Angeles HD

Angeles City, October 1964

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

--   The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam, translated by Edward Fitzgerald, 1859 

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I saw this photo posted by Taga Angeles Ku on Facebook, and memories beyond the scope of this two-dimensional digital image rushed in. 


Back in the '60s, the Esso gas station sign was one of the first things I saw from my window in my waking hours. My room is on the second floor of a house just about across that gas station. Early at night I heard the occasional jeeps passing by; there were not many then, so the calesas, pulled by skinny horses, were not obstructions at all. Even in the mornings and afternoons of those quiet years, traffic was always light and, as can be seen in the picture, the view was not obscured by pollution.

At ground level of the house we rented was the junk shop my father managed. I was in grade school then, taking up English courses from 7 a.m. to 12 noon, and a Chinese course from 1-5 p.m. I made good grades, but, thinking about that now, I realize I was kind of dumb then. For example, I was not aware that my family lacked in many aspects, such as a house of our own, not exposed to the hustles of Henson Street. Maybe it's because Grade School leveled our status -- poor and lower middle-class kids mixed with rich kids whose family owned a hotel near Crossing, a big grocery store downtown, or a drug store just beyond that Esso sign.

So up and down the junk shop my family thrived. On weekends I was asked to stay at the shop: that meant help my father while he weighed the corrugated boards, sheets of folded tins, rusty iron metals and nuts and bolts, and stacks of old newspapers. In mid-afternoon, as the sun highlighted the road outside the store, I would sift through the bundle of newspapers, separating all the cartoon pages, especially from the Stars & Stripes. Sometimes I got lucky and found a portion of a Peanuts book or -- heaven on Earth! -- an entire comic book, or a letter envelope with a stamp still stuck on it. At night I would pore through my finds, not knowing that the black-and-white strips, the Batman adventures, and my growing stamp collection were influences that would stick for life.

I don't remember the year we moved to Henson St., but the junk shop with second-floor living space was certainly many notch above the rectangular one-room tenement we had left behind in an alley leading to the Apo Church. That church is located in Lourdes Sur East, where, my mother told me, I was born around noon of a Wednesday in 1955. "Yes," my grandmother would add later on, "there was an eclipse, the sky turned dark in the middle of the afternoon, the dogs howled, and all the chickens, after cackling their protest, went to sleep."

Google spat out the only significant event that occurred the day I was born: Ngo Din Diem declared South Vietnam a republic and became its first president. He would be assassinated in early 1963. A few days later, 1963 Nov. 22, President John F. Kennedy would be assassinated too. I remember my mother waking me very early on the morning of November 23 -- it's still dark outside -- and showing me the front page of a special edition of the Manila Times. The front-page photo showed a dotted line starting from a top window of a building, leading to a spot in a car below -- the trajectory of the bullet that blew open a side of Kennedy's head. "The president of America was killed," my mother said. "Uh-huh," I said, my mind more on the unusual fact that someone in our house had bought a new newspaper, not a used one to be priced by weight. Strange day. The smell of fresh ink on clean paper would stay with me forevermore, when I buy a new book, when I add a new Batman comics to my collection, when I get fresh bills from the bank. A month and a year later after the Kennedy assassination, the picture above of Henson Street would be taken.

We slept early at night on Henson Street, unlike those crazy chickens in Lourdes Sur East. I remember the fading roar of cars leaving the city, the clop-clops of the hooves of a horse pulling its load to home and a well-deserved rest. I see through my window the high structure across the street and I wonder what kind of people live in such a place, so big and not made of wood. Sometimes I hear a jukebox somewhere, making the night soft with guitar music: Faithful Love, I Miss You So, Sleepwalk. The titles of those songs I would learn when I grew up. Through the years, in High School, in College, I would try to perform the tunes on a succession of guitars bought and broken, with no success. And one song by the Beatles remains magical in my memory because it was played one night when no other sounds obtruded: Ask Me Why. Haunting.

