< hmmm... >

   When confronted with writer's block while blogging, you write about blogging.

   There was a time that the blog was heralded as the "alternative" to newspapers, and that bloggers are "alternative journalists."  "Herald" (OK, the past tense) is an understatement: I've been a blogger long enough to know that this was part of the hype that surrounded the promise of blogging.  Which is a nicer way of putting into words what's really on my mind: "alternative newspaper," my ass.

   Since I mentioned the human ass, I'm not saying that newspapers are substitutes for toilet paper: but if you crumple it just so to soften it enough and run it quickly through running water, it works fine (after all, you have to heat a banana leaf to make it soft and pliable).  Paper has been around for centuries: there's no substitute for it.  The e-book and the Adobe PDF didn't replace the book as much as blogs didn't replace newspapers.  The Philippine Daily Inquirer is still there (and the past month's issues piling up again under the space where the aquarium is at home) even with Inquirer.net.

   In the 1960s, Alvin Toffler wrote "Future Shock," and laid down the foundations of the "sociology of the future."  Toffler's work spawned so many ideas about the "futuristic" world: we went back to Jules Verne, and we nerds gamble on the accuracy of Arthur C. Clarke's futuristic predictions.  We're still not at that point where we mastered artificial intelligence, artificially created non-carbon based life forms or created a race of sentient cyborgs with sophisticated sentience ready to destroy us all.  Even the antihumanistic "postmodern world" has yet to materialize: to echo Lyotard, at most and definitely not the very least, we are living in a "postmodern condition."

   Even the way we make sliced bread never changed: we still use this sharp edged steel object called a "knife," or some variant thereof.  Those who watch "Spongebob Squarepants" would probably know that "canned bread" is health food that Squidward Tentacles likes, but I doubt that will even kick off a revolution in the sale and consumption of bread.  Bread Stix is not "bread" per se, but a powdered form of "bread."

   I sometimes delude myself into thinking that in order to change the world, we don't really have to change politics and culture, nor do we have to engage in lengthy debates (particularly with French academics) about the foundations of (Western) metaphysics.  It all begins with finding something better than sliced bread, in the literal sense.  I'm not talking about gourmet baguettes or if Mr. del Rosario of Sunshine Supermarket here in Baguio spreads the gospel of Sunshine Raisin Bread all throughout the four corners of the globe (using a Mercator projection), but even that is sliced.  If anyone makes an exceptionally successful way to eat bread without using a knife or any other edge, we changed the world.

   Really, the "revolution" in eating bread consists of only one step: from breaking bread, we sliced it.  Obsessing ourselves with these "revolutionary" narratives of changing the way we perceive the world has led us to believe in the grand narrative of "changing the system."  We get a lot of our news in pretty much the same way it has been done since the invention of the printing press: by reading a newspaper.  The same is true with society: with all this talk of "resistance" and "revolution," we always seek the green grass on the other side.  But if Ginger Foutley (the main character in "As Told By Ginger") is right, from where I'm standing, my grass is green.

   I'm not saying that we can't change the world: all I'm saying is that "changing the world" means to get at the very root, at the very axis, at the very foundations of what makes up our world.  Sliced bread is a good place to start.  Call me delusional, but if we get around finding something better than sliced bread, we are all on our way to solving global warming and preventing the extinction of our species.

   As far as the blog being the "alternative newspaper" is concerned, we still haven't got a better material to wrap tinapa with.

< i'm such a sap >

   People usually know me to be a "writer" of essay-like pseudo-articles, but there was a time I dabbled in theater.  Seven years ago today, I made my first "major theatrical production:" a (cough) high school musical, a rendition of Aeschylus' classical Greek drama, "Prometheus Bound."

   Most of my high school classmates remember the "West Side Story" production more than "Prometheus Bound:" if anything, there's more fun in watching the dance routines of the Jets and the Sharks than to watch a rehashed version of the most overused story in Greek literature.  I can't say that I'm very proud of "Prometheus Bound," but I can't say that I'm ashamed of it either.  It was, after all, my very first play.

   The idea for "Prometheus Bound" came when our junior English teacher, Mrs. Raquel Luna, offered our class (III-Silver) a "special project" to capitalize on our "talents."  At that time, I was just kicked out of the Special Science sections for calling my Biology teacher a "horse," and I was really not accepted into the inner circles of my new class.  An idea of a play was raised: the only question was that nobody really knew how to go about it.

