Lucky, indeed

*a repost of my Feb. 13, 2011 column in the Cordillera Today

I am 6 ft. tall, and despite the prolonged healing process the universe decided for my left knee after injuring it last year, I believe I can still be considered as athletic. While decades of smoking has taken its toll on my stamina and cannot go through a whole basketball game in one go, with ample water breaks and breathers, I can still finish a dose-dose game, jog over five kilometres, drive down to manila at 12 midnight, work all day, and drive back up at the end of the day. Heck, I can still easily lug two mid-sized house speakers up and down the Art Park of Camp John Hay. But I must admit, and I’m sure my better half will nod in agreement (with eyes rolling), that I’m such a baby when I’m sick. Whether it’s a full blown flu or simple colds, I would need to be taken care of like someone in a hospital’s ICU. So you can imagine how it’s been since I came home from a major surgical procedure for something that has been given me what has been one of the greatest scares of my life.

I’ve had this infected tooth for a couple of months so when a lymph node got swollen last December, I didn’t give it much thought. But one time, while having lunch at the house of a friend who’s Baguio’s best guitarist and who also happens to be a nurse, he noticed the lump on my neck and with genuine panic in his eyes and real urgency in his voice, said, “kuya, pa-check mo kaagad yang bukol sa leeg mo. Please, as soon as possible.”

My wife and I have noticed it too, but were perhaps too scared to find out what it really was and be confronted with some dire scenario. I would notice the worry in her eyes every time she looked at that lump, the same worry I have on mine whenever I saw it in the mirror. So when that friend, Ethan Andrew Ventura, finally verbalized what’s been going on in our heads, we thought it was time to go see a doctor.

Had that pesky tooth pulled out one morning and later that day, I went to see an EENT doctor. It’s funny how every time we’re confronted with our mortality, our brain goes into overdrive and like a runaway train, bombards us with thoughts that we would never conjure up willingly. I sat in the doctor’s lounge waiting for my turn, thinking how the scene right before me would be the scene that played the day I find out that I don’t have that much time anymore. Finally, my name was called. It’s nothing serious, the doctor said, knowing that I had just had an infected tooth removed, the swelling was just a result of that, he said. He prescribed some antibiotics and told me that while the drugs would reduce the swelling, I shouldn’t expect it to totally go away for the next couple of months. I breathed a sigh of immense relief, and immediately texted the good news to my wife.

Fast forward to about a couple of weeks later – the swelling didn’t subside, in fact, it seemed like it worsened. We decided to get a second opinion, and the second doctor said that while the first diagnosis could be correct, we should not totally disregard the other possibilities. Among those possibilities is the dreaded Big C. He suggested going in there to remove it and get a biopsy.

The first hurdle for a struggling artist like me is of course the cost of the procedure for despite the offer of two doctor friends to offer their services for free, hospital costs, while reasonable, are still beyond the reach of this man on the street. We inform the doctor that we’ll first try to collect from my clients whose accountants naturally don’t care about the urgency of my situation. We inquire from them if how soon can that check from an performance I directed a month ago; or that one for the event I covered on video weeks ago; or the one for performances we did last month can be released. Not soon enough. And then one day we received a call from my guardian angels – family, who informed us to go ahead and schedule the surgery asap and not to worry about cost as they would be covering it. And so last Thursday, I found myself being wheeled into the operating room. 

At the operating table, noted anaesthesiologist Dr. Robert Capuyan, and trusted surgeon Dr. Joey Ancheta discuss the procedure, and I felt relieved that I am leaving it all in the capable hands of friends. I found myself drifting off and just a couple of minutes, everything went black. I woke up an hour and a half later and I was just so glad that I found myself back here, in a recovery room of a hospital in Baguio. 

Another half an hour later and I as in a hospital room surrounded by my family and friends – and while the wound prevented me from laughing out loud, I managed a huge smile and a slight chuckle when my sons said that I was so lucky – I’m lying on what they thought was the coolest bed they’ve seen (it can be raised with just a few turns of a lever!), I have food delivered, there’s a TV bolted on the wall across me, and there’s hot shower in the bathroom!

