wind

With the rainy season here for real, Nikki and I experienced how fragile our umbrellas were.  Walking home from the office in the rain, powerful winds surged around us, flipping our umbrellas the wrong way.  We laughed as we attempted to shift our upturned brellies against the wind, all the while getting drenched.  In a matter of seconds, our attempts succeeded and we were once again in quest mode - to get home to our children before drowing as we giggled in the downpour like maniacs.

forty

And here I am, forty years old.

Growing up, this age seemed so infinitely distant, the domain of the elderly, and of course like all callow youth I thought I'd be young forever. But time is relentless, and with every year that breezes by I realize more and more how precious everything is. We act like everyday is a given, when in truth every day is a gift and we need to make the most of each one.

Do I feel any different from 39? No, not really. If anything, I actually feel empowered, like I suddenly crossed the threshhold into serious shit - but of course I get to bring what makes me me along for the ride, all my eccentricities (yes, I get to call my quirks that now).

I celebrated quietly, with family and friends, over lunch and dinner, books and conversation.

Andrew, Vin, Nikki, me, Kate and Alex

Thanks to everyone who wished me well - I appreciate your remembering!

Two of the most wonderful gifts I received (and I'm delighted to get more than my fair share from my girls and friends and family - salamat!) have me pumped early in the new year: a story sale to a Philippine antho edited by Ruey de Vera, and an invitation to be part of an international antho. Huzzah!

december

And just like that, it's December again. It's hard to imagine where all the time has gone, considering that it was quite a year for me, especially with a new daughter and concerns about the future because of economics.

Sometimes, the days slow to a crawl, and the longed-for weekend seems impossibly remote, and deadlines just keep coming.

But sometimes, the days whiz by, and when I try to remember what I did back whenever, all I get is a blur, as important things are reduced to routinary tasks leeched almost of meaning - paying bills, getting groceries, paying for school stuff.

But I love December. Apart from the cooling air and general sense of holiday cheer (we, as a people, are great at denial), it marks another year of happy partnership with Nikki. It's 13 years now, and through all the ups and downs of life, we've breezed through everything together. This year, we celebrated with dinner and small gifts, and episodes of True Blood.

Here's to my kakampi, now and always - wife, lover and best friend.

And here's to Sage, who wrote a story for her anniversary gift to us (making sure to make it bittersweet spec fic, just for me).

And, of course, to Rowan, whose smile slays my heart.

daughters

There's an old cliche that goes something like "Nakakatanggal ng pagod kapag makita mo ang mga anak mo paguwi galing sa trabaho". And while not 100% true (I'm still tired and sometimes doze off - it seems love can be soporific), I'm always happy to see my girls (siyempre, pati ang asawa). When I get home from work, we all sprawl on the big bed (careful not to crush the infant) and marvel at Rowan's desire to stand, at her powerful kicks, at the way she gazes out at the world and every new thing.

Sage loves holding her baby sister (though I must confess extreme anxiety when I see her walking around the house with Rowan in her arms - natatakot ako na baka mahulog kasi), reading her books, and singing to her.

The impatient part of me wants Rowan to start talking, so we can have a conversation. But another part of me knows to value this time in my youngest daughter's life, when her mother and I have all the answers to her needs and inarticulate questions.

It always saddens me, thinking about the future, when my daughters are fully grown. It's a given that things will change, yes, but I hope that I'll be the type of father who remains relevant in their lives. I know it's too far, way off into multiple tomorrows, but, well...

whirlwind days

The past few days have been a little hectic but fun.

SciFi Panel

I was part of a panel that discussed science and science fiction last weekend over at the Science Discovery Center at the Mall of Asia, along with Queena Lee-Chua, Quark Henares, Emil Flores and host Karen Kunawicz. While scifi is not precisely my forte, I spoke about the genre in the context, of course, of speculative fiction. Highlights include my decision to throw poor Quark under the bus when a rather difficult question from the audience came our way (sorry Quark!), Queena and I exchanging whispers about time travel and Star Trek, and Emil and I arguing over the merits of Mazinger Z's Kouji Kabuto. Later, a Gundam question stumped the entire panel.

The Discovery Center is a very cool place, complete with a planetarium and lots of things to do. I plan on taking Sage there one day.


HBO Sunday

On Sunday, Nikki and I were godparents for the firstborn of Alex and Kate Osias - the handsome Hector Benjamin Osias. Hector and Rowan were born a week apart. The church was beautiful but the reception food was even better - nothing beats chicken and kare-kare at Aristocrat! Secretly, we actually arrived with time to spare and had adobo flying saucers.


