August 1, 2011
Prince and the Five Centavo Duck
My first pet was a dog. Well, it wasn't really mine. It was my aunt's (-- the youngest of my maternal aunts who, at that time, still lived with my grandmother); given to her as a gift by a suitor (they eventually married).
The dog-- still a puppy then, was called Prince. I'm not sure who gave it its name. Everybody just called him Prince. As Prince grew he warmed up to me. Well, at least, whenever I was at my grandmother's house. Prince was always glad to see me. I guess that would mean that, technically, Prince was my dog.
Prince was a tricolor of gray and tawny brown on white, with pricked ears and a tightly curled bushy tail. A cowlick on his wrinkled forehead and almond eyes gave him a perpetual stern Clint Eastwood squint. As long as he was tall, Prince had a square stance; he had a distinctive horse-like gait that was graceful and elegant. Prince skimmed the ground in a double-suspension gallop when running flat out at top speed. Prince did not bark like a regular dog; but I was sure he was not a mute (if indeed such a condition existed in dogs) for he could mimic the beginnings of a rooster’s crow and even manage a long drawn-out eerie howl (or is it a yodel?); he could growl, too; but mostly his vocalizations were a curious mix of yelps and grunts; seemingly desperate attempts at human speech which marked his failings as a dog. He had the aloof disposition of a cat; cleaned himself like a cat and like a cat was not dependent on the opinion of the people that fed him.
Prince was, I should say, his own dog and merely tolerated the displeasure of being kept as a pet. Still, Prince humored me by running to my side— and no other, when I whistle for him; pretending he was my pet.
For the record, my first true pet was a duck. During one of my vacations in Frisco, Dada, my beloved grandmother brought home a bibi-- a duckling, in a small brown bag, bought for five centavos at the market. It was given to me. Thus, it was mine. And that made it, I guess, my pet. But, nobody looked at it as a pet. It was more of a novelty, a cheap toy that is not expected to last for more than a week much less to grow into a duck. But, it did. Well, it almost didn’t. It had a few close calls: stepped on a number of times and a fall from the dining table gave it a broken wing, a twisted leg and a slashed webbing on its left foot. Life marks all who pass through it, even if you’re a duck. And maybe because its bones did not heal right, it walked in a double waddle with its head zigzagging sideways.
It wasn't long before it had gotten too big to be inside the house. It was making a mess and I had to bring it out. I let it loose where the kitchen sink drains out. Immediately, it dipped its beak into the water and did what appeared as a gargle. It was a happy duck. From a distance, Prince stood and stared.
I whistled. I saw Prince's ears pricked up but he wasn't looking at me. He had his eyes on the duck. I glanced down at the duck and it too was looking straight at Prince. For a moment they held each other's stare. Then the duck flapped its wings and made a show of its double waddle walk. Exaggerating each movement. Prince looked for a moment then turned and ran away. It was the first time Prince ignored my whistle.
Soon the duck was lording it over a patch of the yard it had marked as its territory. It would chase away intruders who had crossed the invisible border of its domain— an area around the main staircase of the house; and if by chance it were given the slip, it would pinch one of the intruder’s slipper or shoe, using its beak, and secrete it away. Prince tolerated these and kept distance from the duck's domain.
The mongrel without a bark and the odd duck without a name, two that were not whole, were free spirits that ambled along a path marked out by fate and at the crossroads where halves become one, they ultimately converged; it was inevitable. The duck disappeared after that, vanished.
Prince soon argued with a cousin. And for that indiscretion was hunted, cornered then whacked on the head with a steel pipe by dog-eating hooligans on orders of an uncle.
I never had a pet dog again after that. Or, a duck for that matter.
June 16, 2011
The Batman Within
For me, the most enduring image of Batman hails from the 1943 fifteen-chapter serials of Columbia Pictures-- the first Batman live action film ever. These serials were intermittently shown on Philippine television as fillers in the mid-60s. It was a bit confusing and I had a hard time connecting a “resolution” episode to a “cliffhanger” episode because they were not shown sequentially. With its low production value, over-the-top action and dialogue they came across as laughable campy
entert
ainment. It is as if they were begging not to be taken seriously. Batman’s physique was un-athletic and thick about the middle while his voice was a tad too high. Worse still, the Batman costume was baggy and topped by a pair of limp devil’s horns. But, in spite of its shortcomings, the serial spawned a sequel in 1949.
ainment. It is as if they were begging not to be taken seriously. Batman’s physique was un-athletic and thick about the middle while his voice was a tad too high. Worse still, the Batman costume was baggy and topped by a pair of limp devil’s horns. But, in spite of its shortcomings, the serial spawned a sequel in 1949.
