REGARDING ENVY
The Friendly Files

It's not always so bad, envy.

It can feed greed, of course, which leads to a bad side of desire then resentment and other darker things. But while it's true that even mild afflictions can keep weak minds up too many nights, many times envy's not so bad. It can even make you smile.

Kala and I were in Hanoi just a couple of months ago, yet with so many things happening in such a short period of time, it feels like it's been over a year since our nice lurch to Vietnam. Kala has been in the US for almost a month now and among the first photos she sent was this. I've hugged a few sequoias while trekking in the Muir Woods forest but I haven't climbed a redwood yet and I certainly haven't jumped off one. So I am envious -- Kala did both while she was in California. Three times. Ahem.

Since learning how to swim, I've always felt the pull of the sea. Among the many modes of transportation, I love boats the most (trains come in second). The swells and spray and smell of salt, the really breathtaking rolling waves (north of the Philippines, I've rode on tiny wooden fishing boats that bucked waves as high as church steeples), the wind, the white quiet, liquid shadows and turquoise waters -- the ocean is an enormous canvas. But I've never gone under it for periods longer than I could hold my breath.

I swim in the sea when I can and I like solitary swimming the most (swimming pools hold no attraction for me). And yet, although snorkeling continues to give me great pleasure, being a window that shows what's below, oftentimes I feel it only offers glimpses. So I am envious of the world known to the distinguished diver and videographer Boy Siojo and award-winning underwater photographer Danny Ocampo, who took this stunning photo of an eight-tentacled critter. These are two patient guys whose love for the sea is as big as the ocean itself.

Check out Sea-Cid, Boy's fine outfit,, and Danny's sparse but growing photo-blog (and thankfully there's no Madonna music playing there). Those who want serious, smart diving lessons, drop Boy a line. It's not just skills that you'll get from Boy. You'll bring back meaning as well as the lasting company of a good friend.


Envy is what I felt when I saw Anna Banana's photo of the blue, blue sky and the radiant moon hovering over Rotterdam in October 2005. I wanted to see that sky again and wished to drink its glow once more.

Anna's photo reminds me of the sky over Arles, France, which was so stunningly blue it was maddening. Walking along the city's old cobblestone streets and the open fields on its outskirts, I remember squinting and blinking at the unbelievable blueness of the Arles sky and how it occurred to me suddenly what role the cerulean canopy must have played in Vincent Van Gogh's dialogue with despair.

Here are two photos taken by the wandering mind of veteran photojournalist Pepito. The images are from his phlog -- a tiny collection of recent snapshots from his many and constant moments. Among his known attributes, Pepito's unhinged personality stands out the most, with its deep store of inanities and profanities, along with his preferred language. Pipi si Pepito is the tagline of his phlog -- Pepito is mute, save for the speech and conversation of his pictures.

Pepito's ironies are exquisite. He commands the respect of his peers, which is no mean feat considering the planetary egos orbiting his profession. He is a veteran in his field and his work is frequently crisp and yet spectral, a rare perspective which makes me envious. And yet his character remains as base, modest, droll and hackneyed as his jokes.

The Beirut-based Lebanese artist called Mazen Kerbaj is touring Oslo and Stockholm at present. This typically striking image Kerbaj calls "Vodka+olive+tabasco shot." But, no, he is not in Europe on a visual exhibit tour. He is playing the trumpet in Norway and Sweden and performing experimental and improvised music with colleagues. I envy and hold in high esteem those with such multiplicity of talent and generosity. Past visitors to this blog site will be familiar with the work of Kerbaj, who produced haunting and moving drawings of dignity, grief, fear and defiance during Israel's brutal bombing of Lebanon. Kindness untethered, a recent article I wrote on Lebanon, which used some of the Kerbaj drawings, can be read here.

I think I'm also envious of the work of Reg Hernandez. Here's a photo Reg took of a room at Pansukian Resort in Siargao Island, Surigao. What a boring looking place. Me, envious of Regman's work? Nah, I'm joking. I just look at the picture and think, eh, how unappealing. Sigh... When I saw his shots I think I actually I told him I would carry his bag and tripod for him if he took me along for free. And bought me beer. And another beer. And left me be. Never been to Siargao. Man o' man, perhaps one day, with the kindness of Regmanh Manmohanh Singh...