Wow-Wow (no wee) at the Palancas

We celebrated Kate's first Palanca Award (Short Story for Children) as well as Ian's first 1st Prize (Short Story - 4 to go for the Hall of Fame, Ian!) and got to share in everyone's happiness (and food, siyempre - combat buffet-style). This was when Butch recruited me for a new project early next year (and rather cleverly managed to foist responsibility on me - haha), Sarge and I ribbed each other as losers, and Jing and Tony gently exerted pressure on Nikki to submit her book to Milfores for publication. I was happy to see Marge Evasco and congratulate her for her Free Press win and join the marginalized smokers (old and new winners) in the adjacent smoking area. Everyone was hoping for a repeat of last year's outrageous door prizes - and we got our wish when P100k was raffled away, half of which went to Charlson Ong.


Ilustrado

We had lunch with the winner of the Grand Prize for the Novel (English), Miguel Syjuco. Such a pleasant and well-spoken man, we were happy to find our poetics aligned in many ways. He wrote "Ilustrado" in the three years and cut down the 200,000 word monster in a more palatable 80,000 words (the same novel, by the way, is long-listed for the Man Asia). Over tapas and champagne we talked shop, and asked ourselves where everything is going, and what should be done, what we could do, and so on. We spoke about how, ultimately, we need to build upon (and then destroy) what has been done and construct new texts - killing our fathers, so to speak.

Yvette Tan, Wanggo Gallaga, Audrey Carpio and Tals Diaz were there for questions and revelations - and somehow, conversation swerved to "Twilight", and glittering vampires (gah), and how the LitCritters should be renamed GlitCritters or Gliterati (haha). The long lunch ended with open invitations for everyone to sit in with the LitCritters and/or play Upwords (we love this game).


Dragon Fantastic

Vin Simbulan's fantasy antho "A Time for Dragons" has been greenlit by Anvil, with cover and inner illustrationsby Andrew Drilon. Authors in the draconic antho include (to the best of my knowledge): Yvette Tan, Elbert Or, Cyan Abad-Jugo, Kate Aton-Osias, Alexander Drilon, Elyss Punsalan, Gabriela Lee, Nikki Alfar, Joseph Nacino, Apol Lejano-Massebieau, Vincent Michael Simbulan, Paolo Chikiamco-Recio, Dominique Cimafranca, Alexander Osias, Oscar Alvarez, Sarge Lacuesta and me.

Kudos to Vin!


I heart Rochita

Big, big thanks to Rochita Loenen-Ruiz (who blogs here and here) for sending me a surprise package: Interzone, Asimov's and stuff for Sage and Rowan! I am so happy - reading material!!!

Someday, I'll figure out how to get published in Interzone (Rochita recommended this lovely piece of spec fic by Aliette de Bodard, "Deer Flight").

learning to love the dentist (no, not really)

My fear of the dentist is actually more like aichmophobia, an irrational fear of needles, specifically, the injection that deliver the anesthetic. When I was a child, I imagined the needle to around 12 inches long, supported by a huge metallic syringe designed specifically to hurt me. My mother hated taking me to the dentist as much as I hated having to be taken: this involved much weeping, wailing, struggling, imprecations and – when I was at the dentist’s office – kicking. It was kicking the dentist that provoked the most spectacular reaction from my mother, a profound silence that I imagined had the flavor of murder, and from the dentist, a kind of shocked hurtfulness, from a man who had been wronged for simply trying to do his job (I’m so sorry, Mr. Dentist). After the kicking and screaming and braces, the mother-driven dental visits simply stopped, much to my overall happiness and peace of mind. I swore I’d never go again, as long as I lived.

Of course, that was impossible (though I tried, dammit, with toothpaste and floss and toothpicks both wooden and aquatic). As a self-professed dentophobe (believe me, my dental mentality goes beyond mere anxiety), I have managed to somehow limit my visits to the dentist to a handful of tormented instances during my adult life. Those visits, with vast gaps of years in between, were only because I finally succumbed to maddening pain and decided, with the fatalism that accompanies a man en route to the electric chair, that I had no choice.

During those visits, I’d calmly explain to the dentist what I felt was wrong and articulate that unlike other people, pain hurt me. And in particular, injections were my bane. Each dentist would nod, some dismissively, some sympathetically, before asking me to open up. Then they would marvel at the shocking condition of the inner workings of my mouth (and I can tell already, in their heads, that they could hardly wait to recommend with unholy gusto a battery of root canals, deep scaling, realignment surgeries, fillings, gum therapy and whatnot).

