Noli 2017

Found this book while searching for another; dropped the search and started to read this Filipino version by Virgilio Almario. Now I know why I found it so easy in high school: we had skipped many tedious chapters, mostly about religious and philosophical digressions, and pedantic quotes going back to Roman orators and classical writers. Now, although my interest remains strong, I just wish I don't find it too hard going through narrations of tepid protagonists and wilting young ladies manipulated by murderous priests and ugly harridans. After a chapter or two I have to put the book down for a while, to stop my head whirling through 130 years of events. Rizal finished writing this novel at 11:30 p.m. of 1886 February 21. I put down a modern, translated copy for a while, and Silver uses it as a pillow. My rest is extended.

Tentatively titled "Sampagas," 2000 copies came off the press on March 29, giving this country the most famous Latin phrase ever: Noli Me Tangere. He gave the first bound copy to his friend, Maximo Viola, who defrayed the P300 needed to publish Rizal's first novel. A sequel would follow a few years later, after his family, along with other tenant-farmers, was evicted from Calamba. He did not get the chance to finish a third book he had started because he was executed 10 years, six months, seven hours and 34 minutes after the Noli was born.

Noli Me Tangere was derived from John 20:17, wherein Christ, just resurrected, told Mary Magdalene, who was searching for him and found his tomb empty, "Touch me not, for I have not yet ascended to my Father..." Almario's version, like most modern translations, resurrected the "missing chapter" in Rizal's original, Spanish edition. Lacking fund in 1886, Rizal decided to omit what would have been Chapter 25, which introduced Salome, the woman the fugitive Elias loved. Salome lived alone in a hut in a remote corner of the forest, always pining and hoping that her man would return to her safely. It was not be, just as Juan Crisostomo would lose Maria Clara, just as Rizal lost Leonor, just as the Filipinos would lose their revolutions and, up to now, would be searching for leaders in high office who would not betray them. Until then we search for the touchstone of salvation.

What Rizal saw

Ding 2012-2017

Ding (August 2012-22 February 2017)

In 2012 there still stood across the end of our short street a jackfruit tree, under which garbage were heaped for collectors to pick up. That's also where newborn kittens were thrown, their cries for hunger and warmth unheeded by commuters waiting for rides to work. One August morning, just after habagat Gener, the non-typhoon which was almost as destructive as Ondoy, Leena heard such piercing cries emanating from one wet skin-and-bones creature in the trash pile, awaiting the garbage crew or sometime crawling out, to be crushed by the wheels of sporting jeepney drivers. Calling home, Leena asked Neneng to get the kitten and see what can be done. That was how Ding joined our family of many pets -- four dogs, a big aquarium full of fishes, one bird in a cage, and several Ragdolls, friendly Maine Coon Cordell, three Belgians, Persian MauMau, British Shorthair Ruby and kitten Silver, and uncountable rescue cats, strays and occasional visitors to our dirty kitchen, where food is always available for all.

Neneng wrapped the thin, wet and hungry kitten in a cloth to stop her shivering. The strong rain must have prevented the garbage crew from coming and throwing the cat into oblivion. We did not want to think how many days and nights the kitten was soaked, wailing in the night, and if he had siblings whose strength and cries were slowly muffled and finally silenced, their arrival unrecorded. Neneng took one of the small feeding bottles in the kitchen, filled it with lukewarm water and milk, and cradled the kitten while it eagerly sucked the lifegiving nourishment. We wondered, briefly, if the mother cat survived the strong monsoon rains; we let the thought pass: we can only do so much.

The naming ritual followed. Neneng usually took the convenient way of naming the rescued kittens by the months they joined the family, so we have April (female), May or Mimi, JunJun, July, Steve (for September). But that August the big event was the big monsoon rain that hit Luzon, so the new kid became Gener; but Melay remarked that Gener was sort of baduy, so the name was adjusted to Ding. By the manner the ginger-and-white kitten emptied the bottle, Ding apparently was at the point of starvation, shown by the the ribs sticking out of his frail body. Becoming a surrogate mother to a kitten is arduous: it entails bringing the baby bottle to the kitten every two hours, including getting up several times at night, until the day the little one can eat solid food. After a few weeks Ding's flesh rounded out; at night he nestled on Neneng's neck for warmth and blissful sleep. 

