battery of witnesses that pointed up anomalies in the Comelec-Mega Pacific deal. At the close of such hearings, aghast lawmakers called for the resignation of Comelec honchos tainted by the anomaly.
In 2004, the Supreme Court ruled that the P1.3-billion contract as illegal. The High Court averred: “Truly, the pith and soul of democracy-- credible, orderly, and peaceful elections-- have been put in jeopardy by the illegal and abusive acts of the Comelec.”
That ought to have hammered the final nails on the coffin of a rotten deal.
Like a bizarre telenovela twist, Tanodbayan ignored Senate findings and the Supreme Court ruling.
Tanodbayan went a step further by overturning whatever the Senate and Supreme Court have established—why, everyone involved in that stinking deal came out smelling like roses.
Call that Tanodbayan move a practical joke, a gag’s punchline, whatever that can tickle the nation’s funny bones. Indeed, Tanodbayan has tremendous reserves of humor to keep us roaring with laughter.
Even so, our favorite UP School of Economics mentor would likely ply her witty parting shot to the Ombudsman: “Tanod ba ‘yan?”
Friday, September 29, 2006
Deus irae
AFTER Howler Milenyo raked across the megalopolis leaving a trail of debris and death, well-meaning lawmakers summoned God in a closed-door hearing. Maybe grilling. Whatever reasons lie behind so-called “acts of God” have to be made clear.
Lawmakers turned dour and sour at the sight of fallen trees crushing cars and hurting people in them. Too, streets turned awash with retted tree leaves and broken boughs—eyesores and traffic hazards these. And a lot of woes for trash collectors. God got away with mayhem and murder when those God-made trees were erected.
Lawmakers have boned themselves on the National Building Code, more so on certain provisions that call for soundness and integrity of structures given permits to be erected in the megalopolis. Those culprit trees are more than usual suspects.
It was suspected that God must have bribed a lot of people or twisted a lot of arms in the permits and licensing offices of local government units. If not, how could He have been allowed to put up structures hereabouts with substandard materials?
The tell-tale signs are there and could be swallowed in any civil court as prima facie evidence. Those postcard-pretty fixtures called trees plopped down at the height of the howler.
Divine handiwork ought to comply with the strictest standards set forth in the existing building code. Pertinent provisions of the code have to be hammered into God’s brain, if He has any.
Say, trees have to withstand intensity 10 temblors on the Richter scale. Like bridges, tree boughs ought to bear both vertical and horizontal pressures of up to 30 tons before toppling like a giant billboard. And those leaves and branchlets need to be firmed up—so that gale-force winds of up to 200 kph would hardly stir ‘em tree parts.
In addition, allowable contraction and expansion of tree parts caused by extremes of heat and humidity should be at a millionth of a millimeter per 100 degrees Celsius drop or rise in temperature.
To err is human, yes. That ought to explain why a lot of those giant billboards infesting major thoroughfares were toppled by a howler’s 130 kph wind blasts. That should quash any argument why rain-soaked concrete walls can come crashing down.
Let’s credit such fiascoes and casualties resulting therefrom to a lapse in structural engineering. Indeed, to err is human and lapses in sound judgment in construction of eyesores, claptraps and death traps ought to be forgiven.
Lawmakers turned dour and sour at the sight of fallen trees crushing cars and hurting people in them. Too, streets turned awash with retted tree leaves and broken boughs—eyesores and traffic hazards these. And a lot of woes for trash collectors. God got away with mayhem and murder when those God-made trees were erected.
Lawmakers have boned themselves on the National Building Code, more so on certain provisions that call for soundness and integrity of structures given permits to be erected in the megalopolis. Those culprit trees are more than usual suspects.
It was suspected that God must have bribed a lot of people or twisted a lot of arms in the permits and licensing offices of local government units. If not, how could He have been allowed to put up structures hereabouts with substandard materials?
The tell-tale signs are there and could be swallowed in any civil court as prima facie evidence. Those postcard-pretty fixtures called trees plopped down at the height of the howler.