The appeal of Batman to me as a boy growing up is his utility belt from which he could pull out a gizmo that is appropriate for whatever tight fix he might find himself in. More tools are secreted in his boots and cape. Batman is the most accessorized among costumed superheroes; he has loads of cool weapons, all sorts of vehicles, gadgets, tools and perhaps the first superhero to use computers. While it has often been noted that Batman’s uniqueness among costumed superheroes is that he possesses no super-powers, I think more than that is how he compensated for being just an ordinary and regular guy by becoming the ultimate techie and gadget/tool user. Kind of like a walking Swiss Army knife with a cape. That, to me, is what really made him a superhero. A bit of the Batman still lives inside each of the eternal children of my generation. You could still see them doddering about. They are the few who doesn’t carry a sissy bag like almost everybody else. They cut a silhouette of an ordinary man with nothing on him but his clothes yet, magically, they would whip out a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone, an iPod, a PDA, a balisong, a box cutter, a pepper spray, a ball pen, a lighter, or even a comb or other contraband out from their socks, their waistband or some hidden compartment unto which they have secreted away other stuff you wouldn't have imagined they could carry around discretely. Alyas Batman at Robin movie ad photo courtesy of Mr. Simon Santos video48.blogspot.com
May 25, 2011
Tweets for my Twit...
Airports always make me a bit wary of people around me (-- it's just the paranoia in me) but the ready smile of a young woman, who looked Filipino, sitting beside me totally disarmed me (-- after a light pat on my back pocket assured me that my wallet is still there). It’s amazing how a complete stranger in a foreign country instantly elevates you to the status of a friend solely on the perception that you possess-- even remotely, an assemblage of racial traits close to his or her own. The woman closed the lid of her cheap ten-inch Intel Atom powered low-resolution netbook on her lap and told me her name was HotChik. It turned out, I discovered later without asking, that HotChik was her Twitter name. When I told her that I too am on Twitter. Her eyes got wide; she leaned in, feigning interest apparently assessing me if I have the potential to be an avid follower or if I’m interesting enough to be followed. When it became obvious to her that I have no intention of sharing my Twitter name, her eyes became clouded with disinterest. She seemed distracted or annoyed. She turned her attention to her netbook; opened the lid and deftly ran her fingertips on the banged-up keyboard; after a while her eyes focused on me again. Her face lit up like a contestant in a TV game show. She said she’s on Facebook, too. Then lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, she said in Facebook she uses her real name. I could see her lips move but I don't hear any sound, my mind has drifted three sentences ago.
Right there is a snap shot of the changing landscape of our virtual world. The mask-ball party in the Internet is winding up. Where people led double lives, real and virtual, now they are shedding their masks to lead single lives again. Anonymity have allowed people to reveal their true selves even if their true selves aren’t their best selves. Still anonymity provided solace and people were emboldened to nevertheless share their lives assured that the rest of humanity would remain clueless as to who they really are (anonymity has strong links with porn sites, which for most people was their first interaction with the Internet). But now-- because of Facebook and Twitter, people yearned not to be liberated from their boring daily lives but curiously to be more deeply embedded in them.
Facebook made cyberspace honest and more like the real world: dull but civilized. All that stuff that the Internet enabled us to leave behind, all the trappings of our ordinary bourgeois existence, we take it with us on Facebook. The face, the name and the life posted on Facebook is real. It’s who we are (or, at least, most of us are). Facebook has simply made anonymity pointless.
On the other hand, the Tweeter micro-blogging community actually encourages-- mainly due to its format, identity deception and trolling and thus harbors in its bosoms two distinct types of internet denizens: narcissists who have revealed themselves as their true selves; and, the last vestiges of the bal masqué pretenders. Those who have revealed themselves hold the view that their everyday lives and opinions are interesting enough for other people to follow even as most of what they twit are blatant lies; and, those who are still anonymous are latent stalkers, posers (-- including those who take on the virtual persona of real people they hate or are presently obsessed with) and cyber-saboteurs/anarchists.
