A Demented Mental State

I heard one say that the SONA ought to be delivered in Filipino, particularly in these dire times when all we can afford is a bad joke. For the most part, it stands for good reason. You want to tell the people the state of the nation, you do so in a language that they can perfectly understand. Of course, that's not to say that the things you declare before the podium are as real as syringe is to skin. That's another story. To say the least, you want to be heard, you might as well do so in a way that the essence, or the lack thereof, of your farcical ecstasy is readily siphoned by the masses. To talk with a tongue entirely different from what the rest of the country has is to shroud your message more and more to the point of irrelevancy, or obscurity.

What can I say? If she is neither irrelevant nor obscure, then I do not know what else is.

It was a taxi driver who gave that insight. He said, among others, that the whole point of addressing the nation about its current state is to let the people truthfully know the things that they badly need to know. The point is to let us know in a way that we understand what we do not yet know. Which is that this country is being paraded as a formidable force able to stand the onslaught of the crises and yet its people can barely feel the trickles of sunshine. Which is that this country is being dressed like a Sultan when all the while its people are as barren as the emperor's new clothes—invisible to the point of nothingness. Which is that this country is being driven like a glorious ship pushing forth the tides to its sides when all the while we wallow at the first sight of hunger and depression, sinking deeper than the Marianas, plummeting headfirst to its depths with no sign of resiliency and resistance.

But of course, those are as axiomatic as the basic truths that we are told and taught in earlier years, which the taxi driver readily admitted upon taking notice that he was just the one inside the vehicle nodding to his own ideas. He might have said it in jest, but nobody laughed or let a smile escape from the crevices of their teeth. He later exclaimed that even young kids these days can effortlessly identify the hapless conditions plaguing this nation of equally mad people. I do not know if I have to be frightened or delighted at the thought of having children know the face of despair whenever they see one of its human incarnations. Just the thought of it makes one wonder how come older people can barely tell. The monsters in this archipelago tirelessly smile down from their ivory towers, jeering at us like undertakers with shovel on one hand and whiskey on the other, and yet most of us, the presumably "mature" citizens, can only shrink before the ungodly sight, with knees trembling and eyes closed. As to whether they do it with legs wide apart, that's something else. But going back, part of these children's seemingly cunning skill at pinpointing the weed from all the rest may have something to do with innocence, the one thing that has become rarer than kindness these days. They know not how to muster and master the deceitful ways of survival, of fighting tooth and nail just to cling to what little is left of this life, and yet they can tell with pinpoint accuracy what is wrong in an already wretched system.

It seems that language is not really the crux of the matter, although it too plays a pivotal role in the expression or suppression of what needs to be told. It's not exactly or entirely the language that pushes some of us back to the lonely cabinets of apathy. It is the refusal to know the wrongs and seize them by the neck until they wither like fallen leaves. It is the absence of a reasonable mind or the self-inflicted deprivation of sensible morals. It is the drought of the conscience. We want to change the world but hardly do we ever begin to change our selves. We want to transform the country into a shining beacon but hardly do we ever begin to allow our sensibilities to luster. Never mind luster when all we need is lust. Right?

Wrong. Well, except maybe for Gloria and Mike. Who knows how much lust they have for seeing everything else as stimuli for erection and wet dreams.

Whether or not the SONA is delivered in Filipino, there is no point in staging that address anyway. In the first place, we were given statistics and graphs that do not mean a single organic fertilizer. Those things mean nothing to the family taking shelter in a forgotten wasteland right smack in the heart of the metropolis. Those things mean nothing to the eldest daughter or son who bears the full weight of feeding six mouths or more. Those things mean nothing to a nation of people who are in want. Those things serve to teach us that what we can visualize we cannot hold with the grip of our hands. Those things serve to impress, or at least appease, the diplomats and to those whom we borrow billions annually so that we can borrow again. Those things serve to gratify those who keel on their heels atop mounds of gold.

It's not a state of the nation address. It's just a state of mind. A demented one at that.

Continue here

Exhilarating, Excruciating

Two words. Exhilarating and excruciating. Or make that exhilarating yet excruciating, which then becomes a whole phrase.

The wind and rain of the tropical storm went from almost every direction conceivable. We had to wakeup quite early, or very early, for we were to fetch a package from the province. Waiting for the bus to arrive, which was no less than a test of patience in itself, my brother and I knew the ordeal wasn't going to be easy.