Divine handiwork ought to comply with the strictest standards set forth in the existing building code. Pertinent provisions of the code have to be hammered into God’s brain, if He has any.
Say, trees have to withstand intensity 10 temblors on the Richter scale. Like bridges, tree boughs ought to bear both vertical and horizontal pressures of up to 30 tons before toppling like a giant billboard. And those leaves and branchlets need to be firmed up—so that gale-force winds of up to 200 kph would hardly stir ‘em tree parts.
In addition, allowable contraction and expansion of tree parts caused by extremes of heat and humidity should be at a millionth of a millimeter per 100 degrees Celsius drop or rise in temperature.
To err is human, yes. That ought to explain why a lot of those giant billboards infesting major thoroughfares were toppled by a howler’s 130 kph wind blasts. That should quash any argument why rain-soaked concrete walls can come crashing down.
Let’s credit such fiascoes and casualties resulting therefrom to a lapse in structural engineering. Indeed, to err is human and lapses in sound judgment in construction of eyesores, claptraps and death traps ought to be forgiven.
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Wordplay
A SPRINKLING of the country’s ScrabbleTM players have earned for Filipinos one of the three top ranks among the world’s best in the word game. That feat of a dozen or so board game competitors sent out to participate in the ScrabbleTM Olympics doesn’t mean we’re world-class in word power—75% of the country’s annual 400,000 college graduates have “sub-standard English skills.”
Achievement tests given to high school seniors in the 2004-2005 school year revealed that less than 7% could read, speak and grasp English well enough to enter college. And about 45% had no inkling of English.
Cebu lawmaker Eduardo Gullas is eyeing word games like ScrabbleTM and crossword puzzle books as tools to rev up learning of English. Indeed, the road to mastery of a global language is paved with desperation.
Sadly, acquiring a cache of stand-alone words—bled of context and content—but ready to be plunked down onto a ScrabbleTM board or tiled in on a crossword puzzle blank don’t inhere a grip on a foreign tongue.
People possess words. Words possess people who have delved into both the content and context of words at their command. So it is bruited that words one possess—or word power-- determines one’s role in civilization. A limited vocabulary will limit one’s potential role.
Researchers claim a 700-word vocabulary is the minimum to get along. It takes less than two years—get acquainted with a new word each day—to muster that minimum. It takes a 3,000-word arsenal—built up over eight years-- as minimum to land a job.
A stockpile of at least 10,000 words primes the individual for a social role. It may take over 27 years to own such a pile, learning a new word a day. Wordsmiths in the league of William Shakespeare, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Rabindranath Tagore or Kung Fu-tze are known to have nurtured a 60,000-word nursery that grew on them, in them.
We might as well pore over the workbooks and textbooks that Filipino schoolchildren use—most of ‘em books are as boring, dull, lousy and numb as their authors who rake in millions from such books.
We could use lively writing in ‘em books to inject life, maybe infect our schoolchildren with a love of learning—whether the subject is math, science, or English.
Achievement tests given to high school seniors in the 2004-2005 school year revealed that less than 7% could read, speak and grasp English well enough to enter college. And about 45% had no inkling of English.
Cebu lawmaker Eduardo Gullas is eyeing word games like ScrabbleTM and crossword puzzle books as tools to rev up learning of English. Indeed, the road to mastery of a global language is paved with desperation.
Sadly, acquiring a cache of stand-alone words—bled of context and content—but ready to be plunked down onto a ScrabbleTM board or tiled in on a crossword puzzle blank don’t inhere a grip on a foreign tongue.
People possess words. Words possess people who have delved into both the content and context of words at their command. So it is bruited that words one possess—or word power-- determines one’s role in civilization. A limited vocabulary will limit one’s potential role.
Researchers claim a 700-word vocabulary is the minimum to get along. It takes less than two years—get acquainted with a new word each day—to muster that minimum. It takes a 3,000-word arsenal—built up over eight years-- as minimum to land a job.