The Regman's also an accomplished diver and you can see a large part of the world he's been skimming and shooting and writing about from his topside down perspective. He also always gets a 99 percent score on karaoke machines when he sings the all-time hit called Rubber Ducky. Just make sure you get him to pay you 500 bucks before he belts out the classic. If Ungas is with him, demand an additional thousand bucks up front. You'll need it right after the song's done when you head for the nearest sanatorium.

Here's a source of envy, and everyone who was there that night should feel guilty (and they never do of course, not even Bar Bell Ben Razon). When the Irish girls all bade goodbye at the Oar House a couple of weeks ago, I was unable to make it (no, this is not the photo of that night; no one's posted the pics). All manner of reasons were texted to me so that I wouldn't feel too bad -- texted, actually, so that I wouldn't crowd them out... It was raining, said the Oar guys, and the roof was leaking and the floor was wet; the fridge had conked out and the beer was warm and the aircon was not working and it was hot inside the bar (and of course it was...). All night I could almost hear the ribbing and the shrieks and guffaws and the ogling -- because at the Oar, ogling is audible. I don't know why and Senyor Ben can't explain it, but it is...

What is envy if not a reminder of how alive we are, a veiled curious contest between desire and destination, contentment and hunger, and umbrage and enjoyment?

I envy a number of friends who were all able to join a political push in Vientiane some months ago. I wanted to be there not just for the work but also because of a bottle or two of red that I've long wanted to drink with a good friend, the writer Melody Kemp. This is an image from her -- lotus flowers wrapped on paper printed with an article about the Rights of the Child. I have kept the image close along with her writings and the thought that I will have that wine with Melody soon along with all manner of stories. And some more wine.

Envy makes me laugh at myself, because I really want that wine and the Laotian air and the stories -- the lush ground that fertilizes the lore and lure of our trespasses.

Envy's not all bad.

It makes me smile and grab a beer and put pen to paper.

Maybe I'll even go to the Oar in a while.

Thanks for dropping by. #



First two photos by Red. The rest of the photos in this post are used with the permission of the owners, except for the borrowed smiling mugshot of Boy Siojo, who is right now recovering from a bad leg injury. (Pagaling ka na Boy nang maka-inom na tayo uli at hindi lang puro donuts at iba pang bawal ang inaatupag mo).

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LUNA GOES SWIMMING
AND OTHER LITTLE STORIES
Family files

So one day Luna goes swimming. At least that's what she calls it.

She was with her cousins and though it rained hard that day, nothing would deter her from taking the nice cool dip.

Kids being kids, and cousins being close cousins, I don't think they would've minded if we had arrived in a crowded place and the different pools looked more like swirling glasses of dirty martinis with yelping, giggling tiny children inside instead of olives, but the pool wasn't packed and the waters actually looked and stayed clear and blue and the fact warmed the hearts of the parents.

Luna didn't really like Tatay crowding her space and following her around with a camera. But it didn't take long before she settled down and switched to a familiar mode; just have fun and ignore dad, he'll get tired of bugging people.

It helped that we brought the two bathing suits that she picked out before the trip (it feels like she's been picking her own clothes from the time she managed to lift something between her thumb and forefinger...). Having boiled out of the car with her cousins, giddy at the thought of what the whole day would bring, the girls among them ran around the parking lot a bit and talked about the games they would play and the suits they would wear and how their hair looked like when wet.

Once Luna saw the waters shimmering, she clammed up and grew a silly smile on her face -- a quiet delight at all the fun she'd be having all morning and afternoon. She was with her cousins after all, and while she'd go on her own initially, she would later romp and paddle around and splash everyone silly.

Her parents were prepared for the long haul, thankfully. Two books each, the i-Pod and a couple of magazines. And beer. Dear cold beer... The whole time, it was mostly swimming for Kala and Maki, however, including big brother Budoy. All I did was wade with a cold beer in hand and mostly read the books we brought along with Papalolo (Nestor Pulido, a.k.a. Kala's dad and the kids' grandfather; the kids actually call their grandmum Mamalola -- and how they ended up with such names I can't recall right now; it deserves a little historical research later).

There were lazy white chairs to loll around in under the shade of huge umbrellas, which we discovered later when the torrent of rain came were not waterproofed. I was too lazy to do more than just walk Luna around the place and wade and watch the kids, but Kala did herself a favor by enjoying the waters and splashing with the young brood. Yayang's kids were there in full force; Miggy was there and so was Megan and Sophie. And with Luna there was kuya Rio. And of course Maki's adorable Icia.