January 7, 2011
Ang Huling Tikbalang
Chapter 6: Ortago
The ground was coming up pretty fast. I braced for impact. At about twenty feet from the ground, a shadow flew passed me. And at about ten feet, this dark apparition caught me at the waist then yanked me sideways. Now I’m going sideways, defying the force of gravity. Then for a moment whatever it was that was conveying me again changed direction after what felt like a jump up. I saw a slide show of the side of our house as I was whisked up. The grip on my waist loosened as another grip on my ankle tightened like a clamp. I could see the galvanized iron sheet. I'm on the roof! Held up by my ankle, I was shaken like a half filled sack of potatoes. One by one my Tikbalang Finder Kit:-- the kaleidoscope-like viewer and the compass-like contraption fell out from my pockets. A spark flew into the air as my Zippo hit the galvanized iron sheet. I dropped the leather pouch I held in my hand as well. Then he dropped me.
On my hand and knees, I crawled up to the ridge of the roof and sat crosswise across it. I stared at the shadowy malignant mass before me. The thing that caught me as I fell then swept me up here on the roof. I couldn’t make it out. My eyes focused just as the blob of shadows moved. It rose up. It’s edges peeled off, and these bits stretched out like cats waking up from a nap. My God, they are cats-- two slinky, mangy feral cats. They spread out but their beady yellow eyes were still on me. The hair bristles on the back of my neck and did the dance that it does so well. Some people say this is God’s warning that the devil is near, but I’ve experienced the same sensation when I’m eating balut. The menacing blob is the stuff horror movies are made of and the feral cats further add to the drama. I tried harder to convince myself that I’m not in the presence of a devil. Yet the hair on my nape continued to do its dance-- and I know I am not eating balut. And yet the sensation persisted. Okay, I'm going to scream now. I willed myself to be calm. I took a step back just as the main mass of the shadow stretched out. A distant lightning on the horizon back-lighted the blot of black. It took a human-like form, mockingly genuflected, bowed its head and spoke in a deep voice…
“Ako si Ortago, ang iyong lingkod. Kinatatakutang mandirigma at hinahangaang mangngangaso.”
He slid forward on silent feet into the moonlight. It-- or rather he, was more than eight feet tall. He had disproportionately long limbs and body wrapped in what appeared as armor made of chain mail and leather. Sheathed crosswise on his back are two blades at a length that is between a sword and a dagger. The blades shimmered in the moonlight; it's sharp translucent edge so thin it almost seemed to vanish; its hilts decorated with spirals and a ball at the end. Seated atop the sheaths is a small metal backpack. Two bolos, the hilts likewise intricately carved with spirals, are sheathed and strapped on his leather and mail brigandine. On one hand he holds a walking stick that looked more like a weapon than an ordinary staff. There was faint dark blue shimmer on the walking sick, the moonlight played around its edges giving it an almost ghostly shimmer. He was about half as tall as the Tikbalang Omas, but he seems to be much stronger and faster.
He unhinged the articulated metal lames of his bevor-- armor which covered much of his neck and chin, removed a gauntlet-- exposing a sinewy and hairy hand, and knelt on one knee as he rummaged at the pile of junk that fell out of my pockets. He held the kaleidoscope-like viewer, gave it a cursory look, crushed it with his hand then let it drop from his grip. The compass cum mechanical astronomical clock interested him more. He held it with what could be described as close to reverence. He made a sound much like the chattering laugh of a spotted hyena. It was unnerving.
The gismo is known to humankind as the Antikythera mechanism. A prototype was recovered from a shipwreck off Point Glyphadia on the Greek Island of Antikythera in 1900 and thus was named after the island. It was disguised to look like an extravagant over-indulgent Olympic calendar to hide its true usage. The ruse worked. Even as humans have discovered it and studied it. Nobody has yet understood what it is used for. Actually what was discovered from the wreak was merely a mock up-- a crude proof of concept made in 100 BC, much simpler and less portable than the mechanism Ortago now hold in his hand.
The mangy cats has now slithered up behind him and seem to disappear again into the shadows. All that remained visible are two pairs of unblinking yellow eyes. Images of Felix the Cat-- with his magical black bag that could transform into a car, an airplane, anything, uncontrollably flew across my mind.
It is usually at this point that ordinary human beings normally take stock of the situation they find themselves in. Asking themselves questions like: Can I run away? Can I take him out? Unfortunately, both options are unavailable. Running away would require jumping off the roof, an option that would only be feasible if I have a parachute. On the other hand, taking a stand and fighting is a totally different matter. Without any weapon, one must rely on their fists but when you punch the face of an adversary who could also throw a punch, they tend to punch you at about the same time you’re aiming for their face. This invariably complicates matters. If you can’t knock out the enemy first, maybe it’s better not to initiate a fight. And so I watch and waited. Waited for what fate had planned for me. And hoped that fate would still change her mind. Of course, one can always give in to panic. It’s probably what most people would do.
