Monthly Archives: February 2022

The Joni Mitchell Effect and The Thing We Always Forget

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| Clark, Angeles City |

Sometimes, I have a strong feeling that Joni Mitchell is punishing me. 

I am inspecting the turfs peeking out from the narrow crevice beneath the fence when I hear her voice breaking the fragile afternoon air. It is so pure, so divine, yet intruding and somehow imposing. I am in no mood to entertain any uninvited thoughts. But in all its subtlety, Joni’s timbre throws a powerful punch at my still yawning spirit, commanding my mind to make a U-turn to the place intimate to me, to the time when clouds were ice cream castles in the air. In an instant, I find myself in a garden at a bend in the river, examining the sprouting Bermuda grass while having a conversation with my grandmother.

Have you been kind? That was my grandmother, her croaky voice harmonizing with the burble of the water below. For a five-year-old kid, it was a kind of no-brainer question, a question seemingly tossed out of compliance, a question I had routinely answered whenever she was around. I surveyed her face raw with sunburn, which to my mind resembled the field she just checked across the garden, and responded with an instant nod and a reverential hush afterward. I was half-expecting follow-up questions, some proof or receipts she naturally demanded, but instead received a peck on the forehead. I heard her throat-clearing that hinted the rush of litany on the significance of being kind and its consequences – narratives based on her experience, anecdotes of her friends, or stories she could relate to the necessity of possessing a fountain of virtue. Before she got to utter her preface, I deluged her with an account of all the kind things I did, the good deeds that would secure glasses of coconut juice as hard-earned rewards.

Have you been kind? That was my grandmother, popping the query again more than thirty years after my last glass; her voice never changed, except for the buzz of excitement kindled from seeing me again. To some degree, I should not have any difficulties responding considering the barrels of coconut juice I consumed in my youth. But I just stood before her, with a freezing brain and a head that was too stunned to budge even the slightest nod. That time, all I could see was the empty glass that once held the juice. And all I could do was reply with a pregnant pause at the heavily loaded inquiry.

To be the receiver of that question these days is to be in an interrogation room, where each word matters. As one matures, it has become a question that requires some time to think things through, whether its motive is sincere or not, because it puts the integrity of the responder to the test. It has become a question that forces one to be honest because it does not fall for half-truths or white lies, only the truth solely accepted by one’s moral compass. It has become a question that returns unannounced at the devil’s hour, disturbing peace, guilt-tripping, whether one answered truthfully or not. And in some ways, it has become a question that stirs the still small voice. 

It is giving in to Joni’s voice so persistent in breaking through the thick wall of consciousness. 

Over the years, I have seldom run into that quick moral fiber check. Perhaps, that question is specific only to the children, whose brains have become the glass overfilled with righteousness or attributes or anything adults have decided to pour into them. Perhaps, that question is no longer applicable to adults, who are still figuring out if their glass is half-full or half-empty. Maybe, the teachings about kindness have become vague as one grows up. Or maybe, people just get tired of practicing kindness in a society that has become weirder and weirder each day. There could be a long list of other reasons but one thing I can recall is that being kind is like what is stipulated in the equal opportunity statements of the companies – it knows no age, race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, marital status, disability, national or ethnic origin, and citizenship.

In the corporate world where I have spent most of my adult life, I have never been asked if I have been kind. It is probably because the response will not merit any points in the measures of success in a customer service business. Agents get rigorous training on soft skills with the primary reason of improving the customer satisfaction rating, a business key performance indicator. Leaders undergo training on interpersonal skills with the primary reason of enhancing their competencies to drive people on the ground to hit the customer satisfaction target. The management team supports these trainings with the primary focus on the returns of investment. Yet, being too soft is a hard no, a potential risk because the management team equates it to complacency, to leniency that might impede the company from amassing a substantial fortune.

I remember the time I got summoned to the principal’s office, the interrogation room of the corporate world. My case? I was accused of being too kind, of having a cotton candy personality. I did not get a glass of coconut juice, but an earful of what seemed to be a stern warning. The resolution? I was required to undergo on-the-job training under my boss on becoming a tougher leader.