Sophie and Luna are the closest in terms of age and playtime and they do play a lot together, but sometimes Luna just wants to play on her own. Maybe it's because she's just turning four in November and maybe because she has a different way of imagining play. I don't really know; she's just a joy to watch. The most curious things delight her.

Luna has her own way of creating fun or curling up on a pillow or blanket or her parent's lap. Or getting into one of those foul moods. Whatever her disposition is, it is her own. She has little time for gray stuff. It's always a choice between insane hilarity or pure sugar, iconic silliness or a tantrum that can cause an airport to shutdown.

Her normal stuff is just sweet. Like her kuya, Luna loves reading and loves drawing and painting even more.

Before she sleeps Kala and I often have to debate with her why bringing a pile of ten books to bed is a gross violation of both the spirit and letter of the law which states "Hey Lunalu, it's time to sleep na" followed by "Ok, ok, ok let's read to help you sleep." And then a little girl reaches down to the floor and comes up with a restrained smile and a pile of books.

Anything that makes her use her hands makes her happy. All of tatay's colored pencils, aquarelle sticks, pastel crayons and sign pens. Paint brushes and erasers and glue sticks. Kuya Rio's school pencils. Scissors that help her make envelopes and what she calls invitations, which are actually paintings or sketches she's made that she folds and places within the newly crafted envelope. It really feels at times as if Luna does get into conversations with Chagall.

Regarding stories of being different without trying to, Luna has lots to share.

Her all time favorite movies are movies she watches over and over on the DVD. These are Ice Age and Ice Age 2 -- in Cantonese.

She has a name for each of her toy animals -- lion is called "Lion," and the tiger is "Tiger" and a doggie is "doggie" and a dolphin is called "Dolphin." If a toy horse is brown, then it's "Brown Horse" and if a bear is green, she calls it "Green Bear."

Her dolls, she calls them Barbie and Winx Club and Robot and Baby. Everyone's tried to give a few names, Rio especially since he finds Luna's naming method funny, but it seems to violate some Generics Law and Luna just rechristens her doll or toy based on its naturally assigned phylum.

One time I was writing an article and was in the middle of an intense wrestling match with an idea when Luna peers into my computer and sees a news story about Mahmoud Ahmadinejad along with a photo showing the Iranian president beaming and waving both arms upward.

Luna wrinkles her brow and says "Ah?" then smiles back at Mr. Mahmoud and waves and says "Hi there" to the Iranian chief.

Another time, on the way to her Community of Learners School, a huge cement mixer passed by our vehicle.

Luna turns to me and asks, "Ano yon Tatay? What's that?" I reply, "Cement mixer ang tawag sa kanya." It's a cement mixer.

She follows up and asks "Ano mix nya?" What does it mix?

"Cement. Semento," I reply.

Luna says "Ah. What color is it?"

"Ha?"

"What's the color of semento?"

"Gray," I tell her.

Luna asks, "Anong lasa ng semento Tatay?" What does cement taste like?

"Do you want to taste it," I ask her.

"No!" Luna shrieks. "No way. Ewwww!"

Why, I ask.

"It's not cooked," replied the indignant little girl. #

All photos by Red. Aside from the individual Luna photos and the lone pic of Rio, the first group photo shows Rio with his Uncle Bodie (Kala's brother) in the middle and Miggy, Yayang's eldest, in the foreground. The group pic after that shows Rio naughtily pushing off the slide two of Yayang's kids -- Sophie and Megan -- and their caregiver Jing. The next pic is Kala's sister Maki on a water slide with her daughter Icia. Then of course there's Tatay with Luna and Mama holding a tired daughter, and Luna all dressed up and ready for another adventure.

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HAYA! AND RIO's KICKS
Family Files

After two pieces on the rising waters of martial law (well, the other one hasn't come out yet), I guess it's time for a few words regarding martial arts. Rio's taken up taekwondo lessons recently and the boy seems to be having great fun. Every Tuesday and Thursday he goes back to school to take in new lessons and he hasn't missed a single class.

I've always been fond of martial arts. Fond of watching martial arts and reading about it, actually; all about the melange of philosophies that created and sustained its many forms, the grammar of force and counter-force that frames its expressions, the grace and the cerebral quality that different arts impose on devotees.