A stockpile of at least 10,000 words primes the individual for a social role. It may take over 27 years to own such a pile, learning a new word a day. Wordsmiths in the league of William Shakespeare, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Rabindranath Tagore or Kung Fu-tze are known to have nurtured a 60,000-word nursery that grew on them, in them.
We might as well pore over the workbooks and textbooks that Filipino schoolchildren use—most of ‘em books are as boring, dull, lousy and numb as their authors who rake in millions from such books.
We could use lively writing in ‘em books to inject life, maybe infect our schoolchildren with a love of learning—whether the subject is math, science, or English.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Dogs of God
POPE Benedict XVI is of the Dominican order— from Domini canis, literally “dogs of God” to evoke canine loyalty and devotion and probably draws humorous inspiration from god spelled backwards.
Dominicans are incorrigible scholars of sorts. Hereabouts they founded the University of Sto. Tomas in the 16th century making it the oldest university in this part of the globe. Dominican friars were also responsible for introducing irrigation system in growing rice, thus doubling yields of the Filipino staple food plus paddy-grown vegetables in the 18th century.
Papa Ratzi is a typical Dominican. Dominicans are known to shun useless chatter. They do daily rapt labor in serene quietude. Or bury themselves in tome after tome of knowledge to keep their minds razor-sharp and agile. Why, such a mind once stretched by a tempest of ideas won’t return to its original dimension—the mind stretches out, reaches into vast frontiers, opens toward limitless horizons.
The current Prince of the Church typifies such a devout scholar. In a speech in Germany last week, he quoted 14th-century Byzantine Emperor Manuel II Palaeologus. It was that emperor who claimed that everything Prophet Muhammad brought was evil, “such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.”
That was an ancient emperor’s opinion.
That wasn’t Papa Ratzi’s, make no mistake about that.
Sadly, ‘twas the pope that got the ire of Muslims worldwide. He had to reiterate that his use of medieval quotes critical of Islam did not reflect his own convictions. He was misunderstood.
“But for the careful reader of my text it is clear that I in no way wated to make mine the negative words pronounced by the medieval emperor and that their polemical content does not reflect my personal conviction.
“My intention was very different. I wanted to explain that religion and violence do not go together, but religion and reason do,” he pointed out.
He said he hoped the whole furor could eventually serve to encourage “positive and even self-critical dialogue, both among religions as well as between modern reason and the faith of Christians.”
Papa Ratzi’s explanations would readily be understood by Sufi Muslims. In contrast to the prevailing Islamic view of the dog as a foul, vicious and unclean animal, Sufis held the poverty and wretchedness of the dog in special esteem, considering themselves to be dogs -- or less than dogs -- in the eyes of Allah.
Dominicans are incorrigible scholars of sorts. Hereabouts they founded the University of Sto. Tomas in the 16th century making it the oldest university in this part of the globe. Dominican friars were also responsible for introducing irrigation system in growing rice, thus doubling yields of the Filipino staple food plus paddy-grown vegetables in the 18th century.
Papa Ratzi is a typical Dominican. Dominicans are known to shun useless chatter. They do daily rapt labor in serene quietude. Or bury themselves in tome after tome of knowledge to keep their minds razor-sharp and agile. Why, such a mind once stretched by a tempest of ideas won’t return to its original dimension—the mind stretches out, reaches into vast frontiers, opens toward limitless horizons.
The current Prince of the Church typifies such a devout scholar. In a speech in Germany last week, he quoted 14th-century Byzantine Emperor Manuel II Palaeologus. It was that emperor who claimed that everything Prophet Muhammad brought was evil, “such as his command to spread by the sword the faith he preached.”
That was an ancient emperor’s opinion.
That wasn’t Papa Ratzi’s, make no mistake about that.
Sadly, ‘twas the pope that got the ire of Muslims worldwide. He had to reiterate that his use of medieval quotes critical of Islam did not reflect his own convictions. He was misunderstood.