We were right.

For one, the package to be delivered was, well, delivered by bus. Our father saw to it that the computer monitor was in our hands the soonest time possible. He had to request for the bus driver to take the package with him, or in his bus, whatever, to Quezon City all the way from Naga City. Of course, our father had to give the driver a few cash as a form of token for taking care of what could have been a time-consuming and gut-wrenching long distance travel, which I think it truly was. And so, after almost a full hour of waiting, perhaps even two, the bus finally arrived at EDSA-Kamuning. Needless to say, our clothes were almost wet all-over by the time we had in our hands the box that we waited for. Isang was merciless, not the least because the storm made certain we won't be coming home dry. Despite the jacket and the umbrella, the damp wind effortlessly brushed us from top to toe. The bus station had a roof wide enough to cover six buses lined side-by-side, but it was barely sufficient to provide the needed protection from the storm's onslaught. All things being equal, not one soul was spared then and there, even the inanimate ones. The cigarette I was smoking and the cup of warm coffee I was enjoying were easy victims. The first cigarette easily fell prey while the second was nowhere near fortunate enough, as it did for the third and fourth. I must have lost count.

For consolation, the experience was exhilarating, for rarely these past few years have I been able to bear witness to in full flesh this display of natural force. You get stuck in Quezon City right before rush hour kicks in and right at a time when you hope that PAGASA was wrong when it said that the rains aren't going to simply pass like a slight drizzle, you know very well that you're in the wrong place at the wrong time, especially so when all that you can do is to hold on to what little patience you have left and to wait for some thing to arrive. But it was exhilarating nonetheless. For someone who grew up in a province where Rosing and Monang are epic legends in their own uncanny ways, this is history all over again, or at least a faint semblance to it. For someone who trembles not at the news of an impending weather disturbance for having been exposed to more turbulent ones in earlier years, this is certainly not the worst of its kind, yet bad nonetheless.

But that's not the beef. The real shit is the second.

We had no other choice but to hail a taxi cab that will transport us back to our house in Balara with minimal interruptions. The weather showed no signs of taking a short break from its rampage. We cannot sacrifice the box for the sake of taking a cheaper but riskier route. You do otherwise and you risk as well the one thing you carry with you. Suffice it to say that my brother and I were able to convince one taxi driver to drop us off at this desolate, forsaken, and equally ridiculous place in the city. Which I like.

As soon as we hit East Avenue, I had the feeling that the man behind the steering wheel thinks that he is a god, or an immortal, a descendant of Zeus who is neither half-man nor half bacteria. He seized the wheel with not a hint of terseness in his face. Relaxed yet exuding that air of bravado, he swiftly changed gears as if he was in a hurry. Well, he appeared so. In fact, the music blasting out of the car speakers seemed to have fueled his senses, thumping his thumbs simultaneously with the classic beat. I did not know if his right foot was afflicted with the malady as well, for the car seemed to have been accelerating every time the music intensified to the point of climax.

We were literally cutting through one space to the next. For the driver, the small vacant stretch between our cab and the vehicle ahead of us was like a wide mile, giving him all the room to push on, overtake, and wait for another elbow room, then push on, overtake, and wait for another elbow room, repeating the same whole process throughout. We were not racing with time; it was still early and we were not going to an appointment. We were just about to go home. Neither were we racing with other cars. Or at least not me and my brother. The road was wet, splashing a jet of water at the sides each time one of the wheels zipped through shallow gaps filled with murky rainwater on the concrete pavement. The man cursed and cursed. He pounded the car horns with his bare fist as he did.

For all these, it was enough to force you to hope that there's a god, just in case the driver was demented enough to deliver us to fate or to kingdom come, whichever he preferred. At best, it was exhilarating just because I haven't had that feeling since roller coaster days, the types you see during town fiestas, rust and creeks and cracks and all. At worst, which I surmise it was all that throughout, it was excruciating, not the least because my brother and I almost felt like we were riding an ambulance and we were on an emergency of some sort that the driver only knew for himself. A tranquilizer could have served him best if he had one, and I would have been more than glad to stick it up his ass. We did not ask him.

I almost felt like a changed man after stepping out of that cab.

Continue here