Ortago stepped onto the roof’s eave. He was holding the Antikythera mechanism and after tweaking some knobs and levers, he checked its bearings, then scanned the horizon. Then for a moment he froze as if surprised. He cupped his mouth with his hands. He then lets out a howl that mimicked that of a wolf. A similar howl tore thru the distant dark skies.
Ortago lets out a hyena’s laugh. A glint of recognition crossed his face. Is that a smirk?
“Si Nenita Guerrero?”
Ortago’s grip on my shoulder tightened. An instant later, we are falling. It took a moment before I realized it that Ortago had stepped over the edge of the roof. And just before we hit the ground, Ortago let go of me. I tumbled. The wind knocked out of me. I staggered to my knees. I touched the ground one more time just to make sure. The ground actually felt good.
Up close and with the moonlight shining on him, Ortago didn’t looked as menacing as he was in the shadows. His dark colored armor clung to his body like skin. The leather was meticulously sewn and the chain mail made of some kind of metal I’ve never seen before. His hair, a jumble of dreadlocks. My eyes met his.
“Alam mo ba na ang mga mananakop na Kastilang prayle ang nagbansag sa amin ng Kapre”?
The word "kapre" was actually a corruption of the Arabic word “Kaffir”-- a non-believer in Islam. A defamatory reference used by early Arabs and Moors to villify dark-skinned non-Muslim Dravidians. It was the early Spanish friars who brought and propagated the term in the Philippine islands; initially to scare and dissuade early Filipinos from helping escaped African slaves. The term was later applied to sightings of Ortago and his ilk.
“Kapre” or “Tikbalang”, Ortago and Omas are of the same blood.
The Warrior-hunter class-- to which Ortago belongs, and the Intellectuals-- to which Omas belongs, had a long history of conflict and had fought each other for centuries since after the “Fall”. To prevent further bloodshed, truce was declared and an agreement forged. The Warriors-hunters were banished to the island of Luzon and the Intellectuals were condemned to the yet undiscovered wilderness beyond Luzon island. The island of Siquijor was declared neutral ground-- nay, sacred ground. The Intellectuals-- the guardians of ancient knowledge and the high priests, were tasked to keep watch over the island. Warriors-hunters and Intellectuals alike have equal access to Isla del Fuego on equinoxes for "The Gathering". But the truce was fragile and skirmishes continued thru the centuries. Fewer and fewer showed up for "The Gathering". The few who did feared ambush. Until no one showed up anymore. Many struck out on their own and chose to live solitary lives. Random fighting continued. Some were hunted by humans. Until their numbers dwindled. Until only Omas and Ortago were left. Each stayed within their realm. A semblance of peace reigned. It had been centuries since the truce was broken. Until today.
Ortago knew that Omas would not risk the intrusion for something trivial. Ortago turned to me and grabbed me to examine my chest. He saw the blood stain and at once understood. He held up the Antikythera mechanism then something like a sneer quivered over his gaunt features. He let me go.
Ortago looked up in the skies as he slid the Antikythera mechanism into a satchel. Then he sniffed at the air.
“Panahon na...”
Ortago then produced what looked like a metal tube with what appeared to me as burning embers on one end-- it actually looked like a cigar. And like a cigar, there is smoke emanating from the burning end. The smoke provides a translucent screen that makes Ortago almost invisible. The cats had made their way down and are again on his side and appear to blend with him. He again genuflected. Then from that position, he jumped up and disappeared into the dark night.
Itutuloy...
The ground was coming up pretty fast. I braced for impact. At about twenty feet from the ground, a shadow flew passed me. And at about ten feet, this dark apparition caught me at the waist then yanked me sideways. Now I’m going sideways, defying the force of gravity. Then for a moment whatever it was that was conveying me again changed direction after what felt like a jump up. I saw a slide show of the side of our house as I was whisked up. The grip on my waist loosened as another grip on my ankle tightened like a clamp. I could see the galvanized iron sheet. I'm on the roof! Held up by my ankle, I was shaken like a half filled sack of potatoes. One by one my Tikbalang Finder Kit:-- the kaleidoscope-like viewer and the compass-like contraption fell out from my pockets. A spark flew into the air as my Zippo hit the galvanized iron sheet. I dropped the leather pouch I held in my hand as well. Then he dropped me.