I took up martial arts only once in my life. I remember being enrolled a long time in what was supposed to be karate lessons. But although I think I got to wear the white uniform, somehow all I ever recall doing was to endlessly throw the same punches over and over again while standing still or taking that mechanical step back and then forward. Ya! Ya! Ya! Ya! and all that. Then no more.

I could never sit still for a few seconds and think straight. Somehow the same logic kicks in whenever I'm doing something over and over again. And so one day, I think errant thoughts began to worm their way into my head due to the routine of movements and my mind started to go astray and I vaguely remember wondering during the course of one of the lessons when exactly the fancy moves that I kept seeing on television would be taught.

Predictably, it wasn't long before the scimitars and broadswords and knights and Saracens in my head got the better of me, and then off my mind galloped, away from the chops and kicks and parries I coulda shoulda woulda learned.

Happiness of course that it's not the same case with Rio. He's all seriousness and he's been practicing his forms at home and dutifully stretching before class and so on. Luna and I went with Rio one day to watch one of his classes. We behaved ourselves and marveled at their practice session. Teacher Tyrone was patient but authoritative and aside from the few giggles that managed to slip from the faces of the kids he was teaching, he had the eyes and ears of his class.

Students passing by couldn't help but glance or stop to gawk at the taekwondo tykes. You have the tall teacher in front, initiating the bows and the forms to follow and quietly giving out instructions and tips and encouragement.

Not all the kids chose to train in uniform, understandably because of the heat (the textile's a bit thick), but the others who did and wore the full dress seemed to be in a different mood.

I suppose it's rather empowering to wear the neat, stiff white kimono and belt since it seems to lend a kind of aura of seriousness and intent, and it rustles during quick movements and so the high kicks, the roundhouses, the ax kicks, the multiple punches and, yes, the shouts, it was all quite impressive.

The only hurdle that Rio has to overcome is his tendency to practice his forms at home right when he's having a meal. It's uncanny.

Breakfast time, he just bolts out of his chair and lunges forward with a kick.

Lunchtime, he stands up to do some defensive-maneuvers.

Over dinner, till he gets told firmly to return to his chair to finish his meal, Rio pushes his seat back, does a quick twirl to throw one or two roundhouse kicks.

I really don't know why the urge hits him while he's eating, but it's been a little hard to stress the point that he should refrain from doing so given that his tatay continues to exhibit the equally reprehensible habit of getting up from his chair to jot down a passage or two when a bright idea pops out, or when an email or message he's waiting for goes ding-ding-ding.

I'd lie if I said Luna and I watched Rio the whole time. We ate a bit of ice cream too and strolled and played with dolls and a small unused bar of soap (why a piece of soap? who's to know; all I can say is it's Lunalu playing).

There was a twinkle in my daughter's eyes, which said she was up to something or was thinking of doing something naughty. Despite my ribbing she wouldn't let on; wouldn't even deny there was something she was cooking up. I never did find out though.

During a break in the class, Rio gulped down gallons of water and the three of us goofed around in a corner and Luna tried a couple of tactics to annoy her brother, who indeed got irritated but shortly after decided to just give his sister a tight hug and a tickle and she quickly shifted her attention to other things that didn't tickle back.

Was a nice day.


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RIO TURNS EIGHT
STORIES AND PHOTOS OF BIRTHDAY BOY AND HIS FAMILY

Last August 15, the day after the anniversary of the India-Pakistan partition and on the same day as India's 59th year of independence, Rio Renato turned eight. His sister, Yla Luna, gave him a grand drawing; his parents, his grandparents, his cousins and aunts and his friends -- they all gave him a few choice gifts. To each gift-giver the birthday boy gave in return a bright big smile and a giggling pledge that he will continue to shine for everyone for as long as the sun shines on our radiant world.


He is two years shy of being a decade old and yet already he seems to carry himself the way a man of ripe age would, or should. He asks if he can be excused after he finishes a meal and others are still finishing theirs. Knowing too much of it is bad for his health, he imposes limits on himself regarding the amount of chocolate he can eat and has been known to refuse tempting offers from cousins or uncles or aunts (ice cream is a different matter). He reads voraciously and his vocabulary continues to impress many -- the bulbous end of the stick shift of some cars he refers to as "an orb." When everyone's in the bedroom winding down and a movie on television is showing "parental guidance" on the screen and his parents have stopped watching the TV and have moved to reading books with a nightcap of rum or beer, Rio moves out of the room without being asked -- and when asked "Hey, where're you going?" he embarrasses his parents by smiling and pointing to the screen and saying "Parental guidance -- not for me..."