Kind people, which I am not, always get the burden of explaining, adjusting, straightening their lives out, and never the other way around. It seems that some see it as a liability. The way I see it, the problem lies not in the attitude but in how one perceives the importance of being kind. Jacinda Ardern, New Zealand’s prime minister, has shown the world how to combat the seemingly-unconquerable Covid-19 with leadership that puts kindness at the core. Suho has proven that he is not just the prettiest in the sea of the pretty faces of KPop when he has led his equally talented EXO members in bringing in waves of songs and performances to new heights that have revolutionized the music industry. He has done it not with a tough but with tender love.

I understand why some people don’t give themselves away because, in our society, being kind sometimes comes at a price. Such is the case of Patreng Non, who got vilified by none other than people in power after sparkling kindness through the community pantry, of Dr. Naty Castro, whose kind heart drove her to serve the poor in the outskirts only to find herself languishing in jail sans a single complaint, and of Zara Alvarez, who was gunned down in the dead of the night for seeking justice for the oppressed. Being kind is never wrong. The people who try to stop it are. 

Kindness, people should realize, is not a ribbon that one can just tie up in one’s pandora’s box. It is not a tagline or a sound bite or a role to play. It is an act.

Joni Mitchell’s voice might occur to be punitive sometimes. But it is a necessary disciplinary action to remind us that there was a time when our innocent selves exactly knew what kindness meant.

Images from:

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/29/arts/music/joni-mitchell-archives-early-years.html

https://www.koreatimes.co.kr/www/art/2021/07/732_288968.html?WA

www.pinterest.ph

Snapshots of the Clark Republic

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| Tomas Morato, Quezon City |

Clark is obsessive-compulsive. It is neither tolerant of people lacking willpower nor people with a loose grasp of discipline. It is not for the deviants because it commands standards, demands conformance, and puts everyone under its spell.

I am one of those who have fallen for its enchantment, which grew on me after several brief business trips to our satellite office in the neighborhood of Clark. Each time, these sojourns prompted me to picture myself lazing around like Tom Sawyer on the cover of the books, under the stooping tree perched on by itinerant birds. They piqued my curiosity about how it would be to wake up again to the clear blue sky that spews gentle breeze, rather than the gray, sinister haze that greets and threatens the metro every morning. These images lingered in my mind. One Sunday afternoon, while everyone was having a siesta, I just found myself entering the South Gate of Clark with nothing but a new job, a few clothes, and a pair of smitten eyes.  

Not a single blade of grass jutted out from the tuft inside Clark. The manicured lawn ushered me as I passed through the bump-less MA Roxas Highway split into two by flowers that were organized like a well-thought-of centerpiece. These flowers were never unkempt, even when swaying to the wild wind generated by the speeding cars on the left side of the road. Like them, I noticed vehicles followed a certain order, an unspoken or invisible rule; drivers practiced give-and-take relationship and along the bike lanes on side roads, cyclists pedaled rhythmically with no one stepping out of line. 

As I turned left to the Friendship Gate exit, I observed the same level of tidiness. Outside, toward where I was about to settle, was a totally different story. 

I have been living on the outskirts of Clark for over two years now. My place is just a seven-minute tricycle ride from the gate that separates two disparate worlds: the world where orderliness is the order and the world worn and torn by the actors just abiding the disorganized orders. Every time I cross that borderline, or poverty line to my friends, there is this whisper that reminds me I need to behave.

To live in Clark entails discipline, tons of it. The expectation for anyone who enters any of its gates is to surrender oneself to its rules and regulations. To be obedient and to be respectful. To follow the commands already in effect since the GI Joes kicked the natives out of their lands. Because it is in the belief that following the set rules is just a matter of black and white – one either obeys or not. Whatever one chooses has a proportionate consequence – either one is welcomed with arms wide open or one pays the price. I have always opted to cooperate. 

Obedience is what would allow one to enjoy Clark in all its glory. From frequent visits, I have gathered that to be able to laze around under the stooping tree, one needs to seek approval from the guard. To pass through the gates with no hassle, a truck driver has to present the required proof of delivery or purchase or complete documentation of business. To spare oneself from the attention-grabbing, humiliating whistles from a stern guard, one should only saunter down the designated path. A driver should limit the car’s speed to 60 mph on a fast lane to avoid the exorbitant P2,800 fine, and a cyclist, to be allowed to pedal along the accident-proof bike lane, has to have a complete set of safety gears. No one may pick a single flower or just lay down on the vast manicured lawn. The list goes on, and I have found out that not a single person is spared. For each instance of insubordination from the long list, there is a corresponding disciplinary action: a three-hour seminar to instill the importance of recognizing Clark’s rules and regulations, a whopping fine to teach the violator a lesson, or a lifetime ban from entering the vicinity. Clark, in all its glory, enjoys its full autonomy.