The necessary needle or needles would come next. One dentist was concerned that I was having some sort of heart-related condition, given my sweltering state. Another treated me like a little child and chattily told me that it wouldn’t really hurt (not knowing that this little boy knew exactly how much the damn things did hurt, and had savagely kicked a dentist before). Others simply injected.

The topical doesn’t really do anything, as far as I’m concerned. I can feel the painful entry as my entire body stiffens and my neck and shoulders threaten to sprain into knots. I can feel the needle go deeper into my gums, bypassing the pathetic little mental tricks I feeble attempt to rally to reduce the pain. I can feel the liquid force itself from syringe into the impossible spaces inside my gums, and I am, of course, in tears, manfully stifling sobs and my fight-or-flight response.

Things are worse, when, like the last time, I had four injections, a combination of long and short needles, up the roof of my mouth and right in front, above my front teeth, where the needles went sideways.

Everything that happens afterward doesn’t really matter, because I’m already in shock anyway, and soon the anesthetic does its work, so deep scaling, filling, root canals, extractions (though rarer now because dentists nowadays insist on saving every tooth, I had to have an upper molar removed), whatever, go ahead, do it, there’s not much more to bear anyway.

A few weeks ago, I was visited by intense pain that nothing could assuage (in prior times, simply ignoring it for a few days would make it go away). I finally went to the dentist in my office building and begged the receptionist for an immediate appointment on purely humanitarian grounds, since I felt I’d keel over in the next half-hour. After taking my name, she revealed that I actually had a record there, from four years ago: it noted an extraction and a string of dental appointments, all cancelled, until I changed my cell number. Gah. I apologized and waited for the dentist – who actually remembered me as the big guy who was afraid of needles.

I begged her to yank the tooth, bravely saying that I’d take a needle or two, anything, just to live another day. She coolly nodded an offered a deal: she’d help if I promised to let her do future painful things to me (that, of course, is my wording of her offer; everything she said sounded hurtful but… beneficient). With the killer toothache of the century like a cocked gun against my head, I agreed to her terms, defeated.

I’m scheduled for my fifth visit next week, having kept to my word and the schedule and undergone a staggering variety of dental things. She’s working to restore my teeth to the closest possible facsimile of humanity and has her job cut out for her.

I’ve had to be brave, taking in the needles, one, two or four per visit. It’s still painful, and I still feel violated, and my body still tenses up so much that I have muscle pains for days afterwards, but I’ve bought into the preventive aspect of dental care.

Maybe it’s because I’m starting to be a responsible adult, and need to be an example for my kids (I cannot take Sage and Rowan to dentist and then abandon them there when a needle is displayed).

Or maybe it’s because I found a greater pain than my fear of injections that takes my mind of the throbbing areas of my ravaged mouth – the dental bill, presented to me after every visit, is in the thousands of pesos (and the bridgework which I’m looking at costs P15k per tooth).

The pain of my wallet trumps the pain of mouth.

I grimace and take it.

ratify

Nikki's doctor says that our new child will join the human race from mid-July onwards.

Which mean I'll be a bundled of nerves, expecting the next cell call or text I get while I'm at work or at a meeting to be a summons to the hospital.

Things still feel a bit unreal right now, despite all the preparations and layette stuff, and all the kicking action from Nikki's belly. Like silence before momentous thunder. As I was with Sage, I need to see and hold the child in my hands before I ratify reality.

For now though, I am awash with a swirl of things, different flavors of anxiety, the greatest of which is this: I am afraid that something will happen to my wife (there, I've said it) because while C-Sections are routine, the writerly part of me is unable to switch off possibilities, though I wish I could.

Fear is terrible, worry is a sin.

Nothing will happen to her.

Everything will be fine and I'll come home with my wife and newborn daughter, sometime after the middle of this month.

That's how it will be - which is why I am writing this .

The only power I have is over fiction, over words, so I exercise it now.

I ratify this reality.

sick season

I started feeling ill Sunday afternoon. I got a clogged nose and a mild headache which were gradually revealed to be symptoms of the flu. I should've known it was coming since this happens to me around this time every year. I missed three days of work, unable to think very well as I alternately got the chills and sweated like there was no tomorrow. I kept rehydrating and replenishing all the salts and stuff I lost, consuming vast quantities of juices, athletic drinks, chai latte and flavored water, in an attempt not defeat the stupid flu. I cursed the fact that once again I did not bother to get a flu shot - gah. Of course poor Sage and Nikki caught the flu too. It's even harder for Nikki because of the pregnancy.