   My friend Andrew Santos, who was also a new student, offered the idea of a Japanese-themed play based on the "Lord of the Five Rings" trading card game.  It didn't really click, though: it was not a bad story, but it takes someone raised on animé and "Dungeons and Dragons" to understand the fable of Yoritomo.  In all my timidity, I raised the idea of a Greek-themed play: the story of a Greek god who stole fire from the heavens to give to the mortals.  Everyone liked it, but I didn't: after all, since it was my idea, I had to write the script.

   Andrew handled the art direction and the props: being an excellent artist, he really did a very good job with the background and the other stuff needed to make the play possible.  I was tasked with the unenviable task of writing the script from scratch and at the same time, I was also to direct the play.  I was dealing with 68 people I barely knew: 68 people who all had to be in the play because everyone had to have a grade.  I had the feeling they didn't like me either: after all, who would take directions from a reject from those uppity, privileged students in the advanced curriculum?

   Not being liked by 68 people is one thing, but when you have them memorize their lines and ask them to put a bit of effort in the play for the grade that's in it, "not being liked" becomes an underestimation.  I gave in around the second week of practice: people started complaining that it was "useless," that that play was "nonsense," and that despite all my efforts, I was not doing a good job.

   I would have quit right then and there, but then I realized where they were coming from.  I realized that some of them can't practice until the early evening because they had chores to do, that they had to help out with their families, that they really had problems of their own outside of a school play.  I realized that their negativity with the play came with life being negative towards them: that the way things are going, they'd always be rejected, that they will always be second best.  I thought I had problems when I got kicked out of the Science sections, but boy, was I wrong.

   Somehow, I realized that if anything, I was going to have to be a Prometheus to this bunch of second-best rejects: to steal the proverbial fire from the proverbial gods.  Students from the Regular sections don't get to perform in school plays, much less in crowded city auditoriums.  Nobody was letting anyone down: this was a shot at showing the world, and letting the world see.

   No, play date didn't turn out like the "Mr. Holland's Opus" thing we were all expecting: we played to a cold, indifferent crowd, our performance deemed half-assed by self-styled Siskel's and Ebert's.  I didn't care, Andrew didn't care, and 68 people in that stage didn't care either.  In the end, this bunch of second-best rejects welcomed me into their inner circle.

   We don't talk about "Prometheus Bound" whenever we come together for a reunion: it's something best left on the shelf in favor of mocking our teachers, of truths-or-dares, of laughing our hearts out whenever we think of those days gone by.  I think the lot of them even forgot about it... nah, I don't think so.

   But every time I meet an old classmate, I remember exactly what role they played in "Prometheus Bound:" whether they were Muses, a Greek deity, Prometheus, or vulture.  Often, whenever I see them, I get reminded of the real message of the Prometheus legend: not even the gods can take back the fire when it starts burning from within.

< oh please oh please oh please >

   Guys and gals, I never asked you for anything that cost you.  Nobody pays for a reading of The Marocharim Experiment save for your Internet expenses (prepaid cards, electricity, rental fees).  I never asked for anything from you other than a few minutes of your time to read what I have to write, to listen to what I have to say.  I don't get paid for writing here: in fact, I pay for writing here.  I choose to forego the niceties of eating out at a nice place or to add to my mounting bill of vices to write for you: to hypothesize, to test, to conclude.

   Some of my friends say that I could do a lot more than to write on free blog-hosting services.  The truth is, I can't really afford it: I still get my allowance from my parents, and like I said earlier, I never earned a single solitary cent from what I've written here.  I quit trying to "cash in:" somehow, the best thing I could give the world is what I can give it for free.  I can't afford Marocharim.com.

   Marocharim.com is not my dream: the Marochaholics have clamored for me to make Marocharim.com a reality.  The idea is to buy my own domain and spread the cybernetic gospel to the world, freed from the constraints of free blog hosting services.  However, as with everything, this costs money: I'm not about to plop down a thousand pesos of my parents' money to realize the project of Marocharim.com.

   Here's where YOU come in.  Join the cause for Marocharim.com.

   The other day, I wrote an entry called "Pista ng Wikang Filipino/The Spectacle of the Filipino Language," an entry for the Wika2007 Blog Writing Contest.  The prize for winning this contest is a few thousand pesos and a one year free domain registration and a one year 100 MB hosting.  If my entry wins, we all get the chance to realize the dream of Marocharim.com.  Forget the money: this is a free website we're talking about.  It's not just mine, it is also yours.

