Four Seasons

November formally lands boiling over with questions on faith in God. Since I had written a couple of religious stuff in the previous issues of this paper, I rummaged through one of the products of my early glorious moments at writing and thought of publishing a non-sequitur-like entry such as this. Action without faith, is it enough? To do good and not evil; is it a guarantee of getting a place up there in the vast kingdom of God? They say it is easy to be among the millions who are rejoicing in the heavens. They say that a place has already been set for us - a place surrounded by God’s infinite goodness. But can the grace be granted to those who are unprepared and undeserving individuals? There is a moral foundation of the universe that in every effect there is always a cause. In every action there is always a counterpart reaction. It equally applies to human beings. I presume in every religion you’ll hear that “as ye sow, shall ye reap.” We get what we deserve. We see ...

Brown-colored skin. That’s what I have. No trace of yellowish or white tints in me. Only pure brown, like I was baked to perfection, so to speak. With both parents having the lineage of the locally-bred mature generation, the product is a no more than a similar-looking life form. To translate it into percentage of blood, I am 100% Filipino. Although grandparents claim to acquire a certain fraction of blood from the Spanish conquistadores, there is no trace of that declaration evident on me. If there was indeed truth to that, I am inclined to believe that huge mosquitoes that linger in the Philippine forests had already sucked what insignificant amount of foreign blood I had. The pureness in me makes me ponder at how life would look or feel like had I been a son of a foreign national, say American national. In my country, there is some sort of partiality towards mixed blood individuals because they look much better than the normal, local-looking Indios. Lighter complexion, li...

"You are qualified to win the daily lotto, to join please text back......" I suspect that the number of text messages sent daily is growing very rapidly anywhere around the world. As per estimate, the sent rate is hundreds of billions per annum. With its wide coverage, text messaging has been the target of spammers, and text spamming is becoming a bigger problem than e-mail-based spam. For over a year of owning a phone in the U.S., there were only few instances that I received text spams from the network provider. This is in contrast to what David Lazarus said in his article for the San Francisco Chronicle that millions of SMS spams are circulating already in the U.S., of which younger cell phone users who send the most text messages are usually targeted. What's more, many cell phone subscribers face the double whammy of having to pay 10 cents for every text message received, whether read or unread, solicited or unsolicited. I see this problem as worldwide and ce...

I write about national issues and also about touching lives. This is about two of my Filipino friends, Sharon and Mimi. The oil-rich Saudi Arabia became Sharon's home right after her college graduation. As an entertainer in a foreign land, money fills her purse with no trouble at all when she belts out her songs like no other could. Today, she is as rich as the country she is working in. Mimi's talent has brought her to a far away place. I knew it the first time I saw her twist her waist gracefully in a local dance competition. Precisely so, she boogied herself to Japan. For money and family, she dances with pride. Sharon and Mimi dislike the Philippines for not having much to offer in regards to good jobs and compensation because of the apparently unending problems in the government. Abroad, surviving life may be hard for both; nevertheless, the price of aloneness is a long-lasting abundance. So why would I continue loving and enduring a country where friends think pov...

Who wants a date on Valentine’s Day? No, I do not want one. No need to beat around the bush, I abhor the day. When St. Valentine sent the first ‘Valentine’ greeting ‘From your Valentine’ during the third century, I have this idea he wasn’t after for an intimate love. Go google it. The greeting was for the daughter of a prison guard who constantly visited him in his prison cell after he was caught for not obeying or supporting the Emperor’s law on marriages. On the day he was sentenced to death, he left the note thanking the girl for friendship and loyalty. The note was about friendship. Valentine was a good priest and I deem he cannot allow himself to fall in love with a girl and abandon his holy vows. He was after for friendship alone. I ask, why do some people have to wear red or anything of that shade to attract potential partners on February 14th, when during this day of Valentine’s death he simply conveyed the message of appreciating our friends? I do not understand. The lack ...

What's wrong with him? What's with that slight cacophony in the way he moves nowadays? Every day, he senses a lovey-dovey cadence of delight he only felt in the comfort of a swing in the backyard back home. He is the composed gentleman. He is acutely aware that he is, at this moment, engaging in a world he never existed in so well. As you are about to read, he is on his way to dipping his toes into the relationship puddle after a significant bout of solitude. It's all because of Miss Eve. His heart has been lying dead for the past months. He could describe it as an organ that had lost its joie de vivre, the strength to possess that capacity to love. Yet, here comes Eve, pricks it with her smile and intoxicating giggles and a hip that sways to a rhythm she alone can create, and, without further elucidation, his heart realizes that there is life after death. Therefore, as he sees it, it began for both of them. Him and Eve, the girl he secretly admires (or maybe salivate...

It has been four days and everything looks a little beyond ordinary. Few books on my desk. The bag in a corner with one of its slings about to disintegrate after hours of clinging to a loose thread. Beddings arranged one on top of the other. The slick Vanguard tripod I brought hasn't been moved - its legs somewhat dusty. Some old pictures taped on the mirror and a couple of postcards posted on the wall. Two lonely chairs, the black metallic floor and the slightly opened door... Nothing is moving as if my Wecota Annex room is devoid of the slightest breath. In the flash of stillness, or the impassivity of almost everything, I play a different music in my mind of believing and not to. Believing that somehow a thing hidden somewhere in this room is not controlled by the momentary placidity. Not believing that nothing is moving. Believing that the bed lamp, glowing in its 60 watts bulb, providing a rather dim yellowish or could be golden light, being squared by a wooden two-deck bed ...