Kittens, or any other creatures for that matter, are good-natured and trusting at birth; their environment later would determine if they remain so. A cat, or a boy child, growing up in the street, fighting others for scraps of food, would become tough, sneaky, fleet, defensive and mistrustful. Theft becomes a mode of survival; so does the ability to dodge rocks aimed at them, to escape from boys, armed with pipes or slingshots, hunting them for fun. Cats have earned the undeserved reputation of being scratchers, but streetkids have the same disposition -- always ready for flight and, if necessary, for a fight with whatever weapon is at hand: an improvised knife (instead of claws), teeth, and agility to hit and run. Cats who grew up with people who invariably treated tham gently, gave them treats, delighted them with strokes and tickled their chins have learned to trust people, expecting the same treatments from visitors. And, as children do, they play a lot, unconcerned with breed, color of skin, gender or family background. Grownup humans have a lot to learn from children and other creatures we share this Earth with. Play consists of running, skipping, jumping, hiding, wrestling, light bites, playful exchange of punches -- all over the house. Since we started having cats, all vases, bottles and anything they can topple and break have become just memories. Our unfulfilled wish is that none in our menagerie becomes a memory.

Ding and Jango playing tag 2012

As the days and years passed, Ding learned to roam with the other foundlings and strays throughout the neighborhood, coming home to eat for a while then jumping on the fence and did whatever cats do all afternoon. When the sun went down Neneng would go to the dirty kitchen and call the cats home -- Ding! JunJun! Pogi! Bai! Steve! Lord! Bas! (named after Leena's editor colleague). And the tin roofs all around would rumble with running feet headed for home. By the time the moon glowed big and silver, the cats settled in their appointed niche and slumbered while we humans read or watched TV. Early next morning Ding would softly stroll on the edge of the wall separating our house and the neighbor's and off he would go, scouring our neighborhood which cats know more than human residents do. 

Three weeks ago, Ding did not respond to Neneng's call, a deviation from routine, which puzzled her. Neneng searched for him next day, calling his name. Ding appeared, slipping under our neighbor's gate. He seemed all right -- no sign of injury, no limp, body sleek and clean. Neneng offered him food; she became slightly worried when Ding scarcely touched the kibbles and barely lapped the water in the bowl. The following day, when Ding stopped partaking food nor water, Neneng reported the problem to Leena. After having gone through many cases involving cats, Leena easily recognized trouble and immediately brought Ding to Animal House in Cubao. After examining Ding, the doctor confined him to bed, where an IV tube was inserted in Ding's vein so liquid food would sustain him. A catheter enabled Ding to expel the urine which his damaged kidney could no longer do. After four days the doctor gently told Leena that it would be better if she took Ding home; meaning, the doctor cannot operate on Ding because the cat, in his weakened state, would not survive the procedure. Ease Ding through his remaining days. And Ding returned home. Neneng and Manilyn together, thrice a day for three weeks more or less, forced him to take his hydrite and antibiotic with his food. It is relected on each of our pet's gentle and trusting nature the affection, patience, and care with which Neneng, Marilyn, Leena, and me (in my limited capacity) were able to extend to all. We all adjusted.

Leena and Ding

We were supposed to celebrate Manilyn's birthday on February 22; however, it's Neneng recollection of that day that remains vivid. "Parang hinintay lang ako ni Ding nung umaga," Neneng said. "Paglapit ko tumayo siya at nag-meow nang mahina at naupo siya. Tapos tumayo uli, pero maya-maya ay natumba na, at habol-hinga siya hanggang wala na." Neneng cried when she recalled the loss of her pet, her ward, her child. Ding was buried under the mango tree, where he keeps company with Rex, the Chow Chow patriarch, and so many kittens mourned and loved. 

Here then is the record of Ding's short life, cushioned by food and play and some comfort, filled with Neneng's love and devotion. The earth abides. So do we.