   So why am I groveling here on my figurative hands and knees?  It's rather simple, really: I need YOUR help.  I could get around blogging for free for the rest of my life, but free blog hosting services don't last forever.  The truth is, I can't afford to buy my own domain: there are just so many things in life that need more financial attention to than a website.  This is a chance for me to give the world a simple gift of words and ideas beyond what I can already do here.

   Join the cause: simply go to the PinoyBlogoSphere.com website and follow the link to the Wika2007 Blog Writing Contest.  There, among so many entries to this contest, you will find the single Marocharim experiment that took me a full week to write (against TMX rules, where you should write everything under an hour), entitled "Pista ng Wikang Filipino/The Spectacle of the Filipino Language."  From there, follow the links to read the entry, and if you think that I've done enough to merit a vote from you (or if you're a compassionate heart who would like to help a struggling writer in a dream of giving the world a simple gift of words and ideas), vote for the entry.  Don't forget to register, though.  It's as simple as that.

   Tell your blogging friends.  Spread the word, that they may also join in the cause.  Time is against us: we only have until August 25, 2007 to vote.  What's in it for you?  I can't make promises of giving you money or include your name in TMXSix the e-book or whatnot, but this I swear upon my name: I will continue to give you what you came here for.

   Join the cause.  Let me stand on your shoulders (or at least vote for my entry), that we may see further: that indeed, this is the science behind The Marocharim Experiment, and if it does happen, Marocharim.com.

< whoa >

   I'm going on record in saying that Bohol Gov. Erico Aumentado is a dickwad.  By "dickwad," I don't mean that as an all-too-common cursory expression: I mean that if anything, a good metaphor for Aumentado is that of a male tampon.

   Because Rey "Boom-Boom" Bautista lost his match against Daniel Ponce de Leon, the proposed cementing of the road in his village of Can-uling in Candijay, Bohol, will not push through.  Apparently, Aumentado promised Boom-Boom that he will only cement the provincial road running through his village if and only if Boom-Boom won his fight.  Boom-Boom lost, and the loss also cost his village a lifeline and a promise to national development.  Never mind that Boom-Boom lost: I don't know why Aumentado would even gamble on national development.

   To me, the term "trapo" (or "traditional politician;" derived from the Filipino term for "dishrag") is overused.  I can understand "trapos:" if anything, I'd rather vote for a "trapo" than a neophyte snot-nosed politician, for all the experience a "trapo" has in the Philippine political arena.  But I have yet to hear of a "trapo" who did the same thing Aumentado did: "trapos" will name infrastructure projects after their kin, and perhaps skim out a few million pesos out of their pork barrel funds to add to next elections' campaign coffers.

   Aumentado, on the other hand, is a dickwad.  Maybe I'm a bit too harsh, but I don't know what's harsher: to call people names, or to deny people the promise to improve their lives just because someone among them lost a boxing match.

   Somebody give me Aumentado's e-mail: I'll send him cotton balls.

< oh man >

   A few days ago, I wrote about the sad state of what passes for "investigative journalism" in this country.  Especially those "undercover sting operations" shown on Saturday evening "news exposé" programs.

   I came home last night to the tune of Julius Babao in "XXX" narrating this "surveillance video" from a strip joint somewhere in Quezon City, where the floor show highlights a woman smoking a cigarette through her genitals.  This is what passes for "crime" in the Philippines nowadays: again, there's a strip joint somewhere in Quezon City, where the floor show highlights a woman smoking a cigarette through her genitals.

   This might be one of them "talent night" things in strip joints.  I don't frequent nightclubs as much as I should given my age and my marital status (22 and single), but handstands, splits, and maybe a rendition of an Aegis song while doing the handstand or the splits can get a bit stale around the third Saturday of the month.  "Shower shows," or those nights where you pay to watch a dancer take a bath onstage (and pay extra to soap and lather the dancer), can get a bit boring at times.  The novelty of stripping wears off quite quickly, considering that 99% of the time, you'll end up with a naked woman onstage.

   But smoking through your genitals?  I've read more than my fair share of the works of the Marquis de Sade, and I don't recall anything that strange even in something already as perverse as the 120 Days of Sodom.  I don't even have an idea of how you can smoke a cigarette through your genitals: it's nowhere near possible with men, but I have a faint idea of how it's possible with women.

   With this faint idea in mind, let me explain what smoking is: smoking is to inhale potentially toxic substances found in plant leaves suitable for smoking (the verb is not limited to tobacco, but I'm not condoning anything here) through organs of respiration.  For all I care, you can smoke a cigarette through your nose, after you get around the initial irritation.  Unless your fallopian tubes are connected to your windpipe, there's just no way you can smoke through your vagina.  It's not smoking, by its strictest definition: basically, you're just holding smoke in.

