Man’s folly

September 19, 2007

Man’s sublime existence has been largely undermined because of too much rationalization. How simple things would have been if we were like the bird who greets the morning with a song.  The bird doesn’t think why the sun always rises in the east, nor question the caprices of the seasons — it just lives. Enjoying whatever surprises the morning offers, totally oblivious to the approaching afternoon armed with the knowledge that nature holds whatever it requires. With that realization, only a food wouldn’t burst into a song.

Why do we think that we are greater than nature? Why do we feel the need to control the universe and take comfort in science and religion? Do you think that identifying the parts of the tree you claim it as your own? Do the bird’s physiological and anatomical characteristics define what it is? Don’t you think its soul, its life force, characterizes the bird regardless of species and form? For example, If I have the structure of a man but I have the animus of a woman, would you call me a man? I think my superficial qualities are incidental; my design makes me what I am.

Our ego is so great that we dismiss everything as false until we say it’s the truth. We dismiss the idea that the universe will continue without us; we dismiss anything that we can’t identify and explain as an illusion; we dismiss the idea that we are made of the same element from the lowest grub that crawls the earth. We dismiss the idea that we are not gods.

How great is the man who knows that he is nothing for only in knowing that we are a mere dust in nature’s eye that it can easily flicker away can we truly marvel at the vast wonder of the universe. Only in knowing that we are small can we begin to be great.

All our lives we are made to believe that we are special; that we have the faculties to design the world as we see fit. We took a passage from the book of Genesis that we are to be the caretakers of the earth, distort it and gave it new meaning — that we can do anything we like with it.

But how can we call ourselves caretakers when it’s been nature that’s taking care of us all along? She could have easily annihilated the human race with a mere sneeze, but she chose not to. She endured the destruction that we inflicted. Nature endured for us. Now, how can we presume to take care of her when we’re the ones hurting her?
Man thinks that his ordinariness is his curse and that’s why he constantly denies it.  I think Angela Hayes played by Mena Suvari in the movie American Beauty summed this impulse to be better when she said: “I don’t think there’s anything worse than being ordinary.”

And that’s where fools exceed geniuses, because they never claim to be otherwise than being ordinary. Why do we revere geniuses anyway, are they better than us? Do they possess special faculties that weren’t sprinkled to everybody when the gods distributed talents? Was Shakespeare a better man for composing all those literatures, however majestic they were? Was the Greek philosopher Plato superior because of his dialogues?

Genius is but an offspring of necessity; man’s involvement is unintended.

Why do you presume to be better than anybody else? Is it your intelligence, your wealth or good looks? You die like everybody else and worms will feed on your belly. That means, dear sir, you will succumb to the laws of nature just like everybody else.

For is it not conceit and self-delusion that make us kill an ant without guilt and yet almost worship the television set and all the modern appliances we have on our living rooms?  We think that the television is more precious than the ant. We think our creation is better than nature.

Can we not grasp that the single step an ant makes is much finer that the most advanced robotic limb invented by man? That a single particle of sand possesses qualities that are much more complex that the most expensive computer known to man? Yet, it’s there on the ground to be walked upon, totally ignored!

Man’s folly is thinking he’s not one; for presuming that he breathes the same air as gods; for presuming that he is greater than his own nature. If he just but pause and think how inconsequential he is in relation to the workings of the universe, how insignificant society that he created is, then he can truly appreciate the reason why he is here in the first place — to experience life.

Manny Wannabe (Alternatively called Wannabe Manny)

April 17, 2007

I was in 3rd year high school when my father brought us boys boxing gloves. Eager to break them in, my brothers and I took turns bashing our face with those leathers. Of course, it started with pretend, you know when you only use half of your strength, but in the middle of the bout, somebody always punched harder than intended and the game is on. By the end of each "pretend" fight, we are already sporting a mouse underneath our eyes or our cheekbones.

About an hour or so, our cousins are already joining in the fray. We matched up, regardless of weight, because whatever the rules are and it didn't matter that you're overmatched but you didn't back down from a direct challenge.