On my hand and knees, I crawled up to the ridge of the roof and sat crosswise across it. I stared at the shadowy malignant mass before me. The thing that caught me as I fell then swept me up here on the roof. I couldn’t make it out. My eyes focused just as the blob of shadows moved. It rose up. It’s edges peeled off, and these bits stretched out like cats waking up from a nap. My God, they are cats-- two slinky, mangy feral cats. They spread out but their beady yellow eyes were still on me. The hair bristles on the back of my neck and did the dance that it does so well. Some people say this is God’s warning that the devil is near, but I’ve experienced the same sensation when I’m eating balut. The menacing blob is the stuff horror movies are made of and the feral cats further add to the drama. I tried harder to convince myself that I’m not in the presence of a devil. Yet the hair on my nape continued to do its dance-- and I know I am not eating balut. And yet the sensation persisted. Okay, I'm going to scream now. I willed myself to be calm. I took a step back just as the main mass of the shadow stretched out. A distant lightning on the horizon back-lighted the blot of black. It took a human-like form, mockingly genuflected, bowed its head and spoke in a deep voice…
“Ako si Ortago, ang iyong lingkod. Kinatatakutang mandirigma at hinahangaang mangngangaso.”
He slid forward on silent feet into the moonlight. It-- or rather he, was more than eight feet tall. He had disproportionately long limbs and body wrapped in what appeared as armor made of chain mail and leather. Sheathed crosswise on his back are two blades at a length that is between a sword and a dagger. The blades shimmered in the moonlight; it's sharp translucent edge so thin it almost seemed to vanish; its hilts decorated with spirals and a ball at the end. Seated atop the sheaths is a small metal backpack. Two bolos, the hilts likewise intricately carved with spirals, are sheathed and strapped on his leather and mail brigandine. On one hand he holds a walking stick that looked more like a weapon than an ordinary staff. There was faint dark blue shimmer on the walking sick, the moonlight played around its edges giving it an almost ghostly shimmer. He was about half as tall as the Tikbalang Omas, but he seems to be much stronger and faster.
He unhinged the articulated metal lames of his bevor-- armor which covered much of his neck and chin, removed a gauntlet-- exposing a sinewy and hairy hand, and knelt on one knee as he rummaged at the pile of junk that fell out of my pockets. He held the kaleidoscope-like viewer, gave it a cursory look, crushed it with his hand then let it drop from his grip. The compass cum mechanical astronomical clock interested him more. He held it with what could be described as close to reverence. He made a sound much like the chattering laugh of a spotted hyena. It was unnerving.
The gismo is known to humankind as the Antikythera mechanism. A prototype was recovered from a shipwreck off Point Glyphadia on the Greek Island of Antikythera in 1900 and thus was named after the island. It was disguised to look like an extravagant over-indulgent Olympic calendar to hide its true usage. The ruse worked. Even as humans have discovered it and studied it. Nobody has yet understood what it is used for. Actually what was discovered from the wreak was merely a mock up-- a crude proof of concept made in 100 BC, much simpler and less portable than the mechanism Ortago now hold in his hand.
The mangy cats has now slithered up behind him and seem to disappear again into the shadows. All that remained visible are two pairs of unblinking yellow eyes. Images of Felix the Cat-- with his magical black bag that could transform into a car, an airplane, anything, uncontrollably flew across my mind.
It is usually at this point that ordinary human beings normally take stock of the situation they find themselves in. Asking themselves questions like: Can I run away? Can I take him out? Unfortunately, both options are unavailable. Running away would require jumping off the roof, an option that would only be feasible if I have a parachute. On the other hand, taking a stand and fighting is a totally different matter. Without any weapon, one must rely on their fists but when you punch the face of an adversary who could also throw a punch, they tend to punch you at about the same time you’re aiming for their face. This invariably complicates matters. If you can’t knock out the enemy first, maybe it’s better not to initiate a fight. And so I watch and waited. Waited for what fate had planned for me. And hoped that fate would still change her mind. Of course, one can always give in to panic. It’s probably what most people would do.
Ortago stepped onto the roof’s eave. He was holding the Antikythera mechanism and after tweaking some knobs and levers, he checked its bearings, then scanned the horizon. Then for a moment he froze as if surprised. He cupped his mouth with his hands. He then lets out a howl that mimicked that of a wolf. A similar howl tore thru the distant dark skies.
Omas!