   I'm no feminist, but I don't see anything particularly wrong with stripping: it's still a living.  Stripping routines are things I leave to the subjectivity of men (by "men" I mean the engendered sense of the word): it's all a matter of preference, or to use the term loosely, a matter of différance.  I'm not at liberty to judge how erotic such an act of smoking is.

   But if anything, this is the state of Philippine "investigative journalism" today.  To those of you who smoke cigarettes through any other orifice in your body (like your ear, for example), I suggest you quit now before the "investigative journalists" of this decrepit nation bust you in an undercover sting.

< orihinal na filipino >

Pista ng Wikang Filipino

   Kadalasan, sa ganitong paraan natin ipinagdiriwang ang "Buwan ng Wika:" magsusuot tayo ng barong at salakot, baro at saya.  Magluluto tayo ng bibingka, magbabalot ng suman.  Maghahanap tayo ng pagkarami-raming kawayan: magbubukod tayo ng ilan para sa tinikling, ang isa'y papahiran natin ng langis para sa palo sebo, at ang nalalabi ay puputulin natin para gumawa ng aparato para sa pabitin.  Sa loob ng isang linggo ng Agosto, o kung di man sa mga Biyernes ng Agosto, lahat ng ating kurso ay itinuturo sa wikang Filipino.

   Maraming nagsasabi na hindi sapat ang isang buwan para ipagdiwang ang wikang Filipino.  Ngunit sa aking palagay, sa tuwing sasapit ang Agosto, madalas na ipinagdiriwang natin ang salitang Filipino, at hindi ang wikang Filipino.  Madalas na ang Buwan ng Wika ay isang selebrasyon ng bukabularyo: ang pag-unawa natin sa ating sariling wika ay limitado lamang sa nilalaman ng diksyunaryong Filipino, sa mga kumbensyon ng balarila, at sa isang linggong tagubilin na ituro ang mga kurso sa paaralan "sa wikang Filipino."

   Ngunit limitado ang ganitong pag-unawa: ikinakahon ang wikang Filipino sa isang sistema ng pananalita, sa isang paraan ng komunikasyon.  Madalas na ang wikang Filipino ay limitado sa mga limitasyon ng pagsasalin, sa pagiging bukambibig lamang.  Sa panahon na isinusulat ko ang sanaysay na ito, sumasangguni ako sa isang diksyunaryong nagsasalin ng Ingles sa Filipino: aminado akong limitado ang aking kasanayan sa pagsusulat sa aking sariling wika.  Si Rizal na mismo ang nagsabi: higit akong sanay sa wikang banyaga (Ingles), kung kaya't higit pa ang amoy ko sa malansang isda.

   Dumanak ang dugo at buhay ang itinaya upang tayo ay magkaroon ng sarili nating wika.  Dumanas ang wikang Filipino ng pagkarami-raming isyu ng pulitika upang maging ating pambansang wika.  Nagbabago ang wikang Filipino upang sumabay sa mga pagbabago ng kultura at kasaysayan.  Kung tutuusin, ang wikang Filipino ay siya na ring nagsisilbing kulturang Filipino: ano man ang mga pagkakaiba natin bilang mga rehiyon, bilang mga katutubo/grupong etniko, kaibahan sa kasarian o antas natin sa buhay, ang wikang Filipino ang siyang nagbubuklod sa atin.  Ang wikang Filipino ang siyang pangunahing pamantayan ng pagiging isang Pilipino.

   Ngunit kasabay ng pagbabago sa kultura at kasaysayan ang "globalisasyon" at pagbabago sa pagtingin sa wikang Filipino.  Sa isang "globalisadong" mundo na Ingles ang siyang "wika ng komersyo at kalakalan," nakalulungkot na isipin na hindi na tinitingala ang wikang Filipino: kadalasang mas may prayoridad ang kahusayan sa Ingles kaysa sa kahusayan sa sariling wika.  Kadalasang "tunog-mayaman" ang Ingles, na ang kahusayan dito ay puhunan at susi tungo sa pag-unlad ng sarili at ng bayan.

   Ngunit ang ganitong pag-unawa sa wika ang isa sa mga pinakamalaking problema ng wikang Filipino: ang pagtalakay sa wika bilang isang bagay na walang buhay o kabuluhan, bilang isang materyal na konsepto.  Para sa akin, ang wika ay hindi lamang isang koleksyon ng samu't-saring mga salita na ginagamit ng isang grupo ng mga tao sa isang lugar o panahon.  Ang wika ang siyang pagpapakahulugan ng kultura o isang manipestasyon ng kultura.  O kung hindi man, ang wika ay hindi maiihiwalay sa kultura: maaari nating sabihin na ang wika ay kultura.