Rio has been asking the interesting questions. Why is America in Iraq? Why are they occupying Iraq? "Well it seems like this country Israel is imitating America?" the boy says out of the blue. "Well that can't be the land of the free, Tatay," said the boy recently. "America seems to be in a hurry stealing other peoples homes and keeping others in prison," said the eight-year old man. Nice. In a way, if a strong sense of right and wrong is always instilled in the young, sometimes television can demonstrate contradictions without meaning to and thus provoke the right questions. Sometimes.

What about the time when he wondered aloud to his parents, "I don't understand why people can't just power up our homes from the sun. I think we can run cars with sunlight energy. I've been reading about the sun's power -- oh man, its really powerful. I think it's called solar power and if you use it there's no smoke and it's clean. Oh yeah, there's also plenty of it. It's kinda stupid we're not using the sun." Rio's dad being an energy campaigner, and being a dad who has thankfully made an effort to really limit conversations about his campaigns on his family -- he was speechless with joy and eventually stammered out some dumb explanation.

So what has Rio been up to lately? He's taken up taekwondo and has been practicing da moves at home after every session, with plenty of funny stories to share. The other day, he proudly announced that he'd be moving up to yellow belt status.

In recent school-wide intramurals at the Community of Learners, he competed in chess and won over players from his batch and those two grades higher than his. He topped his age group and for his effort was awarded his first-ever gold medal. Rio's happy parents even brought home for him from Hanoi a Vietnamese stone chess set, which of course weighed like a desktop computer...

He had a great birthday bash at school. He and his classmates went a bit wild when the chocolate cake was served, Kala said. Tatay was still in transit from India but arrived in the afternoon, in time for Rio's birthday dinner.

Among other things, which included a few books, Tatay brought home for Rio an intricately-carved wooden baton, which for now is named the Hammer of Truth and which has been said to possess great powers which amplify a hundredfold the kinetic energy of the noble knight wielding the mystical weapon and which allows the warrior to face whole armies, sort of like the great mace that the evil Sauron once wielded, only many, many times more powerful.

And, of course, it's funny when you notice that the great warrior bearing the mystical weapon is also wearing armor that looks like a t-shirt printed with the peace emblem.

Rio noted with some sadness the other day that Samurai Jack will be rolling out farewell episodes shortly on Cartoon Network. The news kind of cast a cloud over an otherwise joyous day. Samurai Jack's been such a longtime friend to Rio, Luna and Tatay that saying goodbye to the great philosopher-swordsman -- the great cross-generational art and story-telling that is the Samurai Jack experience -- just doesn't seem right.

All things have an ending, I suppose. It's a good thing all things have beginnings too. I suspect that this is just the ending of Samurai Jack's chapter 1 and that one day we will still get to see Samurai Jack chapter thirty-two. I think Rio knows this too. We shall say farewell to the series for now while we welcome new things.

What a joy to have so much to share with an eight-year old kid -- and a three-year old daughter whose wings continue to grow, who is becoming more precocious, ambitious and creative with each passing day and who will be four in November.

It's nice to inhabit -- at the same time -- the same dominion of the mind as one's children. Samurai Jack, Calvin and Hobbes, Mr. Bean, Uno Stacko!, the Bamboo Kamatis game from Sze Ping, gallons and gallons of buko juice, the Uncanny X-Men, The Adventures of Tintin, Ludy's peanut butter and Ludy's coco jam sandwiches, cold soya milk, the music of Sugarfree, LOTR over and over, the 1971 version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory starring Gene Wilder, and the countless pitched battles waged with the named and nameless great women and men building and manning fortresses of imagination and defending the colors and peace of the realm against marauding brutes, hungry beasts, imperial overlords, liars and cheats and emperors of dull days and the doldrums.