Words traveled fast. By nightfall, boys from other areas milled around after hearing about boxing matches. What else was there to do? We had to show them our hospitality, right?

Fights ensued. We matched up and in my first fight I held my own. I was quite skinny but my hands were quick. I overwhelmed my opponent with a barrage of punches. Jab, straight, right and left hook, uppercuts. He had no other choice but to hold his hands pathetically in defense and I dug under his ribcages and he folded. A textbook beating. My father was beaming.

My oldest brother also suckered punch his foe. A phantom left hook that sent his opponent eating dirt (He's got a strong left hook, which I personally tasted during one of our pretend fights. Rattled my damn brain inside my skull).

Those times were fun and I slowly earned a reputation as a thinking boxer. Boys knew of me, look me down over and thought they could take me. I always oblige. Looking back, my strategy was faulty. My fight plan was to come in fast and strong, knowing the first instinct of an novice fighter was to put his hands up to defend the face and with his gloves up his eyes, he was practically blind and I had the edge. That strategy, however, has one flaw: with no training, I could only punch in short bursts before I get tired.

And so it was that a boy who lived on the coastline were pummeling the bejesus of all his opponents. His name was "Dalos" and he was supposed to have had some amateur training from some hotshot boxing trainer. He didn't talk much, letting his father chose the matchups for him. I saw him fight and he had a good defense while maintaining his balance. He utilized his jabs well and he had a mean straight. I thought he had no weakness, until I saw him fold after his brother whacked his ribcage. So that's it.

You might be wondering why I was interested in the way he fights. Well, you see, I knew at some point I would fight him. I was a little taller than him but remember about the fights matched up regardless of weight? well, this guy was ripped! (hardened by poverty no doubt, while I was a spoiled brat).

The inevitable happened. After days of putting off, I had to face this guy. I knew I was overmatched (he played organized boxing for God's sake!) but I had a game plan. I was going to fight him on the outside and concentrate on the body for I knew I could not hurt his granite face.
The referee (his father) gave the go signal. We circled and danced. He was putting his hands in defense, slowly stalking me. I jabbed, testing the distance between us. He flicked my jabs off like he would a bug. He stared at me from between his gloves, I jabbed again and this time, I threw in a left hook to his face and his sides. I heard him grunt and the next grunt I heard was mine when he caught me right in my smacker. Man, that hurt and I was incensed!

I moved in and gave him everything I got. I forgot about my fight plan and just heaved in a torrent of fists in his direction. If it had been a storybook ending, my quickness would have overcome his strength, buckled after a pummeling, and I would have ridden off towards the sunset with my winning gloves around my neck.

But this was no fairytale.

Instead of yielding, he punched back (which was not part of my game plan, you know) and punched some more. It was my turn to put my hands up in pathetic defense. I stepped back but He moved in for the kill. I didn't even see his punches but I felt every single one of them. One punched rocked my head so far back that I felt my eyes slamming at the back of my skull. It was a wonder how I remained standing.

I lost that fight and badly. I knew coming in that I was overmatched but I thought I could win with the right game plan and a dash of charisma. Lesson learned?

Underdogs don't always win because life ain't no Rocky movie.

ice water wrapper

Inside Piapi public market in boulevard, and I remember this clearly, four houses from the first corner, in a small alley next to the shabby booth selling tuba is a small house, but it was really more like a quarters. A one-room grimy little quarters with a huge blue cellophane (those used to wrap bananas) hanging at the door. Up to this day, I wondered what that blue cellophane was for. It was not only superfluous, it was downright gaudy. But this is not about the blue cellophane.

One Tuesday afternoon after our high-school classes we went to the house we've been interested in for quite some time. Four boys with hormones seeping out of our ears. That day, some of us were going to be men. Weeks before, one of my friends who lived in Piapi has been bragging about scantily-clad women going in and out the alley nearby. He attested to one of his neighbor's (who was supposed to have visited the alley and came out rather satisfied) experience about getting some action for a small fee. As best as we could figure out from the way he told the story, the price for a lay with one of the scantily-clad women there was practically a giveaway.