   Sa ganitong pagpapakahulugan, nagiging palaisipan sa akin kung bakit "pobre" at "masa" ang pagtingin sa wikang Filipino, at kung bakit sa tuwing sasapit ang Buwan ng Wika ay nagmimistulang may pista sa mga paaralan na kung saan talagang "ipinagdiriwang" ito.  Kung di man nakakatawa ay nakakabahala ang "pagdiwang" sa wika at kultura: hindi ito tumitigil sa tagubiling ituro ang mga klase sa wikang Filipino, kundi sa pagsusuot na rin tuwing Biyernes ng mga pambansang kasuotan tulad ng barong Tagalog at patadyong.  "Ipinagdiriwang" natin ang ating kultura sa pamamagitan ng paligsahan sa pagluto ng bibingka at suman.  May mga patimpalak sa kung sino ang pinakamagaling sa pagsasadula sa trahedya ni Sisa sa "Noli Me Tangere."  Dito rin natin makikita ang mga sari-saring sayaw tulad ng cariñosa, tinikling, pandanggo sa ilaw at iba pa, at may paligsahan pa nito.  Dito rin natin malalaman kung ano ba talaga ang pambansang ibon (maya ba o agila) sa mga quiz bee.  At pagkatapos ng pistang ito ay babalik muli tayo sa kulturang kolonyal: sa kulturang hindi atin, sa wikang hindi sariling atin.

   Totoong hindi nasusukat ang pagiging makabayan sa pagiging bihasa sa sariling wika.  Kung sa akin lamang, hindi ako nakabababang uri ng makabayang Pilipino dahil lamang hindi ako makapagsulat sa Filipino na walang disksyunaryong pansalin, o di kaya'y dahil hindi ako kumain ng bibingka at nagsuot ng salakot ngayong buwan.  Ngunit hindi rin nasusukat ang pagiging makabayan ng isang lipunan sa pamamagitan ng pagtatabi ng isang buwan o linggo sa kalendaryo para ipagdiwang ang kanyang sariling wika at sariling kultura.

   Para sa akin, ang Buwan ng Wika ay hindi panahon upang magsuot ng barong, magpakabusog sa suman o magpumilit na magsalita o magsulat sa baluktot at mala-librong uri ng Filipino.  Hindi ito panahon upang magnilay-nilay kung bakit si Manuel L. Quezon ang nasa dalawampung piso at hindi si Lope K. Santos.  Hindi ito pagdiriwang ng mga salita sa talasalitaang Filipino at kumbensyon sa balarilang Filipino.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng kultura.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng kasaysayan sa ating buhay.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng Pilipino.  Ito ay pagdiriwang ng wikang Filipino: isip ng Pilipino, salita ng Pilipino, gawa ng Pilipino, diwa ng Pilipino.

   Maraming nagsasabi na hindi sapat ang isang buwan upang ipagdiwang ang wikang Filipino.  Sang-ayon ako dito, kung di man dahil hindi natin sapat na ipinagdiwang ang wikang Filipino.  Nawa'y magsilbing tanda ang Buwan ng Wika na masyadong mayaman at matatag ang wikang Filipino, ang kulturang Filipino - at ang Pilipino mismo - para sa iisang buwan lamang.  Dahil sa lahat na ito, sigurado akong hindi limitado ang Pilipino sa isang balot ng bibingka, at ang kanyang yaman sa wika ay hindi nasusukat sa dalawampung piso na may mukha ni Manuel Quezon.

*      *      *

< english translation >

The Spectacle of the Filipino Language

   Often, this is how we celebrate "Buwan ng Wika:" we wear a barong and a salakot, a baro at saya.  We cook bibingka, we wrap suman.  We look for all lengths and kinds of bamboo: we take a couple lengths for tinikling, we grease one up for palo sebo, and cut up the rest to make a frame for pabitin.  For one week in August, or perhaps all Fridays of August, all our courses in school are taught in Filipino.

   Many people say that a month is not enough to celebrate the Filipino language.  But for me, August becomes a spectacle, a celebration of Filipino words, and not the Filipino language.  Often, Buwan ng Wika becomes a celebration of vocabulary: our understanding of our own language is limited to the words in a dictionary, the conventions of grammar, and the recommendation that for one week, school subjects should be taught "in Filipino."