I was feeling better last night, but woke up at 3AM with the beginnings of the conjunctivitis thing going around the building. Which was just the last straw. It was too much. My placid, I-am-sick demeanor was replaced by rage at the injustice of it all. "Sore Eyes" is my true bane (along with really bad food poisoning that paralyzes me). Why? Because with every other normal ailment, I can read. Not so with sore eyes that reduce vision to a thin painful crud-encrusted sliver.

But this time I was somewhat prepared. I scoured the room for the medicine I had purchased when I thought I had conjunctivitis earlier this year (when I thought a leaf had sheared off my retina). I found the small bottle of the miracle elixir Vigamox, which promised bacterial genocide, then dosed my eyes with drops of moxifloaxin and went back to sleep. At 6AM, I repeated the dosage, delighting in the discomfort I imagined the bacteria to be undergoing - the atomic destruction of their evil civilization. By 9AM, my eyes were fine.

So I actually managed to drag myself to office to get some work done. My lost three days did not stop the requirements and timing of deliverables from clients so there's a lot of catching up to do. And the fact that this coming Monday is a non-working holidays means another day without designers and such.

Back to the grind, yes, but not for the entire day. I think I need to rest a little bit more before.

maxim

Regret nothing.

and the upcoming alfar is...

Yes, a healthy baby girl is on her way to us! Nikki and Sage called from the hospital right after the ultrasound.

While my bid for the family name to live on comes to an end (cue violins), the quest for the perfect name for the littlest Alfar begins in earnest. So do we continue with the flora-inspired nomenclature (there are lovely names like Rowan) or go with something else? Our preference is for a short single first name (like Sage) - which means it is time to hit the baby books as well as scour the internet.

I admit that I secretly hoped for a boy but am perfectly happy to have a healthy girl coming my way. Every child is a gift, and I am stoked at the prospect of discovering who this little person is, what she'll be like, how she'll talk and think and act.

It's still around 4 months away from her arrival, but I am already a bundle of nerves. I am aghast at the upcoming expenses (caesarian section for Nikki plus hospital bills can go up to 100k, plus milk, diapers, medicine, nanny, etc.) but somehow I know we'll pull through for this littlest Alfar. Anxiety, I've come to accept, is part and parcel of being a parent, which means worrying about everything, most of the time, ahead of time (Sage starts big school this school year, which means tuition and uniform and books).

The important thing for me, as I deal with all these challenges (not just financial, because I also worry if I'm being the best dad I can be in all other aspects), is not to lose sight of why I am anxious in the first place: to give the best of myself for my two little girls; one on her way, the other holding my hand and her mother's as we wait.

Oh, and now that I know her gender, I can proceed to assemble her layette and other stuff!

coming in september

Last year, Nikki and I decided, was our last chance to have another child. Nikki is near the age where having children courts increased health risks for both her and the baby. By the start of December, when there was no child, we accepted the fact that Sage would be our only child - which isn't bad, not at all (I grew up as an only child for 9 years and during those years didn't feel a desperate yearning for a sibling - I was happy with my books and Lego).

We spent the holidays in Florida, and while Sage played with her Grandma, Nikki and I played with each other (wink, wink).

In my mind, here's what happened.

ELDER SPERM (TO YOUNG SPERM): You are our only hope. December is almost past..

YOUNG SPERM: I sure as hell will try, though I do not know the way!

ELDER SPERM: Just follow the path and do not stray. You will know the way...

YOUNG SPERM: I have so many questions, Master-

ELDER SPERM: The legendary Egg must be found...

(AN ALARM SOUNDS.)

ELDER SPERM: Now, now is the time!

YOUNG SPERM: Here I go!

ELDER SPERM: Godspeed... There must be a new Alfar...

Yesterday, we got confirmation that we're having a baby! I am both delighted and anxious - all over again. You'd think that having gone through this once before I'd be okay with the process, but no. I'm delighted, no, excitedly rapturous, because this child is new to the universe, unique and blessed and wondrous. I'll be honest and say that I wish it is a boy, but will be happy regardless. I look forward to discovering who this new little person is, in the same way that Sage revealed herself. And we'll have two children, which to me, is so perfectly right.

The anxiety, of course, is there, unfolding in multiple layers. Health: Will the child be healthy? Will s/he have some disorder? Economic: How do we pay for two kids in school (I swoon at the thought of coming up with something like P200k every June)? How do we stretch the budget to accomodate a new nanny? We need to get layette stuff and a crib and diapers and and and... Should we move? Social: How will Sage take to the existence of a new little Alfar (Well, she's as happy as we are right now)? Purely Selfish: Gah, I can't smoke in the house anymore (Nikki has quit). How will I write?

