The Fellowship of the Smoke Ring

I was nineteen when I started buying cigarettes by the pack and smoke on a regular basis, before that I smoked intermittently since I was fourteen. Contrary to popular belief I was not sucked into the habit by sinister subliminal print ads nor by juvenile peer pressure. Smoking requires deliberate decisions. Nobody gets hooked on their first cigarette. I bet most smokers didn't enjoy their first cigarette. It probably made them cough and retch followed by clammy dizziness and nausea. A smoker only got hooked because he stuck long enough, in spite of these initial drawbacks, to get addicted. That, I submit, is a deliberate act. Personally, I got into smoking because I enjoyed it. After smoking a few sticks of cigarette, the initiate must make a choice-- which requires an even more purposeful deliberation: menthol or regular? And lastly, the smoker decides on a brand. Finding a brand is like choosing a gang or a second religion, it defines you.

Me? I was born to be a Marlboro Man.

In the old days, Marlboro comes only in one unadulterated dose:-- full strength. There were as yet no anemic Lights, sissy Mediums nor heretical Greens-- which, I think, only gave false hopes to smokers who fear death from smoking by being led to believe that they are smoking less lethal versions of the poison. I preferred the full on Reds particularly the more lethal Military or Reynold's. They were so intense my forefinger and middle finger would turn yellow orange from smoke exposure; and Marlboro comes only in two sizes: “Filter Kings”-- the regular sized cigarettes and in “student” size. The "shorties" was pure genius. Marlboro wouldn’t admit it but it was really meant for teenagers. Shorties comes in flip top packs which are no more than two inches in an almost square configuration that could easily be hidden by tucking it in your socks or rolling it in your T-shirt sleeve.

Back in the days of yore, one could light up anywhere— like you could be a doctor examining an asthmatic child or a priest administering Extreme Unction, and you could go ahead and light up. Nobody would mind. Smoking back then was a personal thing that was tolerated much like farting is in public rest rooms. You could smoke even if you're riding in public transport. You could get a stick of cigarette from your trusty “Ta-Ka-Tak” boy, light up and blow smoke on the face of the person sitting next to you. It was an accepted inconvenience in public transportation, nobody complained about secondhand smoke or any of those lame issues wing nuts dreamed up.

And because smokers can light up anywhere, anytime, I didn’t much notice my fellow smokers until we began to be cordoned off from the rest of humanity sometime in the 90s. It was still possible to smoke though. Not as easy as it had been in the 70s or 80s, but most places still tolerated it, there was always a “Smoking Section”-- separate sections in restaurants and hotels, or a “Smoking Lounge”— a cordoned off area with carpeting and upholstered divans.
 
Then suddenly schools, government buildings and hospitals became “Smoke Free Zones”. Then not just buildings, but entire cities have since banned smoking in public. In order to have a cigarette in airports, I had to drag my tired ass and huff and puff back to the main entrance. Pass through at least three security checks then walk about fifty meters away from the main gate to a place where other losers hang out, I usually find a bunch huddled around a trash can. Only then am I allowed to smoke, but even then I still have to endure the killer stares of passing self-righteous cranks who looked at me as if I'm defecating in public.

While most places still provided a place for smokers, it had become shabbier through the years. Now, instead of a “Smoking Section”, smokers are directed to the “Smoking Area”, which is usually a designated place in a back alley alongside stinking garbage cans and toxic trash trolleys; a miniature pocket of slum where twisted butts and yellow-green spit decorated the ground around a caramel stained ash tray-- disguised as a garbage can, that nobody bothered to empty. You’ll know it’s the place because it smells of neglect, a dreary communal pyre where smokers gather to sacrifice their lungs to an unsmiling god. A place where the fellowship of the smoke rings still holds its regular meetings and where adepts exchange secret messages by sending out smoke signals to each other. Passing prigs would often stop by, cover their snotty noses, give you their best death-stare, point and say a bad word or two.

It has come to this.

The world has become inhospitable to smokers. It pains me to see hard-cores hot-boxing three quarters of their cigarettes then quickly walking away from these gatherings. They probably could not stand how things have become. Personally, I never liked the imposition nor the insult. I'm old school, a firm believer that a smoker should be able to light up wherever, whenever.
 
And so one fine day— one very ordinary day, I simply stopped. There was no plan. No preparation. I’ve even just bought a can of lighter fluid and a pack of flints for my Zippo lighter; and on the day I stopped, a half empty pack of Marlboro lay beside my Zippo on the table. It was as if I’ve been allotted a certain number of cigarettes and I’ve smoked them all and now I’m done.

After more than three months I guess it’s official: My thirty year affair with tobacco had ended. They say it takes sixty days to break a habit and forty-five days to break an addiction, I guess whatever you may want to call my relationship with nicotine; it’s over.
 
I sometimes walk over to the “Smoking Area” of a mall I frequent to check out on the fellowship. They are still sending out smoke signals but its gibberish to me now. When I turn to walk away, I feel their stares burning a hole at the back of my skull. I have betrayed the fellowship and now I have abandoned them. I now live in constant fear that the fellowship will one day gather around my house and throw their lighted cigarettes on my roof and watch as my house burns down.