And so they remain, the old songs, the Peanuts strips on half-a-book without cover, Henry, Nancy, Dagwood, Dick Tracy, Casper, Wendy, Richie Rich. The years would pile new memories on top of old, and although the structures of lives and buildings have been so drastically altered now, just an old picture in Facebook can bring the past to life. That version of the past will live, as long as the old cells in my faltering mind sustain the existence of my Angeles, in high definition.

Brown Sugar

Evolution of the Philippine Flag

EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO the world was younger and so was I. I was more innocent, less experienced; so was the world.

Angeles City, too, where I walked on one of her unpaved streets, under a sheet of rain, tiny fingerlings probing me for spots left unwet.

I laughed. I was sopping wet but I laughed with my newfound freedom to get wet with impunity. Drops and drops of waterpins dripped from my hair; there were a lot of drops because I had more hair then.

Suddenly a runt of a jeep – there were very few full-length Saraos then – splashed by, carrying a bunch of palengkera in its belly.

One of them cried out to me: “Oy, boy! (I was that young. At least I looked that young.) Queni, sake na ca; bayaran que’ng pamasahi mu.” She was a stout motherly woman, her heart as stout and soft as she.

The jeep waddled to a stop, but with a friendly wave I let it go, the woman still protesting, “Boooyyy…”

It was fun while it lasted. Of course I paid for it the next day with a raging fever. A few weeks later the big flood came and washed away the bridge near Tibagin. A few months later bombs exploded and Marcos declared martial law.

But it would take more than exploding bombs and martial law, in fact it would take more than a few years, before I realized that stouthearted fishwives – especially those on their way to Pampang Market to haggle and fight over a few centavo difference in their galunggong – do not instinctively succor a boy in the rain.

But in 1972, 18 years ago, there were still a lot of them.

At that time, old-age pension was unheard of because in the provinces old people were cared for. Orphanages were not built because no child was ever without a home. Mental hospitals were few because Filipino life did not provoke nervous breakdowns.

And poverty was not a shame then because no Filipino would see his brother starve. Besides:
EDJOP was still alive.
Eman still wrote his poems.
Cory visited Ninoy in his cell.

And through all my doubts, I admired people I would later hate.

But that was a long time ago, when beggars were not syndicated, when coup d’etat was only an exotic French phrase, when we had to look up a dictionary to know what pedophile meant.

That was when Snoopy ruled the Earth. Garfield did not exist, Calvin and Hobbes still a universe away. The seed of Pugad Baboy was not even planted yet.

Those were salad days even if Nixon was president of the United States, Marcos the dictator of the Philippines; even if we didn't care as much about the US bases and we didn’t ask why we sent our soldiers to fight in Vietnam. We coasted along.

So it was almost too late when we realized that the old-age pension was missing because they closed down the Veteran’s Bank, that orphanages were not filled because the children were sold to foreigners. And the reason why mental hospitals were still few was that most of those who should have been committed there were occupying Cabinet positions instead.

We became sophisticated. We learned to bury some of our dead under film centers. For a papal visit, we whitewashed poverty out of existence by erecting walls around the squatters.

Ninoy fasted and almost starved to death, in a country so richly endowed by nature that it was almost impossible to go hungry.

What happened? There was a time when Rafael Zulueta da Costa, a poet as fine as this country could produce, compared the Filipino to the molave – brown, sturdy and resilient.

Or perhaps my friends Ody, Abner and Joven will agree if I use another definition -- that the Filipino is Brown Sugar: coarse, unrefined, undiluted by foreign and false flavors, yet offering the same sweetness; more natural, therefore more honest.

And brown. As brown as the skin of the fat, gentle fishwife who with instincts as old as the islands, gives sanctuary to any boy running from the rain.

But the boy, sometimes he is not as young as he looks; the rain is not always wet, not when it is made of lead.