“But for the careful reader of my text it is clear that I in no way wated to make mine the negative words pronounced by the medieval emperor and that their polemical content does not reflect my personal conviction.
“My intention was very different. I wanted to explain that religion and violence do not go together, but religion and reason do,” he pointed out.
He said he hoped the whole furor could eventually serve to encourage “positive and even self-critical dialogue, both among religions as well as between modern reason and the faith of Christians.”
Papa Ratzi’s explanations would readily be understood by Sufi Muslims. In contrast to the prevailing Islamic view of the dog as a foul, vicious and unclean animal, Sufis held the poverty and wretchedness of the dog in special esteem, considering themselves to be dogs -- or less than dogs -- in the eyes of Allah.
Redemption
MALACAÑANG’S shilly shallying whether to assign Maj. Gen. Jovito Palparan as government’s anti-gambling czar or consultant on national security need to be resolved pronto. It wouldn’t hurt to name a battle savvy guy like that as anti-gambling lord— every bettor in the street would wager on him taking on the role, playing it to the hilt.
People would love Palparan to ply the usual terminate-and-destroy tack. It ought ot be the same sort of war plan that seeks to extirpate the 8,000-strong New People’s Army in two years flat in which hundreds of civilian sympathizers and suspected Reds were turned into stiffs.
With Palparan at the reins of the government’s anti-gambling drive, we can expect fireworks. Lots of.
Plus a staggering body count—ready the body bags, no prisoners will be taken.
For starters, our idol may be tasked to neutralize coddlers and protectors of, say, jueteng. The illegal numbers game has plagued Luzon for centuries—quite more formidable a challenge to weed out than a 30-year old or so communist insurgency.
People expect lots and lots of jueteng coddlers and protectors done in and queuing up for their appointment with an embalmer.
It is now common knowledge: coddlers and protectors infest local and national government. They come in such guises as councilor, mayor, media practitioner, barangay chieftain, congressman, police or military official, maybe even kith and kin of Malacañg occupants. Self-confessed jueteng bagman Sandra Cam did implicate GMA's hubby and eldest son as among those who were fattened by jueteng protection payoffs, did she not?
That is a formidable array, a multi-tiered assembly of corruption that exploits the Filipino penchant for the get-rich-quick way via gambling.
People would wish for Palparan to take care of ‘em jueteng coddlers and protectors, apply the usual terminate and destroy tack on ‘em. It’ll be a massive cleansing campaign.
Dissidents and their sympathizers call our idol as “butcher.” Enough of such tacky epithets and cranky name-calling.
Once Palparan gets his marching orders as the nation’s anti-gambling czar, people should bequeath him a more appropriate sobriquet.
Say, “redeemer?”
People would love Palparan to ply the usual terminate-and-destroy tack. It ought ot be the same sort of war plan that seeks to extirpate the 8,000-strong New People’s Army in two years flat in which hundreds of civilian sympathizers and suspected Reds were turned into stiffs.
With Palparan at the reins of the government’s anti-gambling drive, we can expect fireworks. Lots of.
Plus a staggering body count—ready the body bags, no prisoners will be taken.
For starters, our idol may be tasked to neutralize coddlers and protectors of, say, jueteng. The illegal numbers game has plagued Luzon for centuries—quite more formidable a challenge to weed out than a 30-year old or so communist insurgency.
People expect lots and lots of jueteng coddlers and protectors done in and queuing up for their appointment with an embalmer.
It is now common knowledge: coddlers and protectors infest local and national government. They come in such guises as councilor, mayor, media practitioner, barangay chieftain, congressman, police or military official, maybe even kith and kin of Malacañg occupants. Self-confessed jueteng bagman Sandra Cam did implicate GMA's hubby and eldest son as among those who were fattened by jueteng protection payoffs, did she not?
That is a formidable array, a multi-tiered assembly of corruption that exploits the Filipino penchant for the get-rich-quick way via gambling.