Ding at food bowl: all grown up

Small things

It's an x-shaped kibble, one of hundreds in a small bag of cat food, except that this particular one was seen being carried away by a cockroach from the food bowl. Hefting the comparatively heavy loot, the insect was quite agile, its six legs deftly scurrying on its escape route on the floor, while the mouth maintained its captivity of the prize.

I'm guessing that the thieving cockroach, in spite of its designation, is a female, violating its nocturnal nature to search for food for the little cockies that have recently emerged from their eggshells. And she has stumbled upon a small mountain of delectable treats heaped on a stainless bowl. Then she snatched one x, skittered down, and ran its erratic course.

Big Boy, a Ragdoll-Shorthair mixed breed, stopped licking his feet when his ears picked up pitter-pattter of small feet, his eyes followed the imaginary dotted line which was quickly lengthening away from his food bowl. He pounced, but the fur kept his paw from reaching the maverick mom, whose path had suddenly become wobbly and tottering. Still, at the risk of life and limb, she struggled to keep her loot. Only after several near-misses did she ditch the kibble and wedged herself into a crack in the closet.

One may ask, how do you determine the gender of a cockroach? And, does it not seem incongruous to give a female such a name as cockroach? After all, have not the Post Office mended its sexist attitude and, beginning in 2005 and as seen this year of our Lord 2017, revised the Year of the Cock to focus on the delicate Rooster instead. In this enlightened time, it does not matter if the rooster is tough meat or gay as a hen: a fowl with any other name, well, he has a nom de plume. And, for that matter, how do you think a male ladybug would feel if it understood human words? A male species of Dalagang Bukid should be afforded an extenuating excuse if once in a while it ran amuck under the sea bed.

As to the question of gender determination, Sherlock Holmes had observed that any species unencumbered by offspring to feed, will gallivant for days, eating where it finds itself hungry, and leaving leftovers behind. And that cockcroach mom, the one who got away from the cat, was not eating the food she had hijacked: she had intended to bring it to the her little ones. But Big Boy intervened, and a family went hungry for the day, like hundreds of thousands of human family.

That despairing cockroach mom is, as a US dollar will remark, "E pluribus unum" -- Out of many, one. I used to take umbrage at the fact that George Washington should be assigned to the lowest denomination of the currency of a nation that was once great but is now occupied by babbling idiots led by one Donald Trump. Same thing with Rizal, who used to reside in the one peso banknote, until that paper money was done away with, in favor of a coin which kept getting tinny and tiny with every passing generation. Then I learned that common sense is counter-intuitive: What seems bad is really good, if people can only hurdle over their -- what's that alternative term for human nature? -- moronic notions. One dollar or one peso is the lowest denomination, therefore it is the denomination most people can afford, therefore it is the most familiar currency at hand. Go lower or higher and the people behind those currencies get harder to know. One centavo, when it existed in the 1970s (or was it 1980s?), was Tandang Sora, made of material that made it float on water. Then was it Lapu-Lapu on the tiny square coin? Name the three people in the P1,000 bill, and even if you get the names right you most probably doesn't know why they are there. And even if you do, so what? This is about kibbles and roaches (and Big Boy); Quijano de Manila's "Small Beers"; Hawking's Big Bang, which requires you to understand microscopic units so that you may understand the existence of huge nebulae billions of light-years high, and as far; and e.e. cummings' poem about someone with small hands, which nobody, not even the rain, can have. I just hope Cummings meant that that someone was a woman. I dropped all of Shakespeare's sonnets after I read somewhere that they were all written with another man in his mind. Somehow my small mind cannot accommodate the huge talent behind those universal verses anymore. Henceforth I confine myself to x-rated kibbles.

Big Boy, the cockroach-chaser

Remembering father

Bought this at a Book Sale branch for the stupefying price of P35, cheaper than a pack of Poland hopia. Here I learned that the Japanese invasion of China was much earlier than I thought, which explains my father's immigration to the Philippines, and my subsequent appearance in this world. If not for the beastly Japanese colonizers and murderers, I and my siblings would not be here at all?