***

I’ve got brown sugar in my veins. My veins are as taut as the strings of a guitar strumming the song of a struggle far more destructive than the RAM-SFP coup stuff, much more insidious than the AFP vs NPA war. I am fighting for the Filipino mind.


You see, out there in the streets walks a treacherous woman with more money than brain, more pesos than sense, who would have us believe that white sugar is infinitely better than brown sugar.

She hires hacks with saccharine and nutrasweet in their veins, with molasses as their brains, who churn out tripes in their constant attempt to convince us of the superiority of their pale patrons and the inferiority of our race.


Your culture, they hint, is damaged.

Compare: you have no temple, no Angkor Wat, no grand mausoleum like the Taj Mahal, no Great Wall, no Hanging Garden, not even a Stonehenge, or Easter Island heads. Even poor Peru has Machu Picchu, but you, the only pyramids you have are the ones Johnny Midnight sells.

The Rice Terraces – What of it? It’s only a food-oriented monument to the first brown sugars who molded and cultivated it.

Come to think of it, even the names of your tribes are food oriented. Tagalog, Cebuano, Pampango, Ilongo, Bicolano, Ilocano – translated, don’t they all mean the same thing? A body of people who lives near a body of water, where they pluck the fishes for their food, which make their hair kinky and their noses flat.

Why, even your first freedom fighter was named after a big fish. He made chop-chop out of that grand culture bearer, Magellan, in Mactan.

Wasdimater with you little brown brothers, don’t you like culture? Don’t you like the Aspirin Age?

Ish depengs, I say.

***

Eighteen years later, the big flood returned and the body of water turned bigger than the body of people living near its edge and washed them away.

On that Saturday morning, while houses in Dolores, Abacan and Sapangbato disappeared, my jeep was stuck in the middle of a bridge in Mabiga.

Blankets of rain poured on me, but there were fewer drops that dripped from my hair.

Cultured men in their cultured cars beep-beeped and whizzed by, followed by full-length Saraos – there’s a lot of them now. One even tried to scrape the backside of my runt of a jeep. Then a garbage truck rumbled behind, and the driver, a thin man with a straw hat, jumped down and we pushed the runt to the shoulder of the road.

When we couldn’t figure out what was wrong, he returned to his truck and drove off – he still had garbage to collect, even in that rain – but not before dropping off one of his men to stay with me.

“He’s our mechanic,” the driver said. The man, shirtless, wet and shivering, looked under the hood.

“I can’t fix this,” he said. “I’ll get my son.”

“Where’s your son?”

“In San Joaquin.”

Thirty minutes later, the man, his son and me – three wet miserable creatures -- worked under the hood until the faithless runt throbbed to life again.

I paid the son for fixing the jeep. For getting out of the warm comfort of his house and coming into the rain to help his shivering father and me, he was not paid. Filipino culture has not yet decreed a price for that sort of thing.

The father did not ask and I didn’t offer any payment. I am much older and more experienced now to know that to do so would be an offense. The truck driver was his compadre.

“Salamat,” I said. It was the only acceptable mode of payment.

Then the truck rumbled into view from the opposite direction, its belly already full of the cultured garbage of cultured people. The driver, his straw hat dripping, waved me away with a smile as his shirtless compadre hopped into the truck.

“Salamat, salamat…”

Later on, I figured out that the truck driver, the father and the son, and that fat woman 18 years ago, were the same products of this unfortunate land -- uneducated but gentle, less cultured but lacking the great unkindness of sophisticated races.

I’ll stay with them, maybe only for a short time -- because my life is short. I’ll fight the good fight with them, as long as the treacherous woman leads the good life by throwing brown sugar down the river.

***

This first appeared in The Angeles Sun in September 1990, then in Midweek magazine in November 1991. Maybe it's not surprising that this article has maintained its relevance after more than 20 years.

Tulang pinulot sa aking email c'',)

U R

You are the...