People would wish for Palparan to take care of ‘em jueteng coddlers and protectors, apply the usual terminate and destroy tack on ‘em. It’ll be a massive cleansing campaign.
Dissidents and their sympathizers call our idol as “butcher.” Enough of such tacky epithets and cranky name-calling.
Once Palparan gets his marching orders as the nation’s anti-gambling czar, people should bequeath him a more appropriate sobriquet.
Say, “redeemer?”
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Basta gasta kasta
LAMPAS na ng hatinggabi nang masumpungan sa bukakang bukana ng kalyeng patuhog sa Avenida ang babae. Humarang sa daanan.
Kainaman ang tindig. Makinis. Naghuhulagpos sa galit ang suso sa nakahakab na kamiseta. Kainaman ang ganda ng mukha. Gitara pa rin ang hugis ng balakang. Matindi pa rin ang asim.
Paanas na inialok ang kanyang natatanging paglilingkod. Sa kama.
Napansin siguro nang humugot ako ng ilang pirasong salaping papel. Pulos hilatsa ni dating pangulong Manuel Roxas ang nakabalatay. Binayaran ang napiling guayabano— hustong isang kilo—sa matandang nakapuwesto sa bangketa ‘di kalayuan sa babae. Masarap ligisin ang himaymay ng guayabano. Para lubusang kumatas. Maihahalo ang katas asim-tamis sa paboritong marka demonyo. Isa pa’y pansupil sa mga hindi kanais-nais na singaw at alimuom mula kapaligiran ang mga binhi ng guayabano.
Inulit ng babae ang paanyaya na subukan ang kanyang serbisyo. Pagbigyan ang bisyo.
Inginuso ko ang kuna ng sanggol na kalapit niya. Ilang buwan pa lang ang edad ng sanggol na naroon. Gising pa. Naglilikot. Nakangiti. Walang malay na pagngiti.
“Anak mo?” untag ko.
Tumango ang babae.
“Eh ang tatay nito?”
“Ako ho.”
Tumindig mula sa kinahihigang likmuan sa bangketa ang isang lalaki. Naglalaro siguro sa 20-25 ang edad. Putlain. Lawlaw ang tiyan. Bahagyang nakangisi sa pag-amin na siya ang ama ng sanggol sa kuna.
Iglap na natuos sa utak kung saan mauuwi ang turing na halaga ng upa sa katawan ng ina. Buy Filipino. Eat Filipina. P100 sa tatay na payag namang mapindeho. P100 sa sanggol. P100 sa mismong nagpaupa’t nagpaupak.
Napakamura talaga.
Tiim-bagang na napamura: Putang ina!
Biglang-bigla nanikip ang aking… Hindi dibdib.
Briefs.
Kainaman ang tindig. Makinis. Naghuhulagpos sa galit ang suso sa nakahakab na kamiseta. Kainaman ang ganda ng mukha. Gitara pa rin ang hugis ng balakang. Matindi pa rin ang asim.
Paanas na inialok ang kanyang natatanging paglilingkod. Sa kama.
Napansin siguro nang humugot ako ng ilang pirasong salaping papel. Pulos hilatsa ni dating pangulong Manuel Roxas ang nakabalatay. Binayaran ang napiling guayabano— hustong isang kilo—sa matandang nakapuwesto sa bangketa ‘di kalayuan sa babae. Masarap ligisin ang himaymay ng guayabano. Para lubusang kumatas. Maihahalo ang katas asim-tamis sa paboritong marka demonyo. Isa pa’y pansupil sa mga hindi kanais-nais na singaw at alimuom mula kapaligiran ang mga binhi ng guayabano.
Inulit ng babae ang paanyaya na subukan ang kanyang serbisyo. Pagbigyan ang bisyo.
Inginuso ko ang kuna ng sanggol na kalapit niya. Ilang buwan pa lang ang edad ng sanggol na naroon. Gising pa. Naglilikot. Nakangiti. Walang malay na pagngiti.