The results of the biopsy won’t come out until after seven days, but as I browsed through my two elder children’s messages online, and watched my younger ones excitedly exploring the hospital room – pressing this and that button, changing the channel, turning the shower on and off, and laughing their heads off, I clutched my wife’s hand tightly and thought how lucky I am, indeed.

Sailing on the wings of a cloud...

*a repost of my Feb. 6, 2011 column in the Cordillera Today


“…Where to, well, nobody knows...” For those born in the early 70’s, it was the time of transition from being clueless teen-agers to angsty young adults. At the time that band called Fra Lippo Lippi filled the local airwaves, the lyrics in our heads were, “wake me up before you go-go,” “children behave – that’s what they say when we’re together,” or “gotta catch a plane at 7:30.” For the lanky 17-year olds in our neighborhood at the time, reciting the poetry (because we sang  them out of tune) of this new band meant the end of being a kid and the beginning of being mature, grown up. Naks, as we used to say. Of course we never knew what Fra Lippo Lippi’s lyrics really meant. But we sang our hearts out anyway.

The band’s name is also the title of a mid-19th century dramatic monologue by Robert Browning. With “Fra Lippo Lippi,” the Victorian poet paints a portrait of real life painter, Filippo Lippi, who faces the Augustinian conflict of whether to live “a religious life committed to the Church or a life of leisure.” The monologue also poses the question of whether art should show a real or an idealized image of life – Rent or Mary Poppins, an Amorsolo or a Bose, “if you’re not here by my side” or “die everyday to be free.”

The song, “Light and Shade,” became a hit in the Philippines in 1987. The chorus told us to “Sail on the wings of a cloud / Where to, well nobody knows” and to “cry, cry if you want them to see / Die every day to be free.”

“Be proud to wear the colours that you call your own
Be loud, speak out when you want the world to know
Be strong, hold the flame for everyone to see
Be real, if you want to love”

Nice. For us, it was a fitting introduction to the real-life angst-filled decade that was to follow – the 90’s when no one ever bothered to tell us “life was going to be this way / Your job’s a joke, you're broke, your love life's D.O.A. / It's like you're always stuck in second gear / And it hasn't been your day, your week, your month, / or even your year.” The time when, with one hand in our pocket, we asked what if God were one of us?

I missed their sold out concerts in Manila back in the late 80’s, but two decades later, they’re back. Well, he’s back – since only the lead vocalist, Per Øystein Sørensen, is. It will be nice to revisit those lyrics now that most of us have gone through so much more than doing head spins and slam dancing after bottles of The Bar. Presented
locally by Jenny Manansala-Bautista of Waltrix Productions, Sørensen takes us back in time on February 12 at the UB Gym.

I’ll be there, with kids in tow, it’ll be nice for them to hear the songs we sang when we were their age. And perhaps this time around, when we sing, “He will paint the endless sea / A mystery to me,” I’ll have a better idea about what’s it all about. 

Burnham, open spaces and Open Space

I haven’t really had the chance to catch my breath since the year started. Just when a particular project’s about to end, another one begins. And out of all the ones that have either been done or begun, there are three that have sparked inspiration not just in me but in the people I work in collaboration with.

First, I’d like to talk about the recently opened exhibit at the Atrium of SM City Baguio – “City Beautiful?” The exhibit showcases Daniel Burnham’s vision for Manila at the turn of the century, and the question mark at the end of the exhibit title underscores the way the capital turned out a century since the renowned architect envisioned it as a city that will “promote a well-balanced social order that would increase the quality of life of its citizens.” Take a walk along the streets of Manila today and you’ll understand that question mark better. Our group, Open Space, was fortunate enough to be invited to be part of the opening ceremony for the exhibit. We performed excerpts from the musical, “Kafagway: Sa Saliw ng mga Gangsa” and showed the documentary on the history of Baguio, “Portrait of a Hill Station.” When we received word that we were going to be tapped to handle the event, we decided to do something that would remind the audience that Baguio is not far from having that question mark too if we don’t act now. Sure, we’re not there yet, but we’re getting closer and closer as we farther and farther from Burnham’s original vision for the city.