When things get out of hand, Kala tells us to pipe down and that it's time to turn in, and then, despite a having room of their own, son and daughter and dad and mom compete for the tiny space of a bed big enough just for two people, each of the four griping that someone stole his or her pillow and who's pulling the blanket and move over and that's my space and stop sticking your knee in my ribs and someone starts tickling somebody who tickles someone else and Kala smiles and raises her voice and shushes everyone to sleep. #

Photos by the writer, taken at Omenakasi on Morato, August 15, 2006 -- also the 59th anniversary of India's independence. The second photo where Rio is seen giving his mum a goofy buss on the cheek demonstrates where exactly he got his dimples from.

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HOUSES OF MEMORY
SIZZLING TOFU, MERRIMENTS AND TRIBUNES

In a paranormal saloon in Malate the other evening, the roving eye of Gentleman Ben Razon captured a fragment of a wild night of feral chortling and death by laughter. But ho-hum, as the raucous who know the place would say; it was just another Oarhouse evening.

Notable highlights of repetitive redundancies: the Great Elvis was there and provided everyone with his protracted Sponge Bob schtick; not a few thought Ben later that night would drop but he fooled everyone with his Extreme Tower of Piza impersonation -- without any visible prop (very impressive), the performance lasted thirty minutes before Ben suddenly bolted upright in two seconds to get this shot. Probably only with the exception of Atengteng, most everyone in the bar had agreed that the operatic "Titina ni Titina!" performance by Mon Aba-ibilotmo and Ben fully deserved the cries for encores, which of course the two delivered with verve; in fact, reports are that the honorable Regmanh Manhmohan Singh also wants to learn the song. And, finally, yet never ever last and neither the least, generous Arlie ordered sizzling tofu again and again and again for everyone (thanks Arlie... bukas uli...).

If you want a definitely better tasting serving of that night at the Oar, with choice coup-coup and animal narratives, you have to drop by the Oarhouse blog, curated by Senyor Razon. The denizens and stories are all there.

A GREAT MAN CROSSES THE DIVIDE

A few weeks ago, I was asked by the indefatigable Corazon Fabros to write a short message for a memorial event they had organized for the late scholar and activist, Daniel Boone Schirmer. The event was appropriately set for July 7, which was the 114th anniversary of the founding of the revolutionary movement led by the great Andres Bonifacio that had freed the Philippines from centuries of Spanish colonial rule, called the Kataastaasang Kagalang-galangang Katipunan ng Mga Anak ng Bayan (the Highest and Most Honorable Association of the Sons of the People; the shorter name being The Katipunan).

The Philippines has long had staunch friends overseas, and some have been more steadfast than others. Boone, as he is fondly called, was one of them.

Together with other Americans in 1973, Boone founded the Friends of the Filipino People group, which campaigned to end US support for the Marcos dictatorship, the release of political prisoners and the removal of U.S. military bases from the Philippines.

Boone died last April 21 of congestive heart failure. He was 91. The great historian, Howard Zinn, described Boone as a person who "was totally committed to a vision of a different kind of world.... He was an activist, but with all of that he was a very gentle, a very sweet person. He was very unshakable in his conviction that war and racial and economic injustice were wrong."

Of Boone and the days of the anti-Marcos struggle, Dr. Jorge Emmanuel, a US-based Filipino activist, wrote: "To see an old man working feverishly in the FFP office, folding pamphlets, licking hundreds of stamps, answering phone calls, and working late into the evenings with such intensity gave us so much hope in the face of overwhelming odds. He inspired both Filipinos and Americans alike… We cannot help but mourn his passing."

"[A]lmost 90 years old, frail and having survived a hip replacement operation and two recent bouts of pneumonia," remarked a letter nominating the scholar and activist the Lifetime Achievement Award of the Association of Asian American Studies, which he received in 2004, "Boone continues to speak out against and write about the US wars in Afghanistan and Iraq."

Walden Bello quips that perhaps "the greatest irony of Boone's life was provided by the contrast between his anti-imperialist politics and his name. He got it from his great-great-uncle, the famous frontiersman and 'Indian fighter' Daniel Boone, who played a key role in the westward expansion of the United States." In typical fashion, wrote Bello, the "contradiction" Boone just took "in stride and joked about it."

I was in Hanoi at the time of the memorial and I regret not being able to bear witness to the occasion. I did manage to send a message, however, one with a frame that makes it easy to slide right into after a short account of the Oar asylum, a treasured palace of remembrances.