“Anak mo?” untag ko.
Tumango ang babae.
“Eh ang tatay nito?”
“Ako ho.”
Tumindig mula sa kinahihigang likmuan sa bangketa ang isang lalaki. Naglalaro siguro sa 20-25 ang edad. Putlain. Lawlaw ang tiyan. Bahagyang nakangisi sa pag-amin na siya ang ama ng sanggol sa kuna.
Iglap na natuos sa utak kung saan mauuwi ang turing na halaga ng upa sa katawan ng ina. Buy Filipino. Eat Filipina. P100 sa tatay na payag namang mapindeho. P100 sa sanggol. P100 sa mismong nagpaupa’t nagpaupak.
Napakamura talaga.
Tiim-bagang na napamura: Putang ina!
Biglang-bigla nanikip ang aking… Hindi dibdib.
Briefs.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Plugging leaks
WE’RE not buying the Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo position—“no retake” for the batch of June 2006 nursing examinees. That sounds like pandering to the infamous batch. The leakage mess will hound them, not forever but for a long time.
A professional puts a prime value on integrity, why, even a true statesman would call for snap elections to shoo away any miasma of a sham mandate. It is expected of those examinees to hew to a similar conduct— yeah, pearls will remain pearls even if they’re strewn among pebbles.
It’s not a matter of plugging a small leak, as a Dutch folktale would have it. Remember: An innocent boy spent the whole night, missed dinner, suffered body numbness. He had to hush his fears of the dark and endured biting cold. But he stood his ground plugging a small leak in the dike with his puny finger. If it were not for that act, the small leak might have grown large. That would break the dike that holds back the sea from engulfing that boy’s community. It was a boy’s courage that held the floodwaters in check. He also saw beyond a mere leak that could touch off tragic consequences for his community.
Indeed, a little leak can sink a great ship—even a multi-ton tanker like Solar I that has spawned a massive bunker fuel spill off Guimaras island. The price to pay for tragedies proves to be more costly.
For decades, our policymakers have merely sat on their fat butts as the nation leaked out its best and brightest health care workers, nurses including. The erstwhile wee leak has widened into a floodgush rushing overseas.
So, who plugs a leak that has grown gargantuan?
Admittedly, as a health professional point out, the demand for nurses in the US, UK and elsewhere has turned into the motive force shaping the crass commercialization of nursing education and the profession.
Whatever fuels the huge demand for a nursing diploma and license to ply the profession has given ground for motley scams that victimize students, their parents, and future patients.
Dump the Hippocratic Oath or whatever oath they swear to. We’re pursuing dollars and have been in pursuit of that myopic policy of exporting skills. Why, over eight million of them skilled workers turn in some $10 billion yearly to prop up an economy in crutches.
Over here, we’re warming up to a shortage of health care professionals and the inevitable crisis of the nation’s health care system.
A professional puts a prime value on integrity, why, even a true statesman would call for snap elections to shoo away any miasma of a sham mandate. It is expected of those examinees to hew to a similar conduct— yeah, pearls will remain pearls even if they’re strewn among pebbles.
It’s not a matter of plugging a small leak, as a Dutch folktale would have it. Remember: An innocent boy spent the whole night, missed dinner, suffered body numbness. He had to hush his fears of the dark and endured biting cold. But he stood his ground plugging a small leak in the dike with his puny finger. If it were not for that act, the small leak might have grown large. That would break the dike that holds back the sea from engulfing that boy’s community. It was a boy’s courage that held the floodwaters in check. He also saw beyond a mere leak that could touch off tragic consequences for his community.
Indeed, a little leak can sink a great ship—even a multi-ton tanker like Solar I that has spawned a massive bunker fuel spill off Guimaras island. The price to pay for tragedies proves to be more costly.
For decades, our policymakers have merely sat on their fat butts as the nation leaked out its best and brightest health care workers, nurses including. The erstwhile wee leak has widened into a floodgush rushing overseas.