Apple of my eye

Mango of my pie

Palaman of my tinapay

Niyog on my kalamay .

You are the...

Ipin of my suklay

Ring on my kamay

Blood of my atay

Bubbles of my laway.

 You are the ...

 Roof of my bahay

 Strength of my tulay

 Joy of my tagumpay

 Dream of my nanay.

 You are the...

Ube in my monay

Patis in my gulay

Toyo in my siomai

Calcium in my kalansay.

You are the...

Buhol of my tie

Bituin of my sky

Beauty of my Tagaytay

Ketchup on my french fry.

You are the....

Wings when I fly

Wind when I paypay

Sipit for my sampay

Tungkod when I am pilay.

You are the...

Shoulder when I cry

Cure to my "aray"

Answer as to "why"

I am nangingisay.

You are the

only Love until I die

In short, you are

The Center of My Buhay.

Pinoy love lines

Sinimulan ito nina Julius Babao at Niña Corpuz kaninang umaga; sumali pa si Vic Lima. Pinoy love lines: 
(1) Para kang Google, kasi nasa iyo ang lahat ng hanap ko. 
(2) Hindi ka pa ba napapagod, lagi kang tumatakbo sa isip ko. 
(3) Para kang Pasko, lagi kitang hinihintay. 
(4) Nasaan ka kagabi, wala ka sa panaginip ko. 
(5) Ang pag-ibig parang catsup, matamis pero maraming nakikisawsaw.

At marami pa sa kantang ito:

Jim Lee's Art

Superman #204

Umaga na naman,

Wala na ang buwan.

"Oy, Bongee, saan mo dinala?"

"Aba, Pogi, di ko kinuha."

Ayan, ginawa kong vehicle itong drawing na Superman ni Jim Lee (tingala, please) para sa Gud Morning poem ko kay Bong Raya Leuterio, alias Bongee. Nung 1970s binulabog ang mga comics geek ng matinding presentation ni Neal Adams kay Batman, yung may light and deep shadows. Ito marahil ang simula ng image ni Batman as the kick-ass Dark Knight. Por eksampol, tingnan mo ang Adams cover sa ibaba:

Tapos dumating itong American-Korean artist na si Jim Lee at sinimulan and 12-issue series na Hush mula Batman #608. Siyempre kinomplete ko ang buong series.

Batman #608

At dahil magpapasyal pa ako sa sa eBay, ihahagis ko na lang itong natitirang artwork ni Lee. Sangkatutak pa ang makikita nyo sa http://comicartcommunity.com/gallery/categories.php?cat_id=52 c'',)

Puwedeng gawing wallpaper sa iPad mo, dba?

Meron akong malaking poster nito sa Stamp Room ko.

You're welcome.

Lakbay-Diwa

Batman #608

Minsan... hindeeeh, madalas! -- bigla akong magigising bago bumuka si Liwayway, ika nga, dahil siniko na naman ang naghihilik kong imahinasyon ng mga basurang diwa na nawaglit kong itapon nung gising pa ako. Kaya ayan, alas tres ng saksakang dilim pang umaga eh kinakalabit ako, at di ako patutulugin muli hanggang di ko sinakyan itong bagong topak ng utak. Pipitik ako ng ilang letra at magsisimula ang biyahe. Kung saan-saan sesemplang ang diwang kadalasa'y di rin alam kung saan lalagapak. Eto ang resulta:

Pinasyalan ko nung Linggo si Mang Andy, o Congressman Ferdinand "Andy" Moño. (Siya ang nagturo sa akin na miyembro siya ng "hinayupaks" na House of Representathieves.) Dinatnan ko siyang hawak ang Batman comics, at tila malalim ang iniisip.


"Wow, Ninong, variant cover ng Hush #1 yan ah. Was di problem?"

"Ala lang, napakagara nireng pagka-drawing ni Jim Lee kay Batman -- nasa lugar lahat ang muscle, matipuno siya, tila intelihente pa. Di ko pa rin mawari bakit nasa labas ang brief niya."