"When a house of memory passes away, unlike other edifices, the memory house multiplies because its architecture is generosity and its wood is vigilance and the soil on which it was built is durable, renewable soil that other houses of memory have supplied with equal generosity. I never met Daniel Boone Schirmer but I have absolutely no doubt that the House of Boone lives. We struggle for the day when solidarity shall become the only debt that people shall owe one another, confident that with sacrifice this day is very possible if only because of the example of friendship that Boone has so selflessly shared to a hardy though all too often too forgetful community called the Filipino people.

Renato Redentor Constantino

Thanks again for dropping by.

Next up -- flamenco, an aquarium, topside-down the ocean, and a writer friend from the barracks days of the Polytechnic U. of Nemesio Prudente.

red

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VISIT THE OARHOUSE

All photos by Red except #2: (1) A blackboard in Jolo used for a workshop in preparation for a great play about a largely forgotten -- at least to most of the country -- battle and slaughter in Philippine history, at the hands of the so-called benevolent American occupation army in the Philippines. (2) Red and Kala at the Oar by Ben Razon. (3) A US cannon in Corregidor. (4) Inside the Bud Dahu crater in Jolo, Philippines.

MALICE AND PERSECUTION
INTERVIEW WITH RENATO REDENTOR CONSTANTINO

The photo says it all I suppose. It's why involvement in our nation's affairs should be an imperative. It's what business as usual will mean until a different sort of gravity forces crappee and crapper to change places.

Oftentimes, the more a ruling party resorts to using coercive measures to wipe out dissent, the more rapid the dissolution of its legitimacy. But things never follow a linear course in increasingly paranormal Philippines. Too many have been cowed, too many are resigned, too many are indifferent. Too many have been murdered. The State is gambling on the powers of indifference, fear and resignation -- and the gamble seems to be paying off. For now.

The interview below is quite short, but perhaps it may be interesting to read. The photos I have posted show, of course, that RC was indeed at the EDSA uprising anniversary protests in February this year, the day of the supposed coup de tat, as was I, since, I was the one who took the shots in this post. We were two laughing folks proud to stand with the tens of thousands during that fateful commemorative activity on February 24, 2006, when an illegitimate leadership tried to ban people power on People Power Day through edicts, canons and bullets.

That was in February; the bullets and bullying threats have only increased since.

And still, flickering candles illumine the night. From the gutters and the streets, from homes and barracks and factories and hovels and fields. #


Son slams reports linking RC Constantino to coup
Meet with San Juan was on 'RP Blueprint'
By Nonoy Espina
INQ7.net
Last updated 02:48pm (Mla time) 07/23/2006

THE son of activist Renato "RC" Constantino has slammed news reports saying repentant mutineer Lieutenant Lawrence San Juan's had linked his father to an alleged coup plot in late February.

In a statement addressed to INQ7.net, Renato Redentor "Red" Constantino acknowledged that his father had met with San Juan and other young officers but said this was part of consultations conducted on a project called "A Blueprint for a Viable Philippines," which the elder Constantino engaged in with former University of the Philippine president Francisco "Dodong" Nemenzo and UP professor and Inquirer columnist Randy David.

San Juan was a member of the Magdalo group of military mutineers and, later, of the Makabayang Kawal Pilipino. He escaped from detention January this year and was recaptured a month later.
He recently renewed his allegiance to the government and renounced his ties to the mutineers, at the same time confirming government claims of a "left-right" conspiracy between rebel soldiers and communist rebels to topple the Arroyo government.

Red said he wanted to reply to the allegations against his father, who is "on vacation right now attending the wedding of the son of RC's best friend."

He said he had consulted his father, who gave him the go ahead to respond to the issue.

He added that his father was "contemplating filing a libel suit, but I will try to convince him to back off."

At the same time, in a phone interview, he said there remained an urgent need "for a citizens', a social, movement, to oust this illegitimate administration."

The younger Constantino referred to a July 21 Inquirer report by Dona Pazzibugan and Luige del Puerto, and posted on INQ7.net which said, in part: "The affidavit said among those San Juan plotted with aside from Honasan and Lim were detained Marine Colonel Ariel Querubin; a group of retired officers including Malajacan, Turingan, Colonel Rafael Galvez, Victor Batac and Mel Acosta; former University of the Philippines president Francisco Nemenzo and activist Renato Constantino Jr."

"This statement is preposterous," Red said.

"If it did not appear malicious, these news reports would be silly," he said. "The reports made it appear that RC was linked to the coup conspiracy frenzy through an open initiative he spearheaded with Dodong Nemenzo."