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 3: Ang Mananambal

"Ano ba talaga ang kailangan mo sa akin?"

I asked the question again, though I was no longer sure I was prepared to hear the answer to it. It's way passed midnight, I could tell from the color of the sky, it's now tinge with gray and blue. Like the first time I was with him, time seemed to have warped. When I looked back at him, his itak is already up in the air, and in the next moment he had thrust it down in a smooth sweeping motion as if to strike at something, though I didn't see anything there; Clank! It struck metal. Suddenly, the airship became less translucent, like a projected image coming into focus. He stepped into it with his head bent; apparently, to clear a low doorway; he disappeared into the blurriness. After a moment, an arm came into focus again and motioned me to follow.

When I watch horror flicks, I rail at characters who put themselves in situations where it is obvious that they would likely be chopped, burned or eaten alive. Idiots, I'd say to them, you deserve your fate. If this is such a movie, this is the best time to walk away. I could almost hear the audience-- Stupid, get out of there! Now, I'm not fearless and I'm not stupid either. I am standing on what seems to be a doorway. Either I walk away right now or I jumped right in. Still contemplating my options, I extended my hand beyond the surface of what could be a door. Immediately, my hand blurred out of focus. I could now only perceive the vaguest impression of my hand beyond the doorway, my wrist ending as abruptly as that of an amputee. I felt no pain though. That's good. I pulled back my hand, it came back into focus. That's good, too.

What the heck, I stepped in.

I stepped into a vacuum-- a vortex of silence that sucked all the sounds from my ears. All the sounds of the night dissolved.

He was already sitting on a wire frame chair in front of what looked like a cockpit full of mechanical dials and levers. He had put on an ornate barbute with a retractable visor that when extended gave him the profile of a horse. Again he raised his itak and thrust it unto a slot; then he pulled at it like a lever and the whole airship shook as if being unhinged from a clamp. Then he tossed what looked like glowing embers unto a metal cylinder that dominated the center of the airship. He closed the lid. Then, he flicked a switch to activate a mechanism that whined like a fan. He sat, his back turned on me, with a beam of light shining upon the golden spine on his nape. I inched forward to take a closer look until he is within arm's reach, I reached out. The skin on the tip of my forefinger felt separately alive as I did so, and my skin tingled. I couldn't understand it, but it was how I felt. Just then the airship shuddered and threw me off balanced. I fell back. We're floating up. I grabbed on to a hand rail. Small green leaves hang down from above, it smelt reminiscent of spicy mint, but not quite that, with a hint suggestive of a heady mix of freshly mowed grass after a drizzle of rain and a trace of coconut oil, but not quite any of those things, either.

Then I noticed that the wall is actually a woody-stemmed series of branches, a living vine-- probably some kind of orchid, trailing on the metal frame of the airship like a trellis of bamboo and wire Dada used to guide the growth of a row of Ampalaya plants we used to have back in Frisco. A bunch of fireflies flew in through the gaps between the branches and the titanium mesh. Then a head of a tuko came out, its mouth half open, a firefly's wing hanging out from it; the wing disappeared after a quick jerk of the tuko's head, the tuko blinked its eyes, licked its chops then withdrew into the cover of the leaves. The airship is a living and breathing ecosystem!

Every gear and mechanical device is multi-functional; streams of pinhole sized blue light streaked across and around me, flooding the capsule with an unnatural luminance. I looked around, there's barely enough room for two normal sized people.

"... pero saan ka natutulog dito?"

"Hindi ko kailangang matulog."

"... 'di ka natutulog? Kahit kailan...?"

"Hindi."

Vials with vari-colored liquids in them lined the wall, farther back is a ledge that served as a desk, rolls of parchment paper and a stack of books-- dog-eared ancient books, were scattered on it. One book particularly caught my attention, it's bound in leather with what appear as Arabic script printed on its cover. He said it's the only existing copy of the "Book of Ingenious Devices"; a book commissioned by the Abassid Caliph of Baghdad, Abu Jafar al-Ma'mun ibn Harun, credited as a work of the Banu Musa brothers and first published in 850 A.D. He said most of the automatas illustrated on the book were invented by them when they still freely roamed the Earth, stolen by Greek scholars, and from whom the Banu Musa brothers merely copied from. He said they destroyed all the other copies because it contained, among others, a blueprint of the airship.

My eyes were then drawn to an intricate gold locket that hung on a makeshift altar, I opened it and inside was a faded photograph of a woman, a very plain-featured kayumanggi, with nothing in her looks that would merit a second look, her long black slightly wavy hair brushed back from her plain face more as a practical convenience rather than for style.

He swung around to face me.

"Kilala ko ang lolo ng lola mo. Isa siyang Mananambal sa Isla del Fuego."

You knew Dada's grandfather? I vaguely knew Dada was a Bisaya, but I did not know that she hailed from the Visayan island of Siquijor. I realized then that I knew very little about Dada.