"Hebigat nga ng problema mo, 'Nong. Tingnan mo, nakasinturon pa, para di malaglag ang brief. Suspension of the brief, nyehehe.."

"Diyan nakasalampak ang isip ko ngayon, iho, sa dyaskeng suspension of disbelief na iyan. Bakit tila ang buong Pilipinas ay nagbubulag-bulagan."

"I know what you mean, Ninong, ako rin na-shock sa desisyon ng mga judges-- "

"Mga hinayupak na hunghang, mga kusinerong tigaluto ng mapaklang desisyon, manghahabi ng buhanging nakakaduling, mga kilabot sa kotong, mga..."

"Easy, Ninong, easy. At least obvious pa rin, kahit binigay nila ang points kay Pacman, bumaba ang ranking niya ngayon, second to Mayweather na lang ngayon, according to Sports Illustrated. Pero sa Ring magazine..."

"Dyaske! Ala akong pakialam sa Pacman-Pacman na iyan, laging absent sa session, lagi kong nakikita sa sabungan, pumusta pa laban sa Texas ko, grrr... Tapos itong diyosa niyang si Gloria, at ang mga huwes na nasa bulsa ng tiniris na tiyanak, akala mo talagang kagalang-galang na di bulag sa taginting ng malaking lagay, akala mo birhen ang Constitution na ilang beses na nilang ginahasa..."

"Dami ngang pang-utong sound bites no, Ninong? Rule of Law. Nation of law, not of men. Extend due respect to a former president of the land. First Gentleman..."

"Pweh! Pweh! Pwehpwepwepwepwe! Dinuduraan ko ang duwendeng masiba sa pesos at poder, pati na ang asawa niyang mataba, isama mo na ang sagradong Constitution na ginagamit pala makatakas ang kutong-lupa at tulisang kamag-anak, para magmistulang tama ang mali. Kung paluluhurin ako ng ganitong batas para igalang ang mag-asawang mandarambong at bayaring appointees nila sa hukuman, susunugin ko sa harap nila ang nilapirot na Constitution. Ba't takot silang ma-contempt of court?! Malalim ang contempt ko sa tarandadong Supreme Court na yan. If this be contempt, make the most of it! Pweh! Pwepwepwepweh!..."

At diyan ko iiwan itong latest escapade ng imsoniac kong utak. PwepwepwePwehehe... Wish me sleep, fans.

The thing about kittens

Three cuties, Jobs, and me

Tabby gave birth to three cuties more than two months ago. Now one of them is trying to snatch the cursor on the screen as I type this.

At birth, Ragdolls are white, thin-furred kitties who suckle and sleep all day, not very different from us at all. After two weeks their eyes open, and a few days more they crawl about, their lifelong curiosity in bloom. A few more weeks they jump on the bed, chewing the tissue papers and book pages, making scratch post of my arms and legs to sharpen their growing nails, or claws.

Now, about those nails: at certain length they curl at the end, obviously to hook into my moving toes and my other body parts that move. As Leena says, "If it moves, it's prey." I know that too, after bottles of betadine through the years. It is not unusual to find repaired patches on my arms and legs when kittens come. I have grown used to surreptitious glances at my scratches -- and Mickey Mouse band-aids -- from salesladies in mall shops and bookstores.

However, there are times when the sudden although playful digs of claws into my flesh make me curl up and shout for Melay to take away the particular "gremlin" preying in my bed. Last week, all three siblings climbed aboard and wrestled, chewed, clawed -- bits of tissues, some of paper and some from my flesh, were torn. To save what's left of my body -- I always save some parts for the next generations of kittens to come -- I moved to the other room to continue my reading or my Angry Birds game.