David Kwan's description of events in a vicious time, in a country controlled by the corrupt General Chiang Kai Shek, might explain why those who had fled preferred the rebel Mao Tse Tung. In 1975, Mao's chubby visage in large posters proliferated in Chinese book stores in Binondo, shortly after Marcos initiated diplomatic ties with the Red republic. I was then studying in Chiang Kai Shek High School, and learning from Barbara Tuchman's "Stilwell and the American Experience in China" how the general and his profligate wife pocketed millions of American dollars, sent for the purpose of defeating the communist rebels and maintaining Chiang's unwieldy but amenable regime. Much later, Marcos and Imelda would outstrip the Chiang couple in stealing American dollars. It was truly an educational time: There were treasures everywhere!

Maybe the old people who could have appreciated Kwan's narrative are already gone, and the new generation doesn't have the capacity to relate to a time blown to dust, leaving such a book to me, a leaf wobbling in the wind. One thing not to be forgotten was my father's gentle disposition with animals: We always had a lot of dogs and, in hindsight, they were part of the family setting. What my brother, sisters and I never saw was the cow which had been my father's companion, helper and friend way back in a peasant's farm in China. Maybe there was barely anything good to recall in my father's youth, so there was no story of his days in China; but one distinct fact was impressed upon me early on -- my father never ate beef.

Is this about me and my father? Perhaps. Because David Kwan's book is mainly about him and his father, in a backdrop harsh but distant now. And for P35, it can be about any boy remembering his father.

In happier times in Angeles City, father with one of the dogs, and fresh paint

Jojo

Jojo, September 2016

Saan ka man ngayon, harinawa'y naghahabi ka pa rin ng mga nakakaaliw na mga kuwento tungkol sa iyong girlfriend forever, tungkol sa kagitingan mo bilang hari ng tahanan (Alas siyempre ang gff) -- malikhaing kusinero, dalubhasa sa paghiwalay ng puti sa may kulay na lalabhan, masigasig sa pagpalit ng diaper nang sanggol: kaibigang tunay ng rice cooker at washing machine (o kalan man at batya) at magiliw na lolo sa apong kasalo sa mga laruan.

Sa Gibson na gawa ng Lumanog o mas abang pinsan na gitara, di man plakado ang mga chords mo sa Beatles hanep naman ang hataw mo sa lyrics. Hamak na mas bata tayo nung mula sa kulo ng utak ay napipiga ang anu-anong kathang-isip na naging laman ng People's Tonight. Di ba masaya tayo kahit hindi bottomless ang ating suweldo? Itinatabig ng pagkalulong sa paglikha ng hugot-lines at kuwentong kenkoy ang katotohanang lagi tayong sawi sa pera. Paglipas ng dalawampung taon makita kang naghahabi sa FB ng ilang vignette tungkol kay Nette, si girlfriend forever, kumander ng iyong puso. Panday ka pa rin ng mga nakakatuwa at kakatwang salaysay. Higit sa lahat, ipinakita mong masaya at marangal ang buhay hangga't alam mong kalikutin ang mga alphabets at maghasik ng katatawanan, palitan ang lyrics ng isang awit para maisingit mo ang initials ng pangalan ng lovey-dovey mo, at ipaalam sa amin ni pareng Abner na naiintindihan mo ang pagsubok na ginagapang ng mga naglalakas-loob magsulat.

Nauna ka lang sa amin, at magkita tayong muli. Harinawa.

Marcus!

2017 bewilders me. After searching YouTube in vain last month to watch About a Boy, here it is now in HBO, undistorted and unsegmented, the story of the boy after whom this photogenic tyke, my grandson, is named -- Marcus. The movie was first released in 2002, and what chance is there of HBO choosing to run it after more than 14 years, just as I take a break from my task this afternoon? Sometimes it's no use getting deeper into circumstances beyond my ken: So I just sit back and partake of what this crazy and wonderful existence bestows in blessing. Thank you.