Which brings me to two other projects that somehow relates to the one above – the series of performances that we have been doing at the Art Park of Camp John Hay and the planned music festival in the city in the coming weeks. After performing mostly in enclosed performance spaces, being out in the open surely sparked something in us that made us decide on our advocacy for the year – the preservation of Baguio remaining open spaces. In case you didn’t know, among Burnham’s top priorities when he came up with the “Plan of Baguio” was to create and preserve open spaces for the benefit of the future citizens of Baguio. Minac, or what we now know as Melvin Jones field, was the largest piece of flat land in what was then Kafagway. Imagine if our current administrators were the ones who were tasked to design Baguio a hundred years ago – perhaps Minac would have been their first choice to turn into a commercial hub. But no, Burnham reserved that space for a huge public park – and thanks to him, we still enjoy the benefits of that decision to this day.

So through stories, images and music, we shall go out there, out in the open, in the coming weeks, months, and for as long as there are people willing to hear us out – let us preserve our city’s remaining open spaces. So that amidst the hustle and bustle of rapid urbanization, in these open spaces, the city, and all of us along with it, will continue to be able to heave a sigh every now and then.

Here we are today

I’ll leave New Year’s resolutions, inspiring messages, you know - the niceties, to the others, there’ll be lots of that from other columnists in the first days of the New Year.

So this is how it’s going down, it seems – get elected, mess up some, get re-elected, mess up some more, get replaced by an overwhelming majority, then whine about how the new guy seems to be taking forever to clean up the mess, then get re-elected – in the US of A, that is. Alas, poor Barrack, he’s just  not a miracle worker. Never mind that it took two Bush terms to create the mess, the whole world expects him to win the war against terror; restore order in Afghanistan and Iraq; lead the country (and the world with it) towards a 360-degree economic U-turn all in one term. Or he’s out. Miss Palin is already salivating, and if she does end up as the next White House resident, let’s not be surprised if she places all blame for the mess in Afghanistan, Iraq, the economy, etc. on Obama. So unless he any of the Herculean tasks above done, that’s probably how things will play out next year Stateside.

Well, that’s how it already played out in this tiny little overly-populated highly-urbanized city. The Centennial mayor assumed office with a looming garbage crisis. The deadline for an acceptable garbage management system was fast approaching, thanks to the inaction during the past several years before that, and the garbage did hit the fan soon after. None of the things he did or did not do mattered anymore since then – fact was, the streets of Baguio had piles of stinking, rotting uncollected garbage. He was not able to clean up the mess in his three years as chief executive, and so he was booted out. A new set of officials were elected. Let me correct that – an old set of officials were re-elected. The same people whom we quite overwhelmingly said no to just six years ago because, let me refresh your memory here: allegations of widespread corruption, lack of vision, for trying to ram a casino down our throats, and selling out to a on-street pay parking company, among others.

And here we are today. We still don’t have a solid waste management system in place and so stinking, rotting uncollected garbage still litter our streets, despite the promise to solve that problem in a mere couple of months. Perhaps last year’s election season exhausted the pundits, the media, the bloggers, and the online rabble-rousers that this thing’s going unnoticed these days. But seriously, we can’t really blame the “present administration” alone for this, in fairness to the present City Hall occupant, it just can’t be done overnight – and even if it can, things done overnight often turn out to be duds.  I put “present administration” in quotation marks, yes, and also the word “alone” after that, for “the present administration” is not the only one to blame for the crisis, but also the past ones. That crisis started in 2001 when the Ecological Solid Waste Management Act was passed in congress, and hardly anything concrete was done except for concrete flyovers and pine trees. Sure the Centennial Mayor should have probably focused more on that problem, so ok, let’s put him in the loop too.

Oh wait, before I get the flak for focusing on who’s to blame instead of on finding a solution, allow me to say that perhaps the best way to find that solution is to look at the root of it all. Besides, that’s why the people elected the present officials into office – because all of the city’s current woes were blamed on the previous administration. The people bought it, some of them were bought, and now…

…well, as I said, here we are today. 

Broken Cane and Dreams

I never really thought much about what dreams meant before, except those that almost ushered me out of this world – bangungot. I get those a lot. 