Being human more or less -- less, I think -- sometimes I get irritated, even mad (in all sense of the word), when claws suddenly dig  deeply into my leg. One such time,  I threw a pillow at one of the kits in startled reaction to a bite on my toe (it moved).  Fortunately no harm was done. That's my first and last pillow-throw. I don't want to experience again the great alarm and anxiety I felt as the pillow winged its way toward its target.

Tuesday this week, October 25, one of the kittens got sick. Early in the morning Melay noticed the kit became sluggish, had stopped eating, and went frequently to the litter box to relieve herself. Diarrhea can be fatal to kittens if the resulting dehydration is not cured in time. The kitten was forced to ingest water mixed with brown sugar every 30 minutes to give her energy -- and the much needed time to survive until the vet arrived.

It was touch and go for the kitten that day. The vet observed severe dehydration and injected electrolytes into the weak kitten. It was a painful process, for the kitten, whose piteous meows made Tabby jump onto the table to see what was happening. And no less for me as the inserted needle sent the kitten, although weak, struggling and emitting purrs of pain. Cold hands clutched my heart, already full of fear, and of thoughts that if I could only bear the pain and danger for the kitten, I would.

I cannot fathom the depth of despair when a kitten is lost to us. Too many, loving and loved, are already interred around the mango tree in our garden. Time numbs the pain, distress, and helplessness against the crazy ways of the world, but a kitten in danger refreshes the feelings, and fear is never diminished.

Melay, who feeds and play with Tabby's brood, yesterday noticed the kitten playing with its siblings, running, jumping, climbing, eating -- mundane activities in normal times, but not in my home, not in my person, made coward by the loss of little heartbeats. 

Yesterday Leena gave me a new book -- "Steve Jobs" by Walter Isaacson. And the kitten played on. My silent joy is equivalent to a prayer. Happy birthday, indeed.

Julius

This is one of two photos we have of orange Julius -- to remember him by. He quietly passed away in the early morning of 2011 March 30, Wednesday. He did not even get to feel the warmth of another sunrise. He was buried near the mango tree, joining other kittens that also were not given the chance to grow and frolic in our hearts. He was with us for a measly two weeks, yet his death stings like hell. It almost makes me believe in souls and heaven, so he will have a place to go, where no ill star can touch him anymore.

We don't know why he died. One day he is calling for his adoptive mother, Tabby, for milk, for warmth, for licks of affection, playing with Tabby's five kids, his squeaky delight filling the house; then on Wednesday he is gone. Just like that, he's gone. For ever.

At my age I have gone through a lot, but I am still bewildered by the death of the innocents. I understand how powerless we are against the force of nature. No amount of petition or prayers can stay the execution of fate, no tears of pity or shouts of rage are considered. Such is our world.

Let me put on record Julius' existence: On 2011 March 17, before noon, Julius, thin, dirty and hungry, was seen crawling near the street where Leena was waiting for a ride to work. So Leena phones home and Joy went to get Julius home, where he was given a bath in warm water. Two other mother cats were approached to see if they will give Julius their life-saving milk. No. We understand the No of nature. So, it's obviously Tabby again, who we were trying to spare from feeding another kitten with her present brood of five. Any kitten is Tabby's kitten, and acceptance was immediate and unquestioned.

 

For the next few days I would be startled from my reading by a sharp squeals from Julius. Joy said Tabby's kids were wrestling again, including Julius in their play. 

"So why the loud meows?" I asked.

"Jinujudo siya ng mga anak ni Tabby, gustong-gusto naman."

Squeals, thuds, crashes (sometimes resulting in broken glass and vases) and noises caused by pets you love do not distract me (whom slight rustles are irritants) from reading or writing. Even old age accepts new facts of life. I can easily accept death now, after so many colleagues and a few friends have preceded me. What I cannot learn to accept is the death of young kittens.

I quote from Leena's blog -- Tears for a kitten, http://www.catlovertalaga.com/2010/08/sometimes-i-wanna-get-my-hand-on-god.html -- "Sometimes what tears our hearts is not the terrible thing that happens to us, but to the ones we deeply care for."