   But this understanding is limited: the Filipino language is boxed into a system for conversation, a method of communication.  Often, the Filipino language is limited to the very limitations of translation, that it is a coherent utterance.  At the time I'm writing this essay, I consult from time-to-time with an English-Filipino dictionary: I admit to having a limited grasp in writing in my own language.  I take my cues from Rizal: since I'm more used with a foreign language (English), I reek more of the smell of rotting fish.

   Blood was shed and lives were put at stake that we may have our own language.  The Filipino language went through a gauntlet of politics to be our national language.  Filipino changes to go with the changes and dynamisms of culture and history.  Come to think of it, the Filipino language is itself constitutive of Filipino culture: whatever differences we may have in the way of regional identity, ethnicity, gender or economic class, the Filipino language binds us all in being Filipino.  The Filipino language becomes deterministic of what makes a Filipino.

   But with these dynamic changes in culture and history comes "globalization" and a change in the way we view the Filipino language.  In this "globalized" world where English is the "language of commerce and trade," it is quite saddening to think that we no longer look at the Filipino language with the same accord and esteem we did back then: often, there is a premium put in English skills and proficiency than skills and proficiency in the language of one's motherland.  Often, we look at English as "rich," that English skills are investments and are keys to self-development and national development.

   Understanding our language this way is one of the biggest hurdles confronted by the Filipino language: an understanding of language as lifeless, meaningless, as something inanimate and material.  For me, language is not a mere collection of different words used by a group of people in a point in time and a location in space.  Language is what defines our culture, much less what manifests our culture.  If not, language is inextricable from culture: we can even say that language is culture.

   Given this definition, it puzzles me why the Filipino language is seen as "poor" or "declassé," and why every time we celebrate Buwan ng Wika we are entreated to a spectacle: particularly in schools where we this is often "celebrated."  If there's nothing remotely funny about it, there is something bothersome about the spectacle of language and culture: it doesn't end with the recommendation to teach classes in the Filipino language, but it is further extended into wearing national costumes like the barong Tagalog and the patadyong on Fridays.  We "celebrate" our culture through cooking contests for bibingka and suman.  We hold contests on who acts out the best portrayal of the tragedy of Sisa in "Noli Me Tangere."  It is in this spectacle where we see our national dances like the cariñosa, the tinikling, the pandanggo sa ilaw, and others, in the form of dance contests.  It is here that we know what really is the national bird (is it the maya or the monkey-eating eagle) in quiz bees.  After this spectacle, this festival, we go back to our old colonial ways: we go back to a culture which is not ours, a language we cannot call - and never was - our own.

   True: nationalism and national pride cannot be measured in one's proficiency in one's own language.  In my case, I don't consider myself a lower form of a nationalist or that I have no pride for my country because I can't write in Filipino without a dictionary with translations, much less that I didn't eat my share of bibingka or wore my straw hat this month.  But nationalism and national pride for a people cannot be measured by setting aside a month or a week in the calendar to "celebrate" its own language and its own culture.

   To me, Buwan ng Wika is not the time to wear a barong, to stuff one's stomach full with suman, or to force one's self to speak or write in a crooked bookish kind of Filipino.  This is not a time to wonder and ruminate about why Manuel L. Quezon is in the 20-peso bill and not Lope K. Santos.  This is not a festival of words in the Filipino vocabulary and the rules of Filipino grammar.  This is a constant celebration of culture.  This is a constant celebration of history.  To celebrate Buwan ng Wika is to celebrate the Filipino.  This is indeed Buwan ng Wikang Filipino: the mind of the Filipino, the talk of the Filipino, made by the Filipino, the Filipino spirit.

   Many people say that a month is not enough to celebrate the Filipino language.  I agree: if only because we have not celebrated our language enough beyond the spectacle we have for it.  I hope that Buwan ng Wika serves as a reminder that our language, or culture - the Filipino people themselves - are far too culturally wealthy and culturally diverse for us to confine ourselves to a month of spectacular and superficial celebration.  For all this is worth, I'm quite sure that the Filipino is not limited to a bibingka wrapped in a banana leaf, and that the Filipino's wealth found in his/her language and his/her culture is not worth the 20-peso bill with Manuel Quezon's face.

< continuing the anthology >

   My travails into the world of thesis-writing has led me to believe that I am an antiestablishmentarian.  So says my old Philosophy professor, whom I consulted with a few days ago.  "Talking to you," he said, "gives me the impression that you're very much against structuralist thinking."