We pooled whatever resources we had and came up short of 250 pesos. Not bad, we thought.
So we hied off to the house, our hearts beating fast, knees quaking, our eyes darting warily for
any familiar faces that could foil our plans.

At the end of the alley, beside the shabby booth selling tuba, are two adjacent houses. A blue-colored cellophane hanging at door of one house while the other one sports a fashionable white cellophane. Must be color-coded, I thought. Indeed, there were scantily-clad women sitting on the bench between the two houses. We cautiously approached one of the girls, while two tough-looking men standing nearby eyeballed us suspiciously.

She was accommodating. Her teeth were, at least, complete. Of course, if she had broken into pidgin English and said "Me love you long time," that would be the perfect moment. Instead, she asked: "Kinsay virginan nato sa inyoha?" Everybody got a kick out of that one. The tough-looking men included. We, however, were visibly embarrassed. The friend who invited us there took it upon himself to defend whatever dignity we had left and asked: "Tagpila man diay?"

The girl, she was about our age I think. replied: "P400 isa ka babae pwede na."

Well, that wasn't as cheap as advertised. Our money certainly did not reach P400. We declined and were to go somewhere else when she called to us. "Dong, sulod na lang mo diha sa pikas balay. Tanaw na lang mo bold," she said, pointing to the house with the blue cellophane suspended menacingly. We looked at each other and shrugged. We got the money and were extremely horny, a deadly mix.

We went in. The fee was 10 pesos. The man at the door collected 44 pesos for the four of us. We asked what the 4 pesos was for and he said it was for the ice water wrapper. We looked at each other, utterly confused, but I took the ice water wrapper nevertheless. My friends followed suit. We went into the single room where the showing was supposed to take place. The porno movie was still in the old betamax format. Eager faces of boys, some younger than us, looked up at us while holding tightly to their ice water wrapper.

The betamax player started to whirr. Images started to play on the TV screen. I forgot the title but it was a hilarious spoof of the Alladin story. This guy found a lamp housing a genie who gave him three wishes. Of course, he wished for girls and more girls. For lack of imagination, the producers made up for inundating the movie with naked and willing women. I forgot how many pussies I counted on that movie.

I watched entranced. The other boys started whipping out their ice water wrapper and what they did afterwards made me forgot about the movie. The ice water wrapper, it turned out, was to prevent the boys from spilling all over the room. My friends, visibly aroused, took out their ice water wrapper. Awareness enveloped confusion. Knowledge is power.

I, on the other hand, capitulated. To my mind, it was already preordained and the blue cellophane was my witness.

Ice Cream

When we were kids, our father used to experiment with all kinds of amulets, incantations, talismans and any scheme that would supposedly give him superpowers. In each nook of our house, you would find little necklaces, about ½ inch in width and an inch wide. It was basically a red cloth sewn together, patently concealing a piece of paper inside which, of course, holds the magical Latin chant for invulnerability.

 

Perhaps a little background. I belong to a family of “machos,” where balls are held more in esteem than education. I heard tales of my lolo, along with his sons, brandishing their guns and storming villages taking over lands on sheer firepower; tales of brawling, of clan wars, and of women. You see, the myth is you’re not part of the family if you’re not a player. Our surname supposedly carries with it a certain charm that could cut through women’s panties, easily. Of course, I and my brothers bought into the myth and had our shares of scuffles and women. In fights, the rule is: defend your brother or relative and ask questions about who started the fight later.

 

Anyway, it is in this context might we understand my father and uncles’ preoccupation with amulets. They are not exactly popular for their generosity.

 

One particular memory that’s etched into my mind was when my father and uncles had a ritual performed at our living room. The ritual would allegedly render them invincible to bullets. Tying a red bandana with strange markings around their head, they first formed a circle to ask for divine guidance, then with a jungle bolo, slashed through their limbs and trunks with no more than a red welt. My brothers and cousins witnessed the whole spectacle and our impressionable minds were, well, impressed.