So, who plugs a leak that has grown gargantuan?
Admittedly, as a health professional point out, the demand for nurses in the US, UK and elsewhere has turned into the motive force shaping the crass commercialization of nursing education and the profession.
Whatever fuels the huge demand for a nursing diploma and license to ply the profession has given ground for motley scams that victimize students, their parents, and future patients.
Dump the Hippocratic Oath or whatever oath they swear to. We’re pursuing dollars and have been in pursuit of that myopic policy of exporting skills. Why, over eight million of them skilled workers turn in some $10 billion yearly to prop up an economy in crutches.
Over here, we’re warming up to a shortage of health care professionals and the inevitable crisis of the nation’s health care system.
He's a beauty!
HE’S an oddball alright, the sort of chap infected with child-like enthusiasm and spread the contagion any which way he could. Ain’t he a beauty, that crikey character Steve Irwin?
He couldn’t skeedaddle off into the Great Beyond just like that, we’d cry buckets.
We didn’t mind the thick curious accent as he spouted tidbits of facts. We hardly noticed his khaki outfit that spoke of a fashion sense much close to a carabao’s than to a gadabout mall rat. Irwin didn’t make any fashion statements. He made sense.
Neither did he gab about lazing around in spas for body toning or consultations with a dermatologist to correct skin flaws—he wasn’t that self-absorbed or too indulged about the appearance he gave out to audiences.
He wasn’t cast in the mould of sought-after celebrities puttering about the vacuity and howling emptiness of their lives—we’ll be doubly glad if they just drop dead like flies, let their fans and followers follow suit.
Irwin wasn’t the type “cropped, hedged and distorted by outward, trivial forms, fads and fancies.”
He wasn’t at all squeamish toddling after those slithering critters, handling ‘em with as much care and wonder with a wee bit of whimsy. He was making a pitch for all of ‘em creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful.
Do we have anybody like him around?
Nah, they all want to be our next idols, plying out song-and-dance acts or going through the motions of acting— terrible phonies all.
Oozing with energy, Irwin gawked and squawked about Nature. He sang to it paeans and praises. Adults these days, especially those soaked through in glamor and marinated in the mediocre don’t come any close to that.
And he could do mud-wrestling with crocodiles, fill in notebooks with sketches of reptiles, plop himself down on mud pies, celebrate life of the wild kind with nary a care.
That must have been a wonderful life!
He couldn’t skeedaddle off into the Great Beyond just like that, we’d cry buckets.
We didn’t mind the thick curious accent as he spouted tidbits of facts. We hardly noticed his khaki outfit that spoke of a fashion sense much close to a carabao’s than to a gadabout mall rat. Irwin didn’t make any fashion statements. He made sense.
Neither did he gab about lazing around in spas for body toning or consultations with a dermatologist to correct skin flaws—he wasn’t that self-absorbed or too indulged about the appearance he gave out to audiences.
He wasn’t cast in the mould of sought-after celebrities puttering about the vacuity and howling emptiness of their lives—we’ll be doubly glad if they just drop dead like flies, let their fans and followers follow suit.
Irwin wasn’t the type “cropped, hedged and distorted by outward, trivial forms, fads and fancies.”
He wasn’t at all squeamish toddling after those slithering critters, handling ‘em with as much care and wonder with a wee bit of whimsy. He was making a pitch for all of ‘em creatures great and small, all things wise and wonderful.
Do we have anybody like him around?
Nah, they all want to be our next idols, plying out song-and-dance acts or going through the motions of acting— terrible phonies all.
Oozing with energy, Irwin gawked and squawked about Nature. He sang to it paeans and praises. Adults these days, especially those soaked through in glamor and marinated in the mediocre don’t come any close to that.
And he could do mud-wrestling with crocodiles, fill in notebooks with sketches of reptiles, plop himself down on mud pies, celebrate life of the wild kind with nary a care.
That must have been a wonderful life!
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