   My problem with much of structuralism and post-structuralism is that it is obfuscating: bastardizing theory into its most rudimentary and simplest arguments is one thing, but it all begins with understanding the theory first.  It is this requirement that makes structuralism so challenging: it is anything but simple reading.  I was just done with Gaytari Spivak's preface to her translation of Jacques Derrida's Of Grammatology, and I can confidently say that I still don't understand a damn thing.  I think a second reading of the 90-page preface is necessary before I engage in the reading of the actual text.

   My review of literature, in retrospect, is extremely horrifying to read: I'll take you to a reading of Edward Sapir at one point, and then I'll lead you to Roland Barthes.  In my home computer, I have appended a reading of Charles Taylor: philosophy students will laugh at the very idea of putting Barthes and Taylor in the same sentence, and then have the possibility of Derrida in it.  Of course, another teacher of mine recommends hermeneutics: which means I'm reading Spivak's preface (just the preface) and Hans-Georg Gadamer's Truth and Method tomorrow.

   Some of my friends are telling me that maybe I should slow down, and I'm taking it into account, only to go back home and look at so much work to be done.  This is, after all, science: continuous discovery is also continuous work.  Even the smoke-breaks I accord myself after a particularly harassing day of reading are spent in thought.  If anything, I experience a sense of fuflillment: that I've found completeness in the incompleteness of discovery.

   Or maybe I'm just doing something I happen to really, really like.

< oh the agony >

   Now a President can be "as strong as she wants to be," but I don't think it's right to make a show of this strength by disemboweling a smuggled Lamborghini with a backhoe.  I'm against smuggling and all, but I can't stand to watch a fine piece of post-Renaissance Italian art get wrecked under Presidential orders.

   I was watching government-run television this afternoon to watch government officials make a show of running construction equipment through their paces over BMW's and Porsche's, while the President watches.  This is part of a publicity stunt... I mean, effort in ridding the country out of smuggled goods: that this government has a zero-tolerance policy against smuggling.

   I'm all against smuggling, but I was almost at the verge of tears to watch such beautiful cars get destroyed.  I like cars: I am particularly obsessed with European sportscars that can outrun the venerable Sarao jeepney on neutral.  But then again, I'm just a lowly community taxpayer who has no say in the government because what I have to say will only be worth my taxes (I pay P5.00 in taxes every tax year).

   But it's a good thing that they didn't wreck the piéce de resistance in that Lamborghini.  I have a very soft spot for everything Lamborghini: especially the Countach, the Diablo, the Gallardo, and of course the Murciélago.  I come close to salivating whenever I race my beautiful silver-black Murciélago in the Need For Speed games.  I couldn't imagine a better car.

   So if that Lamborghini will be crushed, I implore: Madam President, spare that car.  Touch not a single wheel.

< ranting man >

   I was reading my friend Cindy's blog only to come across the outrageous story of a cancer patient being discharged from a public hospital on account that she can't pay her medical bills.  I don't know what "Stage IV cholangiocarcinoma" is, but it strikes me as a form of cancer.  A public hospital just released a dying cancer patient.

   Now I've heard of many hospital stories: I've heard of psychotics being released from the asylum because they lack money to pay for their medicines.  I've heard of doctors prescribing Paracetamol to every illness and disease.  When I did my research on public healthcare and food security for my Special Topics class, I was appalled at the sight of sick people almost convulsing in their rickety and rusty cots on the hospital corridors and charity wards, while entire suites and rooms were empty.

   The smell of a common bathroom in many a public hospital reeks of urine and feces, and for lack of water the tile is doused with bleach and antiseptic: prolonged exposure to the gases from the chemical reaction of alkaline chlorine and cleaning acid is fatal.  If my chemistry is right, you'd end up with chlorine gas, chloric acid and ammonia: two chemical weapons, and the active ingredient in fertilizers and improvised bombs.

   But to discharge an extremely sick cancer patient on account of having no money is borderline ridiculous.  We're talking about the life of a patient here: a life that could have been saved with chemotherapy or radiation therapy.  We talk about "rotten systems" in a lot of activist discourse: rottenness is often used to describe the system, but I think that there's something even more rotten about a system that allows you to rot.

   Call me an idealist, but I don't think our public healthcare system has no business turning away poor patients.  The health insurance system in the Philippines is bad enough as it is: the vast numbers of the uninsured poor can't be denied the inalienable right to good health and the equally inalienable right to life.  I don't consider myself an advocate of universal healthcare, but the state of healthcare in the Philippines pisses me off to no end: this is a place where you have to either avoid sickness altogether, or deny the fact that you're sick. 