For those who are lucky enough not to know what I’m talking about, it’s usually like this: the dream begins just like any other dream, then it slowly gets weirder and weirder and scarier and scarier and then you find yourself, in the dream, in a situation where you’re either being choked, strangled, suffocated, and then you start having a hard time breathing, then you’re there somewhere between two dimensions – the dream and real life, and in both places, you can’t breathe. The dream continues, with you not being able to take in air, you’re aware of that, and in real life not only are you not breathing, you also can’t move. To hell with Big Bang theorists, but I am grateful that I am naturally equipped with self-preservation instincts, and I believe that that’s by intelligent design – in the dream I start trying to get myself out of that situation that’s preventing me from taking in air, and in real life my body’s doing everything to wake itself out of the dream. 

A lot of times, I wake up just in time. I know that if I stayed in that in between state for a few more seconds, I’m outta here.

It’s Nightmare on Elm St., the reality show. I’ve gotten so used to these nightmares that at times, lying in bed waiting to fall asleep,  I know if I’m gonna have one that night. I remember one particular nightmare I had years ago. I wasn’t living here in Baguio yet, but was staying at one of those old cottages in Camp John Hay just before they bulldozed those down in the late 90’s to make way for those luxury log cabins up in Scout Hill. We were shooting a film here and I was sharing a two-bed room with a fellow actor. It was one of those times when I felt like I was gonna have one when I fall asleep. Sure enough, after staring at the ceiling for some time, I fell asleep, and in my sleep, I dreamt that I was staring at the same ceiling, in the same room, in the same bed. It was as if the what was happening to me in real life was moved into a different dimension – just like a touring play where they the whole stage set-up to a different venue for the next show. Suddenly, a woman appeared through the ceiling, grabbed me by the collar and started pulling me up towards the ceiling. The sensation of levitating was so real, then I looked down and saw my roommate across the room, sound asleep in his bed, and myself (my other self?), asleep,  right below me. Then it came – I started having difficulty breathing and when I looked down at myself again, I saw my body struggling for air. I (the one being pulled up towards the celing) tried to scream, but no sound came out. I remember ordering my body to make a sound loud enough to make my roommate wake up. Then I realized, that I, up there, and I, down there, are one, though at the time mysteriously separated. And I thought, I, up there, may not be heard by my roommate screaming for I, up there, is in another dimension, but if I try hard enough, my actions up there can move my body down there to do the same. Did that confuse you? It was so clear to me that night. Then, after struggling for a few more seconds, I, up there, actually heard myself, down there, scream, it was loud enough to wake my roommate up. I actually heard the sound, saw my roommate being roused, seeing me, getting up, walking towards my body down there, and shaking it and then I woke up, gasping for breath. I up there and my body down there were one again.

I wake up in the middle of the night a lot, gasping for breath. Medical websites tell me it’s sleep apnea. So perhaps the bad dreams were just coincidental. I for sure am still now sure whether it’s the sleep apnea that triggers the nightmares or the other way around. Then lately, during these episodes, I realize that dreams aren’t nightmares anymore, rather seemingly regular dreams of open spaces, sunsets, smiles, laughter, trees, loved ones - and yet I still find myself in between dimensions – in a dream not being able to breathe, and here in this world, paralyzed in bed, unable to move nor make a sound, struggling to stay alive, or here.

It’s been almost a year since I injured my knee, I tore a ligament, according to a couple of doctors I consulted. It’s gotten better several times, and I’ve re-injured it as many times. My wife bought me a cane a few months back when I started really having a hard time walking. I’d pick that cane up every now and then whenever I twist my knee the wrong way again finding myself unable to walk unaided. The other night, I dreamt about that cane being broken in half. Oddly enough, the mere sight of the broken cane in my dream brought me to that half-asleep, half-awake state again, unable to breathe.

Luckily, for the nth time, I woke up just in time to catch my breath. I found it hard to go back to sleep that night, thinking about that broken cane in my dream and though I’ve formed my own conjecture, the next day, instead of my usual morning fare of coffee, cigarettes and browsing Facebook for anything interesting happening on and beyond my computer monitor, I found myself searching the world wide web for anything that could tell me what it meant, or maybe confirm my speculation.