Silver: Loveable Sleepyhead

Sometimes I do not plan to write anything at all, or I want to write but I don't have anything interesting at hand, so I read instead. Then I have to answer a phone call and I put the book face down so as not to lose my place. After the conversation I go back and I find Silver asleep, my book her cozy pillow. This time my iPad is not under the book, so I take this picture, and write this down. The only sound in the room is the click of the keyboard for each letter and punctuation I tap as I record this quiet moment, and the soft hum of the electric fan.

I have figured out that I can read any other time and I'd rather have Silver near me, asleep on my book, or perched on my stomach. We have known each other since she was a wee, undersized kitten, born prematurely, smaller than my hand. She's a mixed breed, but I'll lean on her love, loyalty and gratefulness than trust the majority of my own species. That's one of the hard truths I got from reading books. True love and peace of mind, I get from cats like Silver.

Wee Silver

HAPPY RAGDOLL

This cyberphoto is one in a series taken a few years ago. When we were looking at the results we had to smile along when we came upon this unexpected gem -- pure delight, unfeigned happiness, a smile to brighten the day, a reminder that the world can't be all bad when a kitten can knock the anxiety off your heart. Lovely.

LAUDATO SI'

Some days are more stressful than others, and I look back to the days of happiness unadulterated with troubles, and I realize that those blissful days are the privilege of youth and its concomitant ignorance, and arrogance. The needs of youth -- shelter, sustenance, and responsibilities -- are shouldered by parents and, if luck shines, by kindly grandmas too. Then we grow up and we fend for ourselves, and inevitably we have to deal with other people, all carrying burdens and fighting innner battles as we do. That's why the smiles of grownups rarely reflect in their eyes.

And there are days so distressful we feel like bending on our knees (and shouting, but we silence our personal turmoil and tune down the desperation), and we see multitudes beseeching the gods of fortune, the saints, the stars, the cards, tea leaves, and the zodiacs -- to give us our daily bread, to cure our illnesses, to vanquish our foes (who are asking for the same thing), to ease our business problems, to mitigate our dread so we can rise up every day without shrinking and trembling at what lies ahead.

A case in point: I started work this morning and found out that not all functions of my eBay link are working -- I cannot reply to a client's question, the link with my email is gone, I cannot post new listings, and I don't know if the problem is temporary. Then I remitted a payment by Paypal, and this triggered a note requiring me to verify my identity, as required by this country, and send a jpeg photo of either my driver's licence, government ID, or passport; I tried to comply but the cyber form provided would not respond. I washed my face and was locked in the bathroom, because the doorknob chose that moment to declare it's disobedience. Smothered by a doomsday feeling I decided to hide in our bedroom: I was cleaning my ear and the cotton bud said my right ear, from now until further notice, was blocked from high fidelity sounds. I replied, "Eh?!"

I found out loooong before this day, this 9th of January 2017, that in time of deep doodoo -- Mt. Pinatubo closing down my bookstore in Pampanga, three heart attacks, a stroke, loss of beloved parents and friends, massive lifestyle downgrade -- I become very calm, I can think my way out, and, if I fail to get out, I'm ready to accept my fate. It's a grand thing to find out that I have been tested and not found wanting. But I was much younger then and not so reliant upon the intelligence, competence, and honesty of others. It's this reliance on other people doing right, and their failure to do so, that bring so much wealth to the manufacturers of Prozac, Zoloft, and other antidepressants. ♫ Every night I hope and pray, this li'l pill may sleep bring my way...♫

Maybe this stressful setup explains the hermits hiding in caves, rock stars shooting denials up their veins, our crazy president deluding himself that death is the cure for those who can't competently cope with the travails of life and had to drown their fears with drugs. All, in one way or another, is a turning away from the pressure of humanity. I have encountered that pressure many times, and there were times that I cowered, suffered panic attacks, only to be saved by a few good souls, and the innate resilience we all have. Surviving the stroke that disabled and scared me, I finally got over my confusion when I decided that I'd rather die than live cowering in fear. Without self-respect, how can we extend respect towards others?