 

I remember one time when my two elder brothers and I stole one of the red necklaces and tore off the cloth to look at what’s inside. It was nothing more than a bond paper with strange triangular shapes and doodle of an eye but we were not disappointed because the unfamiliar language made it seem mysterious and real. We fought for the right to hold the amulet and my elder brother earned that right because his fists said so.

 

We pestered our father into giving us superpowers, too, for why should only he be the superhero?

 

One day, our father called us three in the backyard to teach us a spell to make us stronger. With all seriousness and barely a whisper that we had to strain to hear his words, he revealed, syllable by syllable, the secret and ancient chant that could summon the gods into possessing you in times of crisis:

 

“EE SEE KREE AM POR SA LEE HE REE”

 

With a pregnant pause and as we stared agape, he added quickly.

 

“REG FIL PAT OF”

And with that, he went off to work.

 

We were thrilled and couldn’t wait to try off our newfound powers. This was the days of the kung-fu movies. Imported Chinese movies dubbed in English with titles such as Drunken Master, Shaolin vs. Ninja, Animal Kung-Fu, Shaolin Fist and other ignominious titles. But we loved those movies and right after each film in the old Betamax tapes, my brothers and I ran off outside to mimic the moves.

 

What they didn’t know was that I memorized the incantation and repeat it in my head before each of our confrontation. I had it down pat. You chant the mantra and don’t forget the pregnant pause. That brief gap must have been important and part of the mantra for my father to pause like that.

 

It didn’t work. I got beat up each time.

 

It was only later I found that EE-SEE-KREE-AM POR-SA-LEE HE-REE really stood for "ICE CREAM FOR SALE HERE."

 

And REG FIL PAT OF? Well, that was the small print you see in Coca-Cola billboards. Reg. Phil. Pat. Off.

Registered Philippine Patent Office.

 

Bummer.

The dwarf below

 Would the demotion of Pluto have greater repercussions on astrology?

Before astronomers decided to downgrade the tiny rock as a dwarf planet, Pluto ruled over Scorpio in the zodiac signs. Definitely, those born under the Scorpio sign feel they got the raw end of the deal — they have a dwarf for a ruler.

That’s not exactly good for your self-esteem, isn’t it?

Pluto according to western astrology symbolizes death, rebirth, sex, evolution, and “the breakdown of psychological blocks that prevent evolutionary growth.” That statement used to be profound but when you take it into context the new category of Pluto as a dwarf planet, it now seems funny. Apparently, these psychological blocks were responsible for Pluto’s present height, or lack thereof.

And would the symbols that Pluto supposedly represents drop their value? Would death now be reduced to unconsciousness? Would sex be a disappointment? Would evolution slow up? Or plainly stunted?

In mythology, Pluto or Hades was the god of the underworld. Brother to Zeus and the overall judge of the dead. In the old times, people were afraid to even mention his name for fear that they might attract his attention and kill them. Black sheep were often slaughtered and offered to him as a sacrifice.

Pluto was also known as a merciless god because mortals who happened to enter the Underworld could never hope to return. With the collective decision of the astronomers, Hades lost his status as a formidable and fearsome god.

Now, he just seems cute. (awww…)

Theory of relativity

Digging into my pockets yesterday, I realized I only have P85.00 and change left. How much P85.00 would buy?

I remember when I was in Tawi-tawi island, writing about one of the projects of a company known for promoting corporate social responsibility.

We arrived there about 2:00 p.m. and so we went off to the market for our dinner that night. Their public market was anything but orderly. The sheer volume of the crowd made it almost necessary to walk shoulder to shoulder with a stranger. To my left was an old woman, a turban on her head and a cigar on her mouth, almost a caricature of herself.

The smoke from her cigar burned my nostrils and I couldn’t look away because the guy to my right looked like he could skin me alive without breaking a sweat.

There we were, in single file. My hands on the shoulders of the local contact in front of me, my companion’s hands were on my shoulders. Like three-year olds, treading an imaginary line. To this day, I couldn’t remember how we made it out of there with vegetables, imbao (shellfish), and kuracha (sea centipede) and fresh isda sa bato in hand.

Our expenses for the feast? A mere P85.00 and change.