But I know everything will be all right. All these anxieties and worries are nothing new (but I'll have a heart attack if somehow they're twins - twins run in both our families). We'll get by.

It turns out that my big creative thing for 2008 is a child! Already we're thinking of names.

Have I said that I really really really hope it's a boy?

travel time

We got to NAIA just after 3AM and proceeded to do all the necessary pre-departure things - paying for the travel tax (since our tickets were purchased online and not locally - I'm just happy that Sage's tax is half mine, but still P5k right off the bat is dizzying), lining up for confirmation and baggage, paying the terminal fee (another P2.25k right there - ay naku), removing shoes twice before getting to the pre-departure area (sadly, the smoking lounge Nikki and I usually visit was still closed, and the only other option was to pay $10 each for access to another one, no thanks). Another Northwest flight was cancelled, so NW tried to fill up our plane with the unfornature souls, which made for delays as people hustled for space. Finally though, we left Manila for Nagoya, Japan, arriving after almost 4 hours.

The stopover at Japan is always irritating since we deplane and reboard in heartbeats, with barely enough time to find the smoking room (Japan is always smoker friendly, thank goodness). The stress begins when I realize that our boarding passes are missing, necessitating interaction with the Japanese folk that would have been funny if I were not so harassed. But things went well and we got on board for the longhaul.

Somewhere halfway through the almost 12 hours of crossing the Pacific, my nicotine craving brain tells me, like it does every time I travel to the US, that this is definitely the last time we're doing this. Apart from the lack of cigarettes, the interminable travel is not helped by the exhausted batteries of my iPod (I must find a battery that lasts for days), my laptop (ditto) and my O2 (safely on flight mode but really, hours of solitaire and the jewel game have a deleterious effect) and the lack of anything good to watch. I tried reading but the book I brought did not engage me (my bad, should have selected something better) and I amused myself by waiting for the horrible airline food. This time, to make things interesting, Nikki ordered lactose-intolerant meals for me (which meant I got fish and vegetables) and children's meals for Sage (which meant she got hamburgers and other fun stuff). I will never be lactose-intolerant again, I swear. The sheer tastelessness of what was served made even my ameoba overlords sigh in despair. Sage was fantastic the entire longhaul, cringing at the other children who'd cry once in a while and entertaining herself with the gazillion provocative activities that Nikki prepared for her. Nikki, of course, was the best traveler among us, able to sleep at will (damn her eyes), but had issue with a bloodthirsty pair of earphones which stabbed her. I walked around the plane a lot, cursing my lack of foresight (I have enough miles to upgrade all of us to business class, I think), thinking about people who died after sitting for too long, and raiding the galley for orange juice (I was dehydrated as hell).

When we finally reached Detroit, it was snowing or sleeting, and while it was initally quite a thrill for Sage, the winter wonderland could only spell more delays. We had less than 2 hours after deplaning to catch our connecting flight to Jacksonville, so we rushed down to immigration where hordes of people stood waiting to be let in America. Our visas and passports were good, so our next rush was to baggage claim were we wasted so much time just waiting for our luggage. Then it was through customs, after which we realized we had only 15 minutes left before our flight departed - and we hadn't even gone through homeland security yet. I explained our predicament to someone who pointed me to someone else and we lined up to talk to another someone while the last of 15 minutes evaporated. By the time we got to speak to a woman, she told us that it was impossible for us to get on the plane since it would leave on time - but that she'd book for Memphis. Memphis? Suddenly, Alex's "Walking in Memphis" resounds in my head as the rest of her news filters in: no flight today, maybe tomorrow. No, no, no. Another passenger freaks out and summons her manager and we tagteam them under a barrage of very polite almost-but-not-quite imprecations intimating doom if we did not get to board the plane. Finally, she called the gate, then turned to us and said "You have 5 minutes."

Detroit airport is sprawling, but we're game. Sage zips ahead with Nikki as I deal with everything a pack mule must contend with, and I remember thinking somehow we'll make it until we hit the human wall of homeland security. We lose precious time waiting for our turn. When it comes to me, I expertly kick off my shoes, remove my belt, produce the laptop and dump everything into every available basket on the conveyor belt to be x-rayed. Then, in our best Amazing Race mode, the three of us rushed to the gate. There we found a mass of very irritated people. It turns out that the flight to Jacksonville was delayed because of the snow and because a flight attendant was missing, and they were just about to board. Which meant we miraculously made it, 40 minutes after the plane wsa supposed to have left. Inside, we buckled up and watched our plane sprayed with de-icing solution (which looked like reddish fuel) before we finally took off.