More dials are turned, a lever or two pulled here and there, then a tug on a chain attached to a pulley, magically the floor and walls of the airship expanded to double its breadth-- the airship is a huge Hoberman sphere, a hybrid geodesic dome that could be expanded and folded down to a fraction of its size by the scissor-like action of its joints. The gaps on the mesh have become bigger, too; I could now see the steeple of the Immaculate Conception Cathedral and the dark gray dome of the Araneta Coliseum on the horizon, I figured we are about two hundred feet up in the air. I've read somewhere that the horizon, as seen by a five foot tall man standing at sea level on a clear day, is four kilometers away. From this height, I could probably see as far away as ninety kilometers all around me. I've never been on a mountain or on a plane before, never as high up as this; the sight is simply overwhelming. The headlights on Highway 54 twinkled like stars, tree tops gently swayed with the wind as if they are dancing in the moonlight. I felt insignificant compared to the rest of the universe.

He stood up and tore off the armor plates-- the bejewelled spaulders on his broad and sinewy shoulders and equally bejewelled rerebraces on his upper arms, and showed me a deep nasty scar that ran from his right arm to his upper chest, the healed flesh a grim testimony to old violence. He had survived a mortal wound only because my great grandfather attended to him. In gratitude, he shared his own pharmacopoeia and taught my great grandfather the ancient knowledge of concocting medicine from plants, rare herbs, minerals and animal parts that were then abundant in the islands. Not long after that, he said my great grandfather became a well known and sought after mananambal. He reminisced that as he convalesce from his wound, he and my great grandfather went for long walks in search of materials and ingredients in the woods and mountains of Siquijor; and since some of the plants they needed were not endemic to the islands, they secretly planted, and farmed, these exotic plants in hidden nooks and crannies that they only knew. Most of these plants only sprout or blossom or bear fruit only once a year-- exactly seven Fridays after Ash Wednesday. And thus the quest for ingredients coincides with the Cuaresma and culminates on the eve of their Summer Equinox Gathering when the ingredients are then subjected to pangangadlip or pagpapagong and made into minasa-- a yearly quest for ingredients that was eventually ritualized by second and third generation mananambals and other followers and is now known in Siquijor as Pangangalap.

His voice then went down to a whisper-- as if wary that somebody else might hear, and said that he also taught my great grandfather the secret science of extracting esoteric ores from the deepest bowels of the Earth. He said that my great grandfather further improved on the metallurgical processes that were taught him and it wasn't long before my great grandfather was able to extract the elemental essences of these metals and minerals with the use of crucibles; and developing alternative ways to further purify these extracts.

"... iyon ang dahilan kaya ako nandito."


itutuloy...

The Plight of the Tiger Moth

In 2000, I learned to fly model airplanes. Scale model aviation is not something you pick up and go. There are a million and one things to learn. And until the late 90s, the costs of the hobby soared higher than the planes. Thanks to Chinese bootleggers-- exploiting its bloated, cheap labor force to mass produce knock-offs of well established brands, the hobby became accessible to ordinary mortals like me.

My first basher plane was a "Swallow". My first attempt at remote controlled flight was a disaster; the second was no better; and after about thirty or so more crashes, I got the hang of it and eventually earned my wings. Three months into the hobby, I thought it was time to move up. No more overgrown dragonflies. I want to fly a model plane that actually looked like a plane. And so I got myself a Tiger Moth kit: semi-scale pre-painted foam ARF of the 1931 classic British double-winged two-seater Havilland trainer.

While I have experience as a static scale modeler, it was my first build for an model plane. It took me the better part of two weeks-- working nights, mostly figuring out a work around. For one, the glue that came with the kit wasn't good enough; I experimented and came up with a home brew of Epoxy mixed with ethyl alcohol and baking soda (-- the baking soda made the mix bubble up, making it lighter and was a good filler, too). For another, the parts did not mate true to specs; some even a bit twisted. Another hurdle was keeping the dihedral of the upper wing within recommended specs; it was a challenge by itself. But, overall it looked promising. With all the parts glued together, it began to look like a decent model plane. From there, it was just a matter of putting in the two mini servos and a 2Amp ESC, and the Moth will be ready for flight.

I chose a calm late afternoon for its maiden flight. I drove out to the Global City where High Street is now. The Moth is classed as a ITF Park Flier which meant it had a small motor; flies only at slow speed and is better off flown indoors. I chose to R.O.G the Moth for its maiden flight, it veered to the right then lifted three feet off the ground. I put in too much up elevator and it lost its lift. It stalled and crashed on some thicket, damaging its flimsy landing gear. I trimmed the rudder by dialing an offset to the left. Throwing caution to the wind, I revved up the motor and hand launched the Moth; it flew straight; then it lifted. I pulled in too much elevator again, the plane started to go on a stall again. But, before it did, I pushed the elevator down a bit. It recovered. It twitched to the right. I let go of the sticks. The wing dihedral did it job and the plane corrected. I pulled in a bit more up elevator. Slowly it climbed up to about 20 feet cruising majestically at less than 8 kph.

The damn bitch was flying!

It was a great day. It was followed by more glorious days.