Our Tabby

Tabby accommodates Julius while one of her kittens looks on.

Ragdolls are invariably white-furred, blue-eyed amiable cats -- like Tabby in the photo above. An orange stray is suckling hungrily, minutes after the kitten was picked up in a street corner. Tabby is the only mother cat of any breed in our home who is willing to succor any kitten in distress. And this is not the first time she has saved a kitten thrown to die, either by hunger, exposure to the elements, or to be squashed under the wheel of a passing car. People can be cruel if they are ignorant. I like animals more than people.

Back to Tabby and the new foundling, which, due to his orange color, has been named Julius. Tabby -- named after Stephen King's wife, Tabitha -- has given birth to five kittens almost two months ago, but that doesn't matter -- any kitten of any breed, color or origin is welcome to join her brood anytime. In the photo, one of her kids is looking on as Julius clings to his adoptive mother.

Julius' hunger is not limited to milk; he also needs the comfort and warmth of a mother's presence. A squeaky meow indicates that Tabby is away from his side. So, sometimes Julius, eyes still unopened, will crawl until he finds a warm body to cling on. Tabby's kids, who turn two-month-old today (2011 March 20), have acquired the amiability and gentleness inherent to Ragdolls; they let Julius cuddle them.

Julius climbs on his new "brother" for warmth.

This is not the first time Tabby has succored and saved other cat's child. I remember April 2009, when Eric, a friend, brought a baby Ragdoll to us because the kit's mother could not produce milk. Eric came to us, hoping to find a way to save the feeble kitten, which was already weak from starvation.

Here is Leena's account of the incident:

"I hoped that our Tabby, who recently gave birth to three healthy kittens, will succor a fourth. If not, it’s just a matter of a few hours before the weak Ragdoll dies. Hoping fervently, I placed the scrawny kitten’s fate before Tabby.

Without hesitation, Tabby nipped the kitty’s nape and added it among her brood. The small one, eyes still closed, instinctively found a teat and sucked weakly as we watched. A few minutes later we relaxed a bit when the baby continued feeding. At least a spark was kindled.

A few days later, our tiny refugee was crawling about the room. We gained something precious – this world, so sordid, could not be so intolerable if from time to time it allows a spluttering life to go on.

Then the allotted weeks passed, and the kitten opened an eye. We waited for the other eye to open, but it remained shut. When Eric visited his kitten, he was elated to see the improvement. When he saw the closed/open eyes, he said the lovely rascal looked like a bandit." (So the survivor's name became Bandit -- a cute bandit who stole our heart.)

[ http://www.catlovertalaga.com/2009/03/bandit.html ]

Then in October 2009, Ondoy devastated Metro Manila, including our neighborhood. Two days after the super-typhoon, Leena found three newborn kittens thrown in front of a pastor's house. Naturally the three became a part of our household. And Tabby, who had just given birth to six kittens a few days earlier, tried to bring one of them to add to her brood. But that is another story.

In the eyes of a child

Cute boy and painting by child prodigy Hamzah Marbella

In the eyes of a child
the world is young, where play
and slumber have no hurried pace.
The child, like the world, is rich beyond measure
because time has no meaning,
truth is not burdened by falsehood,
a marble is gem enough, bugs and dragonflies
fill the days: happiness abounds.
Age, casually tossed into eternity's heap,
cannot exist
in the eyes of the child.
--William the Henry

 

Mau's babies

This is Mau, or Maurin. Because she looked like her father, Mau, she was named Mau rin = Maurin. Credit for the fun name goes to Leena. 

On December 2, Mau gave birth to four cuties; however, the first one to come out was dead. She was not named before she was buried in the shelter of the mango tree inside the wall of our home. The lack of name lessens the heartbreak.