It appears to me that Clark is a disciplinarian obsessed with putting everything in order. It is a control freak, in a way. What it does not control, though, is the flowering of the food businesses now in a sort of luxurious sprawl in what used to be a dense thicket.  

Clark is a huge smorgasbord that caters to people conscious of budget. It is a fine treat to eatsplorers in constant search of the best food experience, a watering hole for workers in dire need of a quick mental break, and a safe haven for anyone wanting a sweet escape from the daily torments of living. It is an affordable luxury and so far, I haven’t heard of someone getting a heart attack upon seeing the bill or someone feeling held up after the meal. A steakhouse near Friendship Gate offers a tenderloin steak for P350, same slab and succulence with, but half the price of the steak being offered in a famed restaurant in Tomas Morato. It also serves scrummy homemade apple pie and apple walnut cake that unfailingly slake one’s sweet tooth for less than P160. Not far is the Chinese bistro with a table d’hôte lunch for P80 right beside the burger joint offering a protein burger for less than P150. All of these are just an appetizer because Clark’s main course is hiding in its alleyways. 

There seem to have been some magical concoctions happening in the kitchens of the makeshift eateries along the backstreets of the business center. I have always suspected that a drop of potion and a murmur of conjuration serve as toppings on food being dished out in a garage transformed into what can be qualified as a bistro, or in a house that has replaced couches with serried rows of wooden tables and benches, or in a garden with rusty chairs in full view of Clark Parade Grounds. What these hash houses lack visually, they compensate gastronomically. For less than the price of a tall cup of Café Americano in Starbucks, a diner can already have unlimited rice with a bowl of vegetable stew half-filled with crunchy pork, or a plate full of mixed vegetables steamed in shrimp sauce, or the combination of different dishes, or any typical dish that becomes zestier at the meticulous hands of the Kapampangans. These cooks only serve a plate of nirvana and transcendence is the only standard they conform to. 

In Clark, there’s no such thing as too much food. There are neither rules for consumption nor disciplinary actions. It is unkind to the people on a diet. 

I have been living on the outskirts of Clark for over two years now and I have always been smitten. Its obsessive-compulsive personality has helped me become tolerant of life decisions built from the lack of willpower and discipline.

Images from:

https://www.facebook.com/MeatPlusCafe/photos/1114090926050743

www.casino.org

On the Other Side of the Court

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| Clark, Angeles City |

Rafa Nadal, then the world no. 2, was sitting upright on one of the two most fought-over benches in Melbourne Park. It was a relaxing shot after the fervent, if not ferocious, exchanges of pounds and grunts between him and the equally determined warrior on the other side of the court.

His movements were in a precise calculation: his eyes were laser-focused, his jaw was clenched and his lips were tightly sealed, depriving the wishful of his inviting and impregnating smile. He rolled up his dripping shirt that earlier veiled one of God’s most beautiful creations and wiped the drops of exhaustion off his knitted brows. He acknowledged the need to work on his unforced errors and receiving points, which caused him two sets of loss to the top seed Nole Djokovic.

He stood up, unclenched his jaw, unsealed his lips, and shook his still drenching body tightly hugged by an ensemble of neon green shirt, blue headband and wristband, and white shorts. He walked towards the court, evidently drained of energy but not spirit. He surveyed the other side of the court with an aura of an unforgiving lion.

But he was up against the widely considered the greatest returner in the history of tennis, the human wall whose scrawny physique could counterpunch any fired shots – fast or slow, drop or deep, cross-court or down-the-line. Rafa knew this, especially with his less-than-impressive 2-6 score in the third set. He was trailing behind at the first half of the fourth set and just following the tempo of the game his opponent furtively and slyly dictated until the score reached 4-3.