RC flight offered an escape from my demons. Maybe, I think, if I can focus on controlling a model plane, I’d have respite from the things that went wrong with my life. Besides, it seemed to be a great idea having control for once… of course, I was wrong (again). You don’t. You listen and feel model planes. You adjust to its mood and idiosyncrasies; and the will of the wind-- much like this wretched life; and beg the mercy of wind gods for gentler gusts, minimum down draft, less rain, more sunlight; more clouds and a forgiving sun so you could have a second more of that magical moment… nay a communion, with the Big Guy up there who is truly in full control.

I’m still here, you bastards…
-- Papillon, the movie; Steve McQueen as Henri Charrière

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 2: Isla del Fuego

I was in my early twenties, in the crossroads of my life; silently sobbing, flipping and clicking the top lid of my vintage Zippo lighter, muttering like a fool in the moonlight when a cold hand tapped on my head, and I looked up. He was back! He's huge: almost ten feet, I think. He's more or less translucent: I could see the avocado tree behind him, dimmed but still visible. His shoulder length hair is unkempt and had bits of bark and small leaves in it; his eyes bulged; his carnivorous teeth white and massive, made for foraging. He's the stuff of all my nightmares given flesh. His hairy arms and legs had intricate armored plates-- reminiscent of medieval armor, of woven titanium alloy peppered with rubies, agate, diamonds and black opals set in a complex amalgam that mirrors and reflect images from behind him which made him almost invisible at certain angles, an ingeniously designed camouflage. He is naked from the waist up. On his right hand he held a huge bejeweled itak. He took a step closer, and as he did he tucked his itak behind a leg as if he was embarrassed by it. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided not to; his breath smelled of leaf mold and the underneath of a rotting log. As he came closer, he became more and more solid; more and more real, and the world around us became a flat two-dimensional painting and began to fade into gray.

“Paano ka nakarating dito?”

He pointed to the vacant lot beside our house. I didn’t see anything that could pass for a ride, and so I asked:

“Ano ba dapat ang tinitignan ko?”

He motioned to me to take a closer look. He then led me over the fence. He was agile and fast for his size; he practically skimmed and floated over the fence and I had to double time to keep up. He pointed to a spot where I could discern a shape but it too was translucent. 

He said it was an airship; and, like the bands on his arms and legs, a woven mesh of titanium encrusted with black opals, rubies and diamonds; it works the same way, he said, it reflects and bounces off the images behind it to make it practically invisible. It’s similar to a hot air balloon, he said, but the bag-- made of some kind of transparent organic membrane to contain the hot air, could be tucked and folded to serve as a canopy to a cocoon of titanium, gold and jewels when not in use. He said it was quite safe and comfortable and he and those before him had used such a contraption for centuries to move around the archipelago.

He said he used to have a house but times had changed and it had been difficult; humans have built houses everywhere and there are now fewer places to go where there are no humans. He said the airship is now his home, too. He camps out on roofs of churches and on treetops where he is relatively safe from human intrusion. 

"... pero paano mo natuntun kung nasaan ako?"

He pointed at a hair on his upper arm, it was longer than the other hairs on his body. He told me to move around him; I saw that the singular hair pointed to me wherever I go. It was getting weirder by the minute.

"..pero bakit ka naman napadpad dito?"

Again he started to open his mouth, but hesitated to speak, he seemed to be forming words in his mind and somehow was not able to. He came across as diffident; almost like an awkward socially inept child. But, from folklore I've heard when I was a boy his ilk are notorious pranksters who would play tricks on unwary or disrespectful humans; leading humans astray and make them take the long route to where they want to go. If the human is wearing jewelries, they take some of it too. They were originally craftsmen of note; goldsmiths, and were likewise known for their fascination with jewels. But, they were never known for violence; and indeed I've never heard of an anecdote that they've harmed any human. I have asked him before about the pranks they play on humans and I remember he told me that they were not only for fun but for protection, too; humans have long hunted them for their mane of sharp spines. Humans believed that it brought them luck; a gambling amulet.

He told me that they used to congregate on the night of the March Equinox on Mount Bandilaan on an island in the Visayas which Captain Esteban Rodriguez of the Miguel "El Adelantado" Lopez Legaspi expedition called Isla del Fuego when his party first sighted it in 1565 because the island gave off an eerie glow. He told me that the Spaniards later attributed the glow to the great swarms of kulisap that harbored in the numerous Molave trees on the island, little did the Spaniards know that it was one of their gatherings that they stumbled on. The island, he added, is now known as Siquijor. He said: Siquijor island is a special place for them and they have gathered there for eons. The island actually lies at the center of the Philippines and is a portal of some kind to other worlds. It was through this portal that they have come to our world. Their race is of another dimension from where they have fled and escaped from persecution. But the portal had since closed and they couldn’t go back. They’ve been trapped in our world for centuries.

In their world they live fiercely independent and solitary lives totally dedicated to metallurgy and the craft of devising intricate mechanical contraptions and the study of the lost science of alchemy. They are also the keepers of arcane texts. Through the centuries they have learned to adapt in our world and have even forged an alliance with some of the early human settlers on the island with whom they have shared some of their ancient technology and wisdom.