Still, there are times when I look at cats and wonder if it's worth becoming a cat in order to acquire their good nature, serenity, and peace of mind. Cats purr in content with a few loving strokes and tickles on the chin; they sleep a lot -- like Silver now -- tummy up and legs in full stretch; throw a ping pong ball and cats will chase it around the room until they pant. Ok, they are not immortalized by books they cannot write; by masterpieces they cannot paint, sculpt or erect; by wealth they cannot amass through enterprise or plunder; they have none of the deference extended to high office or exalted birth, but to how many of us humans can any of these distinctions apply? It's the journey through life that counts, doesn't it? Not the conveyance (being a cat or being human) nor even the destination. "Because all creatures are connected, each must be cherished with love and respect, for all of us as living creatures are dependent on one another," said Pope Francis in his 2005 encyclical, Laudato si', an ancient phrase which means "Praise be to you."

Through all our fears, may we earn that praise.

Christmas stamps of the Philippines

Philippines' first Christmas postage stamps

Above is the first set of Christmas stamps, printed in 1967 to be used as legitimate postage, unlike the TB seals, which were first printed in 1946 and continue to be sold to date as charity labels with no actual postal function, with option to affix along with the recognized postage issues. The 1967 Christmas postage set were printed in Japan for the Philippine Bureau of Post (later acquired by Philpost or the Philippine Postal Corporation). Ten million of the 10-centavo values and five million of the 40-centavo values were delivered to the Bureau of Post and were released starting December 1. The huge quantity makes the set affordable to today's collectors. Dealers sell the mint stamps for P50 -- relatively cheap for a 53 years old set.

The 10-centavo Christmas postage stamp was used for local mail in 1967; as a young student I got some used issues, soaked off the envelopes of letters. It was many years later that I saw and fell in love with the blue 40-centavo issue, not knowing the existence of such a bright partner to the so-familiar 10-centavo nativity scene. Lovely is the concept of Mary in saya carrying the haloed Jesus, and Joseph in barong holding a stalk of sugar cane, probably acquired in the field leading to Mt. Mayon, lighted by a star shining brightly. Completing the scene is the carabao, replacing the western donkey. I learned that 40 centavos was the air mail rate, and, receiving no mail from abroad, I did not get to see it until my allowance was increased to start my collection of Republic stamps.

1968 Christmas caroling set

The caroling set was released on 1968 December 16. Then, for some reasons, no Christmas postage were printed in 1968-1971. The next set was the Lantern-making set of 1972 (December 14), which showed people indoors because a curfew was imposed after the Dictator Marcos placed the entire country under Military Rule.

1972 set

There were no Christmas stamps again in 1973-1975. The solemnity of the midnight mass set in 1976 set, however, made up for the three-year dearth. This was followed by another caroling set in 1977. And the post office issued no Yuletide stamps in 1978; 1979 gave us a miserable pair, followed by a pedestrian single in 1980.

1976 set

                       

                                1977 set

1979 set

1980 Christmas Tree single and FDC

1980 and 1981 surcharges of 1979 set

 Also a 1979 issue was surcharged in 1980, and the other was surcharged for 1981. Then followed the issues 1982 to 2016.

                          

                                 1982 Santa in Barong set

                           

                             1983 Lechon strip set with first Christmas S/S

 

                             

                                   1984 se-tenant set

                          

                             1985 set

     

        1986 set

1987 set

1988 set

1989 set

1990 set
 

 1991 set

1992 set

1993 set

1994 set
 

1995 set
 

1996 set
 

 1997 set

1998 set

1999 set
 

2000 set

 2001 set 

2002 set

2003 set 
  

2004 set 

2005 set 

2006 set

2007 set

2008 set

2009 set

2010 set

2011 set

2012 set

2013 set

2014 set

2015 set

2016 set

   

 

                                                                             2016 sheetlet

                                                                              2017 set

                                                                             2017 sheetlet

                                                                              2018 set

                                                                         2018 sheetlet

                                                                              2019 set

                                                                           2019 sheetlet                                                                

                                                                    2020 Covid Christmas

2020 Christmas FDC

2021 Christmas set

2021 Christmas FDC

                                                           

2022 Christmas set

2022 Christmas FDC

2023 Christmas set

2023 Christmas sheetlet

2023 Christmas FDC