Red acknowledged that his father did meet with San Juan and other young officers but said this was either "in late 2004 or early 2005" but certainly "before August 2005," when the Blueprint was launched, and not, as "some news reports and commentaries have even maliciously dated or implied…in December 2005 obviously in an effort to link this with the February events, which is ridiculous."

He said that, aside from the officers, his father and his project partners also consulted involved hundreds of experts from government," including Cabinet members and undersecretaries of the Arroyo administration, "academe, business, labor and other sectors."

"Even experts from the field of sports were consulted," he added.

"If drawing up alternative visions for the country - openly and with the participation of scores, at that - can be made to appear like a sinister threat to the state, then unfortunately, we are truly in danger," the younger Constantino said.

"The crisis facing the country is grave," he said. "We cannot continue on a business-as-usual mode."

Copyright 2006 Inquirer, INQ7.net. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.


MORE ABOUT THE BLUEPRINT PROJECT
THE BLUEPRINT PROJECT PARTICIPANTS
AMANDO DORONILA's REVIEW OF THE BLUEPRINT PROJECT
THE STORY AS PUBLISHED BY INQUIRER ONLINE
MORE PERSONALS
BACK TO RED's MAIN PAGE

All photos by the author, except for the great first pic above, which was sent sometime ago by good friend Alan.

MOON SONG BY NORAH JONES
A SONG FOR YLA LUNA

There are music lovers and there are song lovers. I think I am one of the latter, a neurotic sub-phylum of the general aficionado. I can play the same song for days, over and over, riding the emotion waves with singular delight or melancholy or distance. On more merciful days, it will be an album repeated again and again. In troubled times, that one song can be both bedding and, I suppose, blessing.

There is a similar compulsion when it comes to the written word, but I think letters draw from a different well of neurosis. What would take Kala a day or a few hours to finish -- the better a book is, the faster she finishes reading it -- I would take days, or weeks. I had passed on to her the haunting celebration of a novel by Nicole Krauss called The History of Love, which had taken me two weeks to finish. For hours, and some times days, I'd munch on its passages, and many pages I'd swirl on my tongue, wanting to prolong the flavors, the textures, the boulder that rolls onto the chest, and never wanting to leave the feast behind by turning the page. Kala brought The History of Love with her on her trip to Hanoi. She opened the book minutes before boarding her Manila plane and managed to finish it, with a healthy amount of sniffles, even before her plane landed. And of course, Kala and I were gushing about the book by the time we found time together at Tung Trang Hotel. I said I couldn't remember any love story so gracefully written and yet with such power and delicacy. Kala, she was just speechless.

A fear I often welcome with such books is that whatever I try to read afterwards may be for some time uniformly bland. Which is often the case. I was reading with the novel of Krauss The Gods of War, the last of Conn Iggulden's gripping Gates of Rome series, and the superb A Feast for Crows, the fourth part of George R.R. Martin's Song of Ice and Fire series, and I had to give both books a rest.

It takes a few books and great reluctance to rinse away the sticky clay of a great read, even though the experience of reading through such a book would likely never leave the reader. I think this is where one of the differences lie with songs, or an album or that perfect compilation we always want to put together but which perennially remains incomplete. With a new song, or an old song, sometimes we are hurled right away to different shores or states of mind.

Right now, it is Moon Song for me. It has been for a few days now, but I play it again and again in secret, with those modern listening devices that allow the the day dreaming set, the class leaf-counters, to putter around wherever with the soundtrack of their choosing. The brilliance of Norah Jones -- her phrasing, above all -- radiates throughout this song. Here are the lyrics, for my daughter, Yla Luna.

Thanks again for dropping by.

red



MOON SONG
by Norah Jones

I want to find out where the moon goes
When it leaves the western sky
And night dissolves again 'til morning
Azure turns to gold
I'm gonna sleep with one eye open
I'm gonna keep the shades half drawn
Nearly silent, dressed in shadows
Lines and colors fall
I'm gonna watch her through my window
Just as I watched you before
A smile knows, but just won't tell me
I just watch her go
I just watch her go
Now I learned just where the moon goes
When it leaves the western sky
And night dissolves again 'til morning
The moon is in your eyes
The moon is in your eyes
The moon is in your eyes
The moon is in your eyes


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