In those gatherings, he said, they would summon all the kulisap on the island to the mountaintop where they would build a huge campfire, there they would gather to tell stories and dance in the moonlight. He told me that they held a contest as to who among them could first balance a chicken egg on its point; the only day in the year, he claimed, that such a feat could be achieved. It was also the night they synchronize their clocks and navigational instruments for they dabble in astronomy, too.

But humans soon found out. One day, while they lay exhausted after a night of dancing near their camp fire, a human crept up and pulled out one of three sharp spines from the mane of one of them. This man soon won the sweepstakes twice in a row. The man became a well known high stakes gambler and the newspapers heralded his exploits. The spine became worn down after years of handling, but it still brought luck. Then one night the man lost it all, including the talisman, in a single hand of cards. There were several versions of the story: some say the man was beaten in his own game by a creature who sought him out to get back what was rightfully theirs; while some say the man's luck simply ran out, that the talisman had lost its power. Whatever really happened, the man never recovered from his loss. Not long after, the man died without a centavo to his name. 

Through the decades that followed, he said that their numbers dwindled; especially after that well publicized incident since the humans who hunted them exponentially multiplied. It seems that their kind would soon die after even a single spine was pulled out from their mane. But, even then while they live long lives they eventually become way worn after two centuries or so and they too die as humans do. He was the last, he said. 

... itutuloy

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 1: Claire de Lune

It was a moonlit night. On a night like this, going out to play a game of hide-and-seek was the cool thing to do in those days. The air was hot and humid, my sando stuck to my back like a leech and beads of sweat were draining down my eyebrows, stinging my eyes. It did not matter, it was always fun. And I was good at this game. None of my cousins have ever found me-- not Olan, not Cho-cho, not Chuck, nobody! I've hidden in the most unlikely places and sometimes I just stood motionless in the shadows and let stray moonbeams filtering down through the tree branches to cut me up in unrecognizable parts. But, that night I did something more radical, I climbed up the Duhat tree. It was the best idea I've come out with thus far; nobody ever looks up, they won't find me, ever. 

I climbed on a fairly large branch, sat on it and after a while brought out my Zippo; I was tinkering with it when something snuffled and snorted behind me. I blinked my eyes and stared up at the stars. Then I looked down to the ground and then on my side. It moved from behind me to my side. I blinked my eyes again. It was still there; beside me; it was blocking my way down and I was too high up to jump down. I could feel its presence, I didn't have to look. But, I did look; well, not exactly, I took a sneak through the corner of an eye without turning my head. It was there alright. I searched my mind to pigeonhole the creature beside me.

"Ano 'to?..."

" 'di kaya isa 'tong--" I thought to myself, then tried to push the thought away by thinking of something else; it didn't work, panic seized me. I was a young boy then and would have been afraid if it didn't looked more afraid of me than I was of it. With a hangdog face it spoke gently; it sheepishly said it meant no harm and was even apologetic of how scary it looked. 

It was a man's voice. A voice that, amazingly, sounded like the deep baritone voice of a news reader I listened to on the AM radio. Maybe it was his demeanor and his gentle voice for I do not remember being scared. It is not that I was inherently plucky as a child and I must admit I was afraid of the dark (still am) but I claim kinship with all things that thrive on moonlit nights. Besides, you could see in moonlit nights; it isn't technically dark. He kept looking at my Zippo; seemed to be fascinated by it. I told him I found the Zippo wedged between Dada's food cupboard and the kitchen wall; it was quite old and a bit battered; the hinge a bit twisted. The upper lid doesn't line up with the body and it doesn't close right. He asked if he could take a look. I wasn't exactly sure what happened next; maybe I had a brain fart or something, as if a sliver of memory had been yanked out of my brain. The next thing I saw was that he was holding my Zippo in his hand. I fought off the urge to try to grab it back. Nobody touches my Zippo! His strong hands looked human though, but they were hairy and had overly long sinewy fingers and dirty rending fingernails. He held and caressed my Zippo as if it was a delicate Faberge egg. I grimaced as he took a sniff at my Zippo; told me that it belonged to a private in the U.S. Army; a WW II soldier who fought the Japanese here; who had dysentery and later died of a gunshot wound. "Lahat ng 'yun nalaman mo sa isang singhot lamang?" Then he whipped out a glass bulb; he took off the lid and waved it about; in a few seconds it was full of kulisap; he hanged the glowing bulb on a branch; so he could see, he said. He said the Zippo was manufactured in 1941. Then he held out a humongous locket attached with a spinner ball to a thick chain he wore around his neck, an octagon shaped puzzle box with a mechanical trick lock. He deftly operated the opening mechanism: shifted a few panels and rotated a few pins then held it up in a certain way for a few seconds till it opened up to reveal an assortment of tools and other attachments stowed within the hollow that could be manipulated via a pivot point mechanism much like that of a Swiss Army knife but a lot more complex. Upon opening, a miniature cylinder-- with minute pins on it, started to revolve which then struck the tuned teeth of a metal comb, a tiny drum and a set of small bells to play a tune. He said he adapted and integrated the mechanism of a carillon à musique into his take-anywhere "tool box" because he was intrigued by the workings of it; the tune was Debussy's Clair de lune, he added. He pulled out what looked like a mechanical grab and a tool that looked like pliers. He worked on the lid of the Zippo; replaced the wick and put a flint in; polished it and handed it back to me. I flipped the top lid open then flipped it closed, it clicked. It was like new again. I stole a glance at him and saw his eyes glistened with pride. We talked in whispers for a while longer; then he said he’d seek me out again when I was older.