Hours later, we were in Jacksonville searching for our missing luggage. The evil woman in Detroit that I harassed had a degree of vengeance, it seemed, as one of bags was somewhere it was not supposed to be. We found Nikki's mom and together we waited at the Northwest office to demand satisfaction (all of Sage's clothes and our pasalubong and gifts were in the missing bag). Instead, the woman there (who appeared almost an hour later) told us that she'd somehow find the bag for us and have it delivered to our doorstep and offered us toiletries (siyempre, the Filipino in me was thrilled to get something for free, though I wanted money, money, money). We were too tired to fight anymore and accepted her terms, boarded the car and drove to Palm Coast with a pit stop for dinner along the way.

When we got home, it was all we could do to crawl into bed and collapse. Of course, this was only for a moment, as the luxury of bathrooms where one could shower and brush teeth beckoned. Finally, after I was clean, there was only one last decision: sleep or smoke.

I happily sat in the cold darkness, looking at the almost invisible lake outside, and smoked a cigarette, almost human again.

rest stop

Nikki, Sage and I are flying off to Florida this weekend to spend the holidays there with family. We've been looking forward to this vacation (Sage is especially thrilled to see her grandma again) and we've been spending the last few days getting ready (securing the e-tickets which the old-fashioned part of me is always wary of, exchanging some money, and of course the inevitable packing).

I'll bring my laptop (in the hope of writing something, anything, to start repleneshing my zeroed inventory), camera (because vacations are what cameras are for, not just product shots), my iPod (for the interminable longhaul, let's see if the battery lasts), o2 phone (so if I'm somehow possessed by an urge to get an iPhone I can look at my old one and hopefully realize that I truly do need the gorgeous - and now reasonably priced - iPhone, damn you Butch Dalisay for provoking both envy and greed in me), and a small pile of books (one of the advantages of writing/editing your own books is the instant-pasalubong effect, sorry nalang sila haha) including PSF 3, Salamanca and The Kite of Stars.

It's the reengergizing that I need. For several months I've been out of sorts at work and I owe it to both my long-suffering partner and our businesses to get my head back in the game. I've been distracted by writing and need to accept that work must be primary (again) since it what pays the bills. So it's back to mostly guerilla mode.

I'm not certain if I can blog while I'm away. If I can, I will. If I can't - then Merry Christmas to everyone!

twelve

After twelve years of marriage, I'm still under your spell, my muse and naughty nymph of the woods.

bomb at glorietta

We just got word that a bomb exploded at Glorietta, one of the premiere malls in Makati City, leaving a number of people hurt. The mother of one of my close friends was there, but made it safely out, as people stampeded.

I do not normally post much about politics and such, but I cannot help but be infuriated by this horrible event.

Lacuna jumping: I cannot help but suspect that the government is creating terrible distractions to draw attention away from the latest Malacanang bribery scandal, where 190 congressmen and officials were handed out glossy bags of cash ranging from 200k-500k. With the heat on our Lady President, her circle has transformed into a bastion of denial, deadma, and absurdist reasoning: that those were early Christmas gifts, that it did not come from the government, that the Lady President did not know about it despite the fact that she attended the very same breakfast meeting where the cash was distributed like loot bags for a children's party. And when she denies any knowledge of such cash disbursements, the implication is that she is not in control (how can she not know?, ask many observers).

In the light of so many important issues that our government needs to address, this explosive sleight-of-hand - if it is what I think it is - is simply too cruel.

Update:

Reports are coming in that was a gas-related explosion.

Update 2:

It was a bomb.

visa or ipod?

Today was our appointment at the US embassy. Sage's visa needed to be renewed, and while only a single parent was actually needed to accompany her (according to the rules), I decided to go as well to spare ourselves yet another document explaining that this child indeed had a father who was not present because of work.

I miss the old drop box method of renewal and dreaded the new system (whenever I think of the Us embassy, I think of countless hours in line, shifting from one counter to the next, before finally being called to speak to someone behind glass whose disposition, including whether or not they were having a great day, had impact on the visa's approval). Before we left, Nikki reminded me that no cell phones were permitted inside the embassy (I know, a day without my O2, without the ability to make or receive calls was something I had to deal with, silently, for a minute). I emptied my laptop bag of everything (or so I thought) and stuffed it with the thick folders full of various required documents ( of which, to flash forward, none were actually resquested to be perused by the consul - but still, it always makes sense to be prepared).