He seemed to realize that the Norman Brooks trophy was slipping away from his hands. He flexed his world-renowned biceps, toughened up his left wrist, and whacked the ball as deep as he could to generate more insane spins that would force his challenger to commit unforced errors. The ball twirled like a drunken cannonball; its swoosh shushed the rowdy audience eagerly awaiting the counterstrike. It returned with a slower, more manageable spin, touching down at the exact spot Rafa had hoped for – outside the court. With the Rod Laver Arena in pandemonium, he fully regained his composure, stole the momentum, and never looked back, ending the set at 7-5 in his favor and forcing a decider. He took in some air, the smell of victory.

The fifth set kicked off with tense serving as the backdrop of the arena that became combustible with the heated back-and-forth of shots. Rafa became more aggressive. He was reasserting his dominance as he continuously machine-gunned Nole with his “crisper,” borrowing Pat McEnroe’s description, oddly spinning bullets and cannonballs. Already enjoying a 2-game lead and was just 2 games shy from lifting the trophy, he somehow forgot a crucial detail–he was playing against a passive-aggressive and a silent killer, a heavily built bulwark with hidden bombs powered by mental toughness. He was all over the court, chasing the drop shots and deep shots, the cross-courts and down-the-lines, unmindful that his oddly spinning bullets and cannonballs were already being melted by a fully charged two-handed backhand. He lost 4 winners. Still ahead at 4-3, he received a giveaway, a floater in the mid-court, and pounded the ball using the backhand. The ball landed at the exact spot he had not hoped for–outside the court. Rafa never recovered.

On the bench, Rafa was sitting sluggishly, with bullets and cannonballs of sweats still swarming all over his rugged face and bulging muscles. He watched his opponent let go of a roar while ripping shirt, a fitting drama to wrap up the never-before-seen shots and play-making abilities brought to the world by the Australian Open 2012. He finally flaunted his smile shining as bright as his shirt and joined the cheering of the crowd that just witnessed the longest Grand Slam final match in history and what the pundits declared as the greatest match ever. 

This is just a part of the story that I wanted to share with you, the story that would bridge what you watched and what you had not. The decade-old images that are still vivid, the rawest moments I captured while I tried to catch the chips sliding off my mouth. The images that have shown the world again and again what masterpiece means – from start to finish, characterized by the dramatic instances we usually tabled in our tennis-first conversations over the cups of coffee and packs of ciggies. 

Because what is a tennis conversation without these defining moments? Aside from tennis itself, I realize we had these dramatic instances as our common denominator, even if we were usually divided by the side of the court we chose to support. In one of our conversations, we almost forgot the greatness of Steffi Graf in the 1993 Wimbledon women’s tennis final because we were so engrossed in talking about the choking of Jana Novotna and her meltdown in front of Duchess of Kent, who gave her a shoulder to cry on in the most literal sense. This was the scene that I was waiting for Rafa to replicate, to counter and even upstage Nole’s roaring and ripping, to add more spectacle to the already action-packed game. But he must have been so tired to even shed a single tear. And he is, well, the ever-polite and polished Rafa. 

Already, I could hear your string of justifications and analyses, the sound of the pain of losing, of groans of heartbreak upon learning that the love of your life, Rafa, got his ass kicked again by none other than his greatest rival. I could imagine your heavy puffing as if absorbing all the pieces of the incomplete puzzle of why and the quaffing of your dark brew that had never tasted so bitter. I could hear your night-long sighs and laments on the other line as you tried to accept the result of what Rafa has considered as the greatest loss of his career. 

Only, there would be no calls or chats from you, no night-long laments, no puffing, and quaffing. It has been ten years, and the images are still vivid. 

Happy 10 years in heaven, Ate Cris! I hope you’re able to watch the 2022 Australian Open, with Rafa, in his usual flamboyant fashion, standing upright in Melbourne Park, hoisting the trophy after beating the current world no. 2. But then again, you might have been at the courtside shouting “Vamos, Rafa!”

Images from:

https://tt.tennis-warehouse.com/index.php?threads/best-green-shirts-worn-by-pro-players.680655/

https://bleacherreport.com/articles/1069718-novak-djokovic-vs-rafael-nadal-why-aussie-open-final-is-greatest-match-ever

https://greenskymorning.wordpress.com