Sensing that he was about to turn around to go, I gathered up enough wits to ask him or it what he or it was. But, he seemed to have anticipated the question and didn't wait for me to finish. He grunted. It sounded like he was suppressing laughter. It was enough. It confirmed what I had in mind. And with that, he disappeared into the darkness of the night.

It took me quite some time to get down from the Duhat tree even as it took me less than a minute to climb up. And when I did got down, everybody had gone home. It seemed I spent only a few minutes up the tree but when I looked up the sky, it already had a tinge of orange on it, it was almost daybreak. And even as the tree was just a few steps from Dada's house it took me sometime to find my way up the stairs. Curiously too, everybody in the house was in deep sleep when I finally got to my bed. I must have lost track of time. 

Into the Abyss

After a year of camping out in an unfurnished 3-bedroom condominium unit in Manila, I packed up and headed for Makati. Well sort of, although the neighborhood is geographically and technically within Makati and shouldn’t be more than a 3-minute drive to Ayala Avenue, it is a different part of the city altogether. The neighborhood is separated from the Makati CBD by J.P. Rizal Avenue with Buendia Avenue providing a sort of a mid-gradation in between. It's astonishing that as you go farther away from Ayala Avenue, even if you're just a block away, you'd feel that you're not in Makati anymore.

It wasn’t the first time I lived in Makati though. It was in Makati that I first chose to live in after I left home. It was in Guadalupe Nuevo: specifically in Camino de la Fe Street and later in Anastacio Street. Guadalupe Nuevo was separated from the Makati CBD by the perpetual chaos of EDSA-- literally the wrong side of the street. To get to the good side of Makati one takes the pedestrian overpass either in Guadalupe or in Estrella, that is, if you could get pass the venders during the day and the hold-uppers at night. Then you take a short bus ride southward, only then will you be in Makati as the general population know it. The two neighborhoods I've been in exude the same mood with Guadalupe Nuevo offering a more edgy feel in terms of fear for your life and property.

The apartment I moved into was a block away from J.P. Rizal Avenue. It was a 2-storey house in the landlord’s backyard; the ground floor windows offering a view of the landlord’s laundry area and garage while the second floor windows offered a commanding view of their roof. After a while I transferred to a smaller two-level flat perched on top of the garage; here the windows offered a view of the other half of their roof and a glimpse of the street. I tried to make a go at making my apartment as normal as possible but no matter what I do it had that fly-by-night feel and ambiance; I tried to cook dinner but somehow it made me feel more miserable than I really was. So I got back to my diet of junk: early morning breakfasts at McDonald’s; and alternating between Jollibee burgers or Buddy’s pancit hab-hab and Lukban longanisa for lunch and dinner. It was just a short drive or jeepney ride to the Power Plant Mall at the Rockwell Center; a place which offered new weekend haunts. My usual weekend itinerary was: buy a book, coffee at Starbucks to read the book, walk around like a zombie, have lunch while still reading the book, walk around like a zombie, continue reading the book at a coffee shop while having dessert and coffee, take a long zombie walk, have an early dinner of Brother’s Burger, walk around till nightfall then repair to my crash pad and read some more. I have accumulated quite a number of books that I've stacked around my mattress, the books walled out the rest of humanity.

Then one night, as I was staring at my illegally cabled television the 9/11 attacks happened.

Thereafter, the 9/11 tragedy was casually included as a plot device in lots of insensitive fictional dramas in films and television series. I recently saw one of them: Reign Over me (--which comes from the song "Love, Reign o'er Me" by The Who, the film features a cover version recorded specifically for it by Pearl Jam), a comedy-drama film starring Adam Sandler as Charlie and Don Cheadle as Alan.

In the film, Charlie suffered terrible losses in the 9/11 attacks and he has completely shut himself off from the outside world; to cope he uses his iPod and headphones to selectively filter out the world. The film opens with Graham Nash's Simple Man and throughout the film Charlie listens to two songs from Bruce Springsteen's The River-- "Out In The Street" and "Drive All Night" and the music of The Who. People cope in different ways, I guess.

The film ended positively for Charlie; on the other hand, fate is not done yet with my life. My life will crumble further.