And this is Mau's daughter, Dasher. Leena, who had been wrapping gifts for Christmas when Dasher and her siblings were born, was obviously thinking of Santa's reindeer. I could name only one when asked -- Rudolph. Sneezy and Grumpy are Snow White's dwarfs, Leena said.

Dasher sometimes perches on my tummy, which turns warm on the small spot occupied by her. I have learned that if a small cat can trust and like me, then I'm not so terrible after all.

 Dasher on my slipper

Mau Jr. is a small and cute male version of Mother Mau.

 Mau Jr. on my other slipper. Either my feet smells like catnip 
or they are mouse-flavored.

  This is Sky, the big brother. In cat language, his color is blue -- like, the Sky is blue.

 

Facebook names

In a very limited way, principles of Graphology or Handwriting Analysis can be applied to usernames in Facebook.


The username, somewhat equivalent to a handwritten signature, project one's public image, how someone wants to be known or perceived. This, of course, is very different from the real person behind the name.


Here are some ways in which people present themselves in Facebook:


1. Name plain and simple: Straightforward, has nothing to hide, usually happy with who he is and doesn't really care whether you like it or not. What you see is what you get. Ex. Berto Licungpaco.


2. So far, only Leonardo da Vinci had been known to write using mirror-image of the Italian alphabets, wherein each letter is flipped. The simplified Facebook equivalent is the name spelled in reverse; e.g. Oniuqa Yonyon.


Basically, the user has something to hide and he doesn't want others to know the truth about him. What he presents in public is different from the secret person he dares not show.


Also, the user may prefer events in his life to flow in the opposite direction because the present course is uneventful, unhappy, or problematic.


3. Graphologists agree that including the middle name or initial is a sign of pride, because it's a very formal (and official) way of presenting oneself. Edith Galang Lacanilao, Roland M Chiapoco (the lack of a dot after the middle initial "M" has a significance Roland might know or he is not aware of).


(I add here Roland's explanation: "Thanks for analyzing my facebook name. I was thinking of putting the 'M' in front of my first name just to be different. Naunahan lang ako ni M Night Shyamalan. With regards to the '.' period after M. just like in M Night's movies... I will let you draw your own conclusions.")


Every initial or name appended beyond the required ones is a sign of affection for the one linked to the additional name or initial. On the other hand, middle names or initials that create unhappy or uncomfortable thoughts are omitted. So what looks plain and simple may not be so at all. Nothing is really plain and simple, black or white, about people.


4. Nicknames are not exactly simple; they can be considered as substitutes or preferred forms of address. Anything that goes beyond the plain and simple is an embellishment, usually a ribbon to adorn the ego.


The "Pogi" in William Pogi Chua is obviously a modest attempt to conceal his real middle name, Cute. Yes, William Cute Chua makes him blush. Another reason for adding unusual second name is that people with Chinese surnames, which are very common, are sure to have namesakes all over this planet. When I was taking an exam permit in UST years ago, there are four other students named William Chua, although each of us have different middle initial. I recently heard my name mentioned in TV Patrol. Of course it's my popular namesake, the lawyer. One solution to this is to avoid regular first names if you have a very common family name. I don't think anyone has thought of naming his son Judas Chua, or Hitler Chua. Attila Chua will not have any namesake problem too.


Bong Raya Leuterio is presented in Facebook, instead of the rumbling Guadalupe (lightning flash) Raya Leuterio, because... well, I'm guessing it's short for bongabilya, the vernacular for the flower with the exotic French spelling bougainvillea.


Many years ago, I learned from an old client that the nickname of Ferdinand is Andy. But he did not want me to call him Mang Ferdinand or even Mang Andy; just Andy, he said. I was writing a political spoof then, and I thought of him. Eventually Congressman Ferdinand "Andy" Moño of the House of Representathieves came into existence.


Any alteration -- whether you add, remove or change -- from the plain and simple name indicates image enhancement, concealment of flaws, a wish for options, and thousands of other reasons within the complex human psyche.