Typing in “search: ‘broken cane dreams’” brought me to Dreammoods.com which told me that, “To see or use a cane in your dream, suggests that you are in need of some support and advice. The cane may also represent someone you trust and can rely on.” I thought so, it’s pretty obvious what a cane may represent.

Let’s see, what are the canes in my life?

Family – my children, my wife. My life revolves around them. And while I do all I can to provide for them, it’s really me who lean on them a lot. To rephrase an oft-quoted line from a movie, “they complete me,” in so many ways.

Family – my parents, two surviving grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins. At the end of the day, they let me know that I’m not alone in this journey, that I belong.

My art – in all the forms I express it. And like the ripples a tiny pebble makes in the vast ocean, my art lets me know that I matter in this universe.

Friends – all of them, all my life. From that friend I sang songs all afternoon up a tamarind tree as a child; and 

the one I fashioned masks with to fight all evil and become superheroes; and that one with whom I crossed that threshold between childhood and being a grown-up; and the rest who remained and the ones who left and returned. And yes, even those who believed bridges were burned, if only they knew that in certain cases, some of them never actually needed a bridge in the first place to get to the door, which, for better or worse, never really closes.

So what’s with the dream? A broken cane – not some manananggal strangling me, nor was it anything remotely scary at all, yet how come that image turned into a nightmare that left me almost out of breath?

And if it did mean what it supposedly meant, which cane in my life was it about? Ahh, there you go, see, breaking any one of those canes is indeed more terrifying than anything else in and out of this world.

Did I break the heart of a loved one, a friend? Did I compromise the integrity of my art in some way?

The broken knee has gotten better, since I hurt it, sigh, again, a couple of weeks ago. After a day with a cane, I can do without it again. Whenever this damned knee gets better, I always feel like I will never have any real use for that cane again. It gets tucked away somewhere out of sight, neglected, forgotten. And then something happens, and I find myself almost totally helpless without it.

I must take care of that cane, no matter what, for better or worse. Not only because I may need it again sometime in the future, but also if only to show my gratitude for all the times it propped me up when I’m down, or helped me move on, climb up steps or get down on my knees. 

It’s comforting to know that as long as I catch my breath, when I wake up, a cane’s there to always help me get out of bed. 

One less car

*a repost of my Nov. 21 column in the Cordillera Today

The signs say – “Motorcycle and Bicycle Ban Along Session Road Is Strictly Implemented. Violators Will Be Apprehended.”

In recent days, police visibility along Session Road has multiplied, particularly during afternoon rush hour. I’m sure this will help drive away so-called petty criminals such as pickpockets and snatchers (hopefully out of the city, and not just a couple of blocks away from the heart of the city), it’s quite obvious that their top priority is the apprehension of motorcyclists in the area as two-wheeled vehicles are banned along Session Road. I am wondering though if this only applies to private (i.e. non-commercial) motorcyclists as the delivery morotcyles of the numerous fastfood restaurants there are still around at all hours of the day. They’re the ones who should be banned for I am sure I am not alone when I say that a lot of these fastfood deliverymen are notoriously reckless with their motorcyles, weaving in and out of traffic dangerously, swerving between lanes carelessly, making u-turns at pedestrian lanes, etc.  I believe the among the reasons for the ban are the added noise and air pollution these two-stroke engines produce.

And now, I just learned, that there is also a bicycle ban in place too. Er, huh?

While the rest of the sensible world, in this age of ozone layer depletion and global warming, are advocating the use of bicycles as an environment-friendly, not to mention healthy, alternative to oil-powered modes of transportation, here we are banning its use. Just a few weeks ago the debate was how to reduce air pollution at least within the Central Business District, now the talks are about why were discouraging one of the things that can actually help do just that. For every cyclist prevented from bringing his bike to Session Road, that’s one more commuter who would be forced to either ride a smoke-belching jeepney or taxi to get to the center of town.   

One of the comments in an online forum said that the ban is actually anti-poor, for while those who can afford to buy motor vehilces can freely drive around town, it deprives those who can only afford to buy a bicycle their right to use the city’s roads. That’s also true.  