Sweat Dreams

??: Still awake?
JT: Shucks. Wide awake! Why don’t you leave me alone.
??: ... can't sleep, huh?
JT: ... and you figured that out all by yourself, huh?
??: Are you upset?
JT: Hell, I am.
??: You’re not scared of me, are you?
JT: You give me the creeps. Are you happy now? Go away, I want to sleep.
??: So, what scares you?
JT: You’re not going away, are you?
??: I got nowhere to go. You got nowhere to go. We’re here in the middle of nowhere. I got nothing to do. You got nothing to do. You can't sleep. I got all the time in the world. Let’s talk.
JT: (holds pillow over his face)
??: Come on, let’s talk...
JT: (holds pillow even tighter on his face)
??: So, what scares you?
JT: Shit man, you just won't quit...
??: Come on... what really scares you?
JT: ...
??: Come on, dude.
JT: ... hmmm... I guess betrayal... deep water... stray dogs…
??: Yeah. I was betrayed once. But, who cares?
JT: Only the betrayed…
??: Yup, only the betrayed. In Dante’s “Divine Comedy”, the 9th circle of hell is reserved for betrayers. A glacial wasteland shared with traitors.
JT: I wonder if there is a place for the betrayed in the afterlife, too.
??: Isn’t being betrayed hell enough? The problem with the betrayed, I think, is that they just feel bad about it but do nothing.
JT: What do you want them to do, kill their betrayers?
??: Well, it’s totally up to them. It’s just that they should do something about it. For not doing anything about it, they truly deserve the anteroom.
JT: The what?
??: The anteroom! In Dante’s vision of hell, these plateau drifters-- the do nothing guys who doesn’t move and just wallow in and out of misery, are condemned to be vagrants outside the gates of hell. They have done no evil to be condemned to hell but have done no good either to deserve heaven. They don’t go to Purgatory because this half-way station is for those who have actually committed sin-- indeed, have done something about it, though in a forgivable way; and after serving time progressed up to heaven. The “sin” of not doing anything is apparently not a forgivable one; I say sin because if it’s not a sin then I figured they would have gone somewhere nearer heaven; perhaps outside the pearly gates-- where, presumably, the conditions would have been a tad better. It is a sin of being neither good nor bad. And, deservingly, their punishment is to be relentlessly bedeviled by wasps and flies. A punishment, in my opinion, that is neither hellish nor benign; I guess just in keeping with their “sin”. It is said that the cries and lamentations of these lost souls-- yup, the same lost souls your priest talk about, could be heard in the stillness of the darkest nights. But I digress, my point:-- the betrayed should do something…
JT: But, what freezes the betrayed, most of the time, is that the betrayer is someone they love. They can’t kill them because they love them and so they do nothing or worse they kill themselves instead.
??: Ever considered killing yourself?
JT: I think so… when I was younger and didn’t know better.
??: Was it because of this love you speak about?
JT: In my immature mind, maybe. The thought crossed my mind, but I figured life is a lot more dangerous than death. Dying is a cop-out. Death is what happens when you fail in life. It’s inevitable so why rush it. Besides, there are still a lot of things I want to try and other reasons to live for.
??: But, aren’t you scared to die?
JT: What’s scary about it? After you’re dead, it’s done. And in a week’s time, you’re completely forgotten.
??: Oh…
JS: Do you mind moving away from me a bit?
??: Ummmph… So, what’s your beef about dogs?
JT: When I was a boy, an uncle’s dog attacked me. It was a colorless muscular dog they kept in a cage too small for it to move around. It got loose and dashed out for a romp around the family compound-- until it decided it was more fun to eat me instead. It charged me. It was big (or was I small?) It leapt and with snarling jaws went for my throat. Instinctively, I grabbed its throat as I stumbled over on my back. It was on me; sharp teeth millimeters from my face; drool dribbling on my neck; I could smell its breath. Its two paws were digging on my chest. We struggled a bit then a household help came and pulled Cujo off me. I’ve kept a distance from dogs since then.
?? : Was it one of those Pit Bulls?
JT: In those days dogs are what could be called “natives”-- a mongrel or a mix of no particular breed. Pit Bulls, any purebred for the matter, are unheard of. Well, at least, in our part of the woods.
?? : What’s the pride in that? Why keep a mongrel as a pet anyway?
JT: It’s a bit different then; they start out as puppies-- constantly cuddled, fed and cared for by children after having been given up by a neighbor who had a bitch that had more puppies that could be cared for. Then these puppies get bigger. They’re not fun anymore so they’re thrown out of the house: chained, caged if space won’t allow otherwise; unwashed except when it rains and fed with table scraps. These dogs have no place to go so they camp out in the periphery of human tolerance. Most live independently on the streets-- “self-supporting” dogs we used to call them; supplementing their meager diet by scavenging; staying within a radius of their camp where there is, at least, an assurance that they’ll be cursed, kicked and beaten less than in any other place. It’s more like a co-existence with humans rather than being kept as a pet.
??: Ummphh…
JT: There used to be a phenomenon that a newly built house comes with dogs, too.
??: How’s that?
JT: Well, if you’re having a house built or renovated, the construction workers come and establish a community within the construction site-- they build makeshift rooms to sleep in, on their free time they stake out the housemaids around the area, they shack up eventually; with the housemaid minding a carinderia-cum-store while waiting for the baby to pop out. Dogs-- and a sprinkling of cats, turn up much the same way. When the construction is done, the puppies and “left-over” dogs-- those not eaten, are left behind just like the ex-maids and their babies. When you move in the house, there’s a bunch of dogs hanging out on your doorstep and if you’re really lucky a housemaid could be waiting, too.