Traffic was hell but we got there in time. Outside there were huge signs that vindicated Nikki's warning: no cellphones. One of them was more specific - no electronic devices. Having thoughtfully cleared out my laptop bag of such things, I had to reason to fear and took my place in the line. It was at this point that I did an automatic hand thing and ripped open the velcro of one of my bag's pockets and discovered my ipod - normally a blessed thing but now suddenly transformed into an illegal object. I held up the offensive music player to Nikki's shocked eyes and I felt like I betrayed us all.

The gatekeepers shook their heads sadly and told me that there was no way I could take my ipod inside. I had to leave it outside. I smiled and offered it to them to hold for me until we were done. Once again, they shook their heads sadly and told me that no, no, they could not hold to such things. They told me I could deposit it at the police station in Luneta - which was too far to walk given the fact that our interview was in 30 minutes. The crowd behind me was getting ugly since I was holding up the line as I pleaded to be let in to prove my daughter's parentage (as well as my ties to country and all the marvelous things in the folders in my bag). For a moment, I considered giving my ipod away or hiding it behind a neat row of ornamental plants. But I couldn't, I just couldn't abandon the device that gave me music from the lost 80s.

I turned around in desperation and saw a vendor looking at me. She winked and gestured to me.

"Ibigay mo sa akin," she said when I approached. "Ibabalik ko sa iyo mamaya."

She must have sensed my sad resignation as I handed it to her. I felt like I would never see it again - but dammit, my child needed me.

"Bayaran mo ako ng P150 mamaya," she instructed as she stuffed my beautiful ipod into her giant belt pouch. I noticed that it was full of cell phones and another ipod. "Dito lang ako, huwag kang magaalala."

She pushed a laminated piece of cardboard with the number 8 printed on it in thick red marker.

"Eto claim number mo, okay?"

Wrestling with my deeply-ingrained suspicions, I nodded once and ran back to the gatekeepers to join my wife and daughter.

Inside, we lined up first for the initial document check that gave us a number for finger scanning. Since Sage was under 14 years, she did not need to be scannned by still had to be seen in person by the finger scanning officer. When all of that was done, we waited and waited and soon Sage was called for her interview.

SAGE: Hi and good afternoon!

CONSUL: Hi, what is your name?

SAGE: Sage Alfar.

C: How old are you?

SAGE: I'm five.

C (to NIKKI and DEAN): Are you her parents?

N & D: Yes.

C: How many children do you have?

(Both NIKKI and DEAN point to SAGE)

N: Just this one.

C: Do you both have visas?

N & D: Yes.

(DEAN readies the voluminous folders in his bag)

C (handing SAGE a yellow piece of paper): Okay. You're approved, Sage.

SAGE: Thank you!

It happened so fast that neither Nikki nor I could perform the correct response. After many seasons of American Idol and, recently, So You Think You Can Dance, I felt one of us should have stepped back, turned around to address everyone else in the room, wave the yellow slip and cry "I'm going to Hollywood!". Which, no doubt, would have resulted in the visa being revoked.

Sage was extremely delighted at the prospect of seeing her grandmother again (Nikki's mom) and did her best to cheer me up as Nikki went to talk to the Delbros people regarding the delivery of Sage's visa-ed passport. I was happy my daughter's visa was renewed but sad at the loss of my ipod - because I was dead certain that woman I entrusted it to had already sold it to someone else (who, at that moment, was either thrilled at my massive collection of Ryuichi Sakamoto tracks or stunned by my secreted Debbie Gibson).

Once outside I looked at the empty sidewalks and despaired. Until, like a mirage, the woman walked up to me and asked for her laminated piece of cardboard. What happened next illuminated for me what it means to be junkie. I gave her P150 and could barely contain my joy as she unzipped her belt pouch and produced a clear plastic bag containing my blackclad ipod.

I was so delighted that I did not bother to be upset that people were taking advantage of other people. My daughter got her visa and I got my ipod back.

What a wonderful world.

looking at six

Last weekend, I had lunch with my mother and my sisters. There were paintings, prints and blown-up photographs all over their condo unit - the smaller number of walls could not accommodate the influx of wall things from the old house.

Among the frames, I spotted an enormous mounted black and white photo of me, taken when I was six years old. I stared at the little boy captured in that moment (just a year older than Sage) and remembered nothing of the occasion of the photograph, except for the fact that the color of my shirt was red.

"You're right," Mama told me, delighted that I had somehow managed to recall a part of my ancient history. "Red and white checkers. From Cinderella. At that time it was one of the most expensive stores, you know."