   I take my cues from "John Q:" sick, help.  Sick, help.  When people are sick, they deserve a little help.  And in a country full of sick people, a little help goes a long way.  But if Cindy's cancer patient is proof of anything, even a little help is just too much to ask.

< hmmm... >

   We all know the story of the boxer and the fighter: when the fighter's punches proved stronger and rattled the boxer, the latter proclaimed, "I am leaving, I am leaving," but the fighter still remains.  The moral of the story is rather simple: if you lose, suck it up.

   I was watching "Wowowee" yesterday to watch Boom-Boom Bautista field out his tearful excuses for losing his match in the recently-concluded Philippines vs. Mexico Boxing World Cup.  Apparently, his hands hurt so much from the fight that he couldn't stand the pain, that's why he was the only boxer in the Filipino contingent to lose.  If we're going to buy into Boom-Boom's reasons, we can't blame him for losing: we can blame his loss on the pain in his fists.

   Very rarely do I agree with Willie Revillame, but he's right: no champion ever won all his fights.  Even Rocky Marciano, the heavyweight legend, lost a few fights on his way up the heavyweight championship of the world and became undefeated in his championship reign.  Legends like James Braddock, Barney Ross, Jack Dempsey, Joe Louis, Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali added to their legends by losing a few fights before they won them all.

   As a boxing fan, I'm one with the Filipino nation in consoling Boom-Boom for his loss.  But is he a champion in my eyes?  He could have been: if only he carried himself like a champion even in losing his fight.  Losing is one thing, but to make excuses for a loss is another.

   Unless Boom-Boom was screwed by the scorecards of incompetent judges who wouldn't know a straight hook from Captain Hook, then there is reason for him to make excuses.  Boom-Boom lost the fight fair and square: the match was called right down the middle and I'm sure he gave it all he had, healthy hands or bruised hands.  But sometimes, even all you have is not enough to win you a fight.  Boxing is all about determining who the better man is between two men wearing boxing gloves punching the daylights out of each other in a ring.  There is a winner or a loser in a boxing match: that's the way of the squared circle.

   I remember the first time I actually lost respect for Manny Pacquiao: there was a time that he blamed the loss of one of his fights on a pair of socks he bought abroad.  To Manny, the fibers on the inside of his socks bunched together and caused him to lose traction and grip on his feet, so he lost the match.  Manny's first commercial endorsement was for Darlington: a brand of socks that eliminates his "himulmol" problem.  Only an idiot would have bought into that excuse: no world champion before and after Manny Pacquiao ever blamed the loss of a fight to a pair of socks.  I think that Gabriel "Flash" Elorde would have rolled over in his grave to know that the successor to his belt and his legacy lost a fight because of a bad sock.

   As a boxing fan, I know that you wouldn't be put in a big-money fight if you're not talented.  You wouldn't be in a championship card if you don't have the makings of a winner.  It doesn't matter what gauge your boxing gloves are, what brand of socks you wear, how many advertisements are on your trunks, or how banged-up you are entering the ring to fight.  Winners and champions carry around golden belts in their waists and are carried high above the shoulders of their trainers and cornermen to bask in the glory of winning.  Losers exit, stage left.

   But like I said earlier, boxing is all about determining who the better man is.  You may not be the better man leaving the ring because you lost the fight, but you wouldn't be in that ring - and you sure as hell don't deserve to be in that ring - if you didn't have a reason to be the better man.  You win some and you lose some: that's just the way the story goes.  That's the way of the squared circle.

   I know from experience that losing sucks big time.  There's nothing worse than swallowing pride and eating humble pie.  But we all have to do it at one point or another in our lives.  But it all depends on how you eat your humble pie.  Some choke by eating theirs with their heads bowed low.  Some take too long to eat it.  Some delude themselves into thinking that it's another kind of pie, and some don't eat theirs at all.  I've eaten a lot of humble pie to know that there's only one good way to eat it: with your head up high, chewing and swallowing with a steady pace.  There's no way humble pie will taste good, and pride will always be a little too hard to get down.

   I would rather have it that the fighter in Boom-Boom Bautista was what I saw, and not the boxer of the old tale.  Boom-Boom lost, and there are no if's and but's about it.  Someday, those bruised and painful hands of his will heal and win him another fight, perhaps a championship.  But I'm sure that those hands didn't lose his last match either: I'm very sure that his opponent's hands also hurt like hell after that fight.