??: Well, I guess you could say that native dogs have no breeding… (laughs)
JT: On the contrary, I think native dogs are more intelligent and better adapted to the unique Filipino psyche than purebreds. A native dog is a demonstration of Darwin’s theory of the survival of the fittest. On the other hand, a purebred lineage could be traced to a Petri dish. There is a lot of in-breeding in purebreds to obtain a particular characteristic making them look good but genetically inferior; which is probably the reason keeping them as pets cost a lot of money for immunization vaccines and commercial dog food. Anyway, I think the askal could pass for a breed in itself.
??: I’m more of a cat person myself. Stray cats fare better than dogs, I think. They start out much like your askal but they keep a greater distance from humans and they’re less deprived than dogs because they’ve added stealing in their survival skills repertoire. They have gone beyond survival and actually live exciting lives.
JT: You just referred to yourself as person.
??: Oh, it’s more like a figure of speech. Convenient for our purposes, that’s all.
JT: Really? I think you’re not at all sure what or who you are…
??: Let’s not go into that… So why are you scared of water? Did you get washed away in a flashflood? Were you in the Titanic or something?
JT: Nah, it’s just that being in chest deep water makes me panic. I can’t swim... at most I guess I could paddle around a pool like a dog, but that's it. So instinct dictates that waist deep is just about right. Anything deeper would be pushing my luck.
??: Do you think deep water dredged up the terror of the dog attack?
JT: I don’t think so. My fear of water came much later in life. I almost drowned more times than I care to remember but I don’t think those episodes increased or decreased my fear. I’m not sure how or when it started, but just to be on the safe side, I now limit my interaction with liquids to drinking and showers.
??: Do you think there’s a connection; the mean dog standing on you and water crushing your chest? A man’s fear is built on another and the sum total is paranoia.
JT: Maybe you are the sum total of my fears. I sense that you’ve become bigger and bulkier through the years. What have you been doing, feeding on my fears?
??: Freddy Kruger!
JT: You’re Freddy Kruger?
??: Shit no! Freddy is a deadhead character in a B-movie. I’m for real. But that’s what the Freddy character said: He feeds on fear. People are scared of him because he is the personification of fear. And as people get more and more scared, he gets stronger and stronger.
JT: Is that what you are trying to do, scare me?
??: Hey, it’s just a movie we watched.
JT: You were with me when I saw the movie?
??: How else could I have seen that crappy movie...
JT: You been hanging around since that time? Since when?
??: Well, let’s just say that I’ve been with you for some time...
JT: Were you with me in November 1999, in Bambang? Or, that night I spent in a Legaspi City motel in 2003? How about that night in 1977 when I slept alone in a seedy hotel in the corner of Avenida Rizal and Aranque? Or, maybe that night I spent alone in Camiguin Island? How about that night I spent in a pension house in Infanta, Quezon? How about that night in an abandoned building in Bukidnon?
??: Wow, you’ve been around the whole block, haven’t you? Well, I could spin a tale like that corny Footprints on the Sand song but I don’t think you’re going to go for it…
JT: Were you with me in 1977 when I went for days without food and water?
??: Whoaa. No food? No water?
JT: It was after my fourth day as stok-wa; I made a promise to go back home; when I did, I went straight to my room and stayed there in the days that followed; lying on my bed, not eating nor drinking. I’d come out in the dead of night, move in the shadows, slip out of the door and sit in the moonlight. I’d sit there motionless for hours; thinking about nothing, pursuing random thoughts, holding it in my mind for a while and letting go. Maybe, I was hallucinating; lightheadedness induced by lack of nutrition-- mesmerized by a phantasmagoria of two-dimensional grayscale images moving in and out of focus in my mind’s eye. Maybe I was in the brink of insanity. Then before daybreak, I'll sneak back in and sleep. There was no way out of it. It’s one of those things that began with no clear ending; until one night my mother can’t take it anymore and she broke down. She screamed. I ran up the stairs, jumped over the banister and embraced her. She asked me to stop. And, that was the end of it. The next day, I begged leave to go out. I went out for a walk; then it hit me; I have a plan; for the first time in my life everything was clear: I now know what I have to do. And, in a cool December night in 1979, a few days before Christmas, I walked out for the last time.
??: That’s it? You just walked out?
JT: Yeah, with just the clothes on my back and a change of clothes in two small plastic shopping bags.
??: You never came back?
JT: Nope, that was the plan.
??: Just like an askal, huh?
JT: ...
??: .... a pusakal?
JT: z…
??: ?
JT: zzz
??: ??
JT: zzzzzzzzzzzz
??: ???
JT: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
??: zzz
JT: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
??: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
JT: How long has it been?
??: zzz… What?
JT: How long did we doze off?
??: I think it was around 2:00 a.m.
JT: Shit, just an hour of sleep.
??: Let’s go back to sleep…
JT: ?
??: ?
JT: So, what is it that scares you?
??: ?
??: ??
??: What???
JT: Do I scare you?