I smiled back at her, listening quietly as she went on to tell me how, despite being as poor as dirt, she wanted to make sure that I had the best clothes ("It's not just that they're expensive - they last longer; that's quality."), so that at the very least I did not look like I crawled in from the depths of some sordid place.

"My face has changed so much," I told Sage, who found me staring at the picture.

"Dad, it's your bigote," she said.

"Well, yes," I agreed. "But do you see me in there?"

She stood up, squinted at the photograph, and nodded. "A little."

"You should have it, Manong," Mo, my youngest sister, said from her chair.

Mama gave it to me.

I keep looking at the picture of me with the little boy haircut (oh Mama, what were you thinking), with that pseudo-smile of sly amusement. What was I looking at? What was in my head as I sat down in my red and white checkered Cinderella shirt? What was I like, then? Who was I?

I scour my memory and find next to nothing about that time in my life. I'm 38, and six years old seems impossibly far away, like another universe, an alternate timeline.

I look at that stranger who claims to be me and I'm saddened because I do not remember him.

the poet with the same camera

I first met Ana Neri when I visited Dumaguete last year, after too-long an absence. She was one of the fellows at that year's Writers Workshop, along with Patricia, Mitch, Doug, Dominic, Ino, Erika, Darwin and the other young creatives - all there to learn from Mom Edith.

I remember noticing that we had the same camera, and techno-neanderthal that I am, I immediately gravitated to her to ask for advice with my settings (up to this day, if I see someone with a camera similar to mine, I will ask for pointers). She had the biggest smile - and took the best pictures. They were simply amazing.

We took a shot of each taking a shot of each other. I'm sure hers turned out amazing.

Last April, I bumped into her at the Philippines Free Press Awards. I was trying to get to the relocated smoking section and she was trying to get into the elevator. In that moment, as we stepped back from our near collision, we exchanged hasty smiles and sorries and hastier kudos (she won for poetry, me for fiction), before going our separate ways. I thought I'd see her with Patricia's cluster, but it wasn't to be.

Last night, I got a text from Ian, telling me that Ana had died.

In shock, I texted back. I said and Ian said and I said and then there was nothing more to be said.

Bye, Ana.

father's day

Waking up to Sage, standing with a smile, offering her painting with the words "I love you, Dad".

Sitting up in bed, opening (what I presumed to be) small token Father's Day gifts from wife and daughter, and instead being completely surprised by new earphones and speakers for my iPod.

Swimming in the pool upstairs with Sage, pretending to be floating on the sea of dreams as we make up wishes for our magical friends (and saddened by the fact that of the other six or so kids in the pool, none were with their dads).

Bookhunting at night, then reducing my P4000 pile of books to zero as I struck Mr. Impulse-Buying down.

Eating tuyo, eggs and fresh lumpia at Via Mare in the company of my small family, watching my daughter take pictures of everything and everyone but us, haha.

Watching a bit of TV before falling asleep, my wife next to me, my daughter already dreaming about her first day of school tomorrow.

away, sun, away

I swear, walking around the city during the summer months is just asking for trouble – from the sun. It’s crazy; the oppressive sun just beats down relentlessly and the possibility of heat stroke is high.

Which is why I make sure to duck into my favorite oasis – the nearest Coffee Bean, with its cool, cool air-conditioning . I sit there with something cold (right now, I gravitate towards the Honey Dew Ice Blended) and watch the world crawling outside.

I stay as long as my body needs to recover, dismayed at the thought of having to plunge back into the sweaty thick of things (for a moment I imagine everything vanishing in a white glare, like the entire world is a mirage and I'm hallucinating).

My only comfort is word that there are ten to thirteen tropical depressions lurking around the archipelago, waiting for a chance to strike. The thought of rain is invigorating.

And yet, suddenly I feel guilty for wanting rain.

These storms do not just bring rain but also devastation, and not just in terms of property damage. Every year the nation experiences heartbreak as television, newspapers, radio and online services and blogs bring us news of typhoon-caused tragedies.

Can’t there be a middle ground? Are we truly geographically stuck between the extremes of stunning heat and destructive water?

There can’t and we truly are. Heat and rain: even when it comes to seasons, we only have two compared to more exotic climes (who hasn't entertained an absurd fantasy of snow in Manila?).

But there is really no use in complaining or wishing it were otherwise. There are certain things we can’t change, after all.

So, being Filipino, we adapt and adjust and make the best of things. That’s our nature, our strength. That's how we get by. We think, "this, too, will pass" and rehydrate ourselves.

I look outside and wish I brought an umbrella.