So instead of promoting, encouraging the use of an alternative more of transportation that can help ease the traffic congestion, air and noise pollution along Session Road – they ban it. Just like that.

How did such a ban come about? I really don’t know what the rationale behind it is. But take a look at our city officials – top to bottom – do any of them bike? Right.

You want to ease traffic along Session Road? How many vehicles parked and double-parked along that road carry only one person? Can you imagine if most of those persons rode bikes instead? How much less space their parked bicycles would occupy?

And I write this column after seeing a photo in of our local newspapers of a police officer removing the license plate of a vehicle apparently belonging to our good congressman for double parking alone Session Road.

Ay, apo.

It’s two-way street: look both ways

*a repost of my Nov. 14 column in the Cordillera Today

In one of our performances of a play here in Baguio years ago at a school gymnasium, there was a group of students who obviously did not come to watch a show but to be the show instead. While the show was going on, they kept on heckling, making unnecessary noises, doing all they can to disrupt the performance and catch attention. After some time, I stopped in the middle of a line, dropped the character, and addressed the audience directly. I apologized for the disruption, and for not being able to go on with the performance anymore due to the aforementioned group’s behavior. I then turned my attention to the attention-seekers and reminded them that for P50.00, the price of the ticket to the show, they only earned the privilege to experience a theatrical presentation, and not the right to disrespect both the artists and the rest of the members of the audience.  That’s what our posters and other advertising materials promised: buy the ticket, and you can come in and watch the performance, and for our part, we commit to professionally perform with all our hearts and minds. While we do remind our audiences during performances that they cannot eat, drink nor smoke during the show, we did not have a dress-code written at the back of those tickets, neither did we need to specify that they should not disrupt the show. Common sense dictated those.

I am reminded of this incident now as I read about the incident at the Manila Hotel where one Moshe Dacmeg was prevented from entering the premises because he was not wearing the appropriate attire for the occasion. That occasion, dubbed “Embracing Our Common Humanity, had the former U.S. President Bill Clinton as speaker. First arriving at the venue wearing more conventional clothing, after breezing through the entrance to the hotel, Dacmeg later changed into a traditional Cordillera g-sting which prompted the event’s coordinators, as well as the U.S. Secret Service assigned to Clinton, to deny him entry. Tickets to the event did not come cheap, with most expensive pegged at P25,000.00 and general admission at P2,000.00.

The online community is expectedly again filling up with outrage and hate messages, most decrying the perceived “discrimination” that Dacmeg suffered, particularly atthe hands of white men that were members of Clinton’s security detail. Ifugao representative Teodoro Baguilat reportedly said “a man in a g-string is not a terrorist but an honorable man,” and asked, “Why? Does wearing G-string constitute a threat to Clinton?”  Mr. Vladimir Cayabas, administrator of the National Institute of Information Technology (NIIT) and to whom Mr. Dacmeg was reported to be an aide, also said, “We went there using our tribal gear to represent our region. We went there to participate and learn, and not to be labeled as terrorists or suspects.”

I don’t think that Dacmeg was prevented from entering because he was perceived as a threat to Mr. Clinton, or suspected of being a terrorist. I simply think that they (the organizers and the Secret Service) never expected to encounter a half-naked man at the event. Nope, they were not being disrespectful towards indigenous cultures and traditions, they most probably had no idea that what he was a wearing was a traditional Kankanaey attire. To them, he was simply dressed inappropriately for an event where people were expected to attend dressed in more conventional attire. Mr. Dacmeg was asked if he could at least put on a shirt, to which the reply was that putting on a shirt would dishonor g-string, and that the g-string “must never be mixed with other attire”, according to Mr. Cayabas. But he did later say, reportedly, that “it was cold so I allowed Moshe to finally wear the shirt.” Among my memories of Sagada are old men in g-strings and coats walking around town.

Bottom line is, it was Clinton’s, their, show - their show, their rules. In the same way as when they come to yours – your show, your place, your rules. While we must respect all cultures and traditions, indigenous or otherwise, we must also not impose our own on others. A lot of establishments here in Baguio would not allow a person wearing only a g-string to enter their premises too, you know. 

Respect is a two-way street. We must always look both ways before holding up a placard and shouting, “Damaso.”