In my mind’s eye, I could see Omas staggering and steadying himself. I remember the last image of his face as he pushed me off the airship. It seems even a Tikbalang is not immune to the effects of the Tikbalang powder-- a heady mix of narcotics and herbs that brought on mild hallucinations and paranoia. The most potent weapon in the Tikbalang’s bag of tricks. Effective in elaborate practical jokes as well as in combat. The powder, as I have experienced, messes up one’s sense of direction and time. It seems that somehow Omas got his wits back and has responded to what appears as a challenge from Ortago. But, I doubt Omas would oblige. The airship is now just a speck as it continued to head southward. Omas obviously is in no condition to fight and has chosen flight.
Then all of a sudden the air is filled with the sound of rapid patter as if I'm about to be overrun by a horde of stampeding rats. It’s only raindrops. Big drops of raindrops. The distant lightning has ceased and in its stead a haze of gray blurred the horizon. I got down on my elbows and knees fearful of a lighting strike.
In a blink of an eye, the armored apparition was on me and had picked me up again, this time by my shoulder. He effortlessly held me up until we are face to face.
“Ikaw ba ang bagong laruan ni Omas?”
He knows Omas. And like Omas, he speaks the Tagalog dialect but, unlike Omas, he speaks it with an Ilokano accent. Omas speaks it with a Bisayan intonation.
Ortago took a step toward the eave of the roof and swung me over the edge; I’m now dangling two stories from the ground.
"Alam mo ba na noong unang panahon ay kumakain kami ng tao? Bigyan mo ako ng dahilan para hayaan kitang mabuhay pa."
At wits end, I retrieved the contraband from my mouth. The gold locket-- with the picture of a woman, which I furtively liberated from the makeshift altar from which it hung at Omas' airship. I held it out to Ortago.
In my mind’s eye, I could see Omas staggering and steadying himself. I remember the last image of his face as he pushed me off the airship. It seems even a Tikbalang is not immune to the effects of the Tikbalang powder-- a heady mix of narcotics and herbs that brought on mild hallucinations and paranoia. The most potent weapon in the Tikbalang’s bag of tricks. Effective in elaborate practical jokes as well as in combat. The powder, as I have experienced, messes up one’s sense of direction and time. It seems that somehow Omas got his wits back and has responded to what appears as a challenge from Ortago. But, I doubt Omas would oblige. The airship is now just a speck as it continued to head southward. Omas obviously is in no condition to fight and has chosen flight.
Then all of a sudden the air is filled with the sound of rapid patter as if I'm about to be overrun by a horde of stampeding rats. It’s only raindrops. Big drops of raindrops. The distant lightning has ceased and in its stead a haze of gray blurred the horizon. I got down on my elbows and knees fearful of a lighting strike.
In a blink of an eye, the armored apparition was on me and had picked me up again, this time by my shoulder. He effortlessly held me up until we are face to face.
“Ikaw ba ang bagong laruan ni Omas?”
He knows Omas. And like Omas, he speaks the Tagalog dialect but, unlike Omas, he speaks it with an Ilokano accent. Omas speaks it with a Bisayan intonation.
Ortago took a step toward the eave of the roof and swung me over the edge; I’m now dangling two stories from the ground.
"Alam mo ba na noong unang panahon ay kumakain kami ng tao? Bigyan mo ako ng dahilan para hayaan kitang mabuhay pa."
At wits end, I retrieved the contraband from my mouth. The gold locket-- with the picture of a woman, which I furtively liberated from the makeshift altar from which it hung at Omas' airship. I held it out to Ortago.
Ortago lets out a hyena’s laugh. A glint of recognition crossed his face. Is that a smirk?
“Si Nenita Guerrero?”
Ortago’s grip on my shoulder tightened. An instant later, we are falling. It took a moment before I realized it that Ortago had stepped over the edge of the roof. And just before we hit the ground, Ortago let go of me. I tumbled. The wind knocked out of me. I staggered to my knees. I touched the ground one more time just to make sure. The ground actually felt good.
Up close and with the moonlight shining on him, Ortago didn’t looked as menacing as he was in the shadows. His dark colored armor clung to his body like skin. The leather was meticulously sewn and the chain mail made of some kind of metal I’ve never seen before. His hair, a jumble of dreadlocks. My eyes met his.
“Alam mo ba na ang mga mananakop na Kastilang prayle ang nagbansag sa amin ng Kapre”?
The word "kapre" was actually a corruption of the Arabic word “Kaffir”-- a non-believer in Islam. A defamatory reference used by early Arabs and Moors to villify dark-skinned non-Muslim Dravidians. It was the early Spanish friars who brought and propagated the term in the Philippine islands; initially to scare and dissuade early Filipinos from helping escaped African slaves. The term was later applied to sightings of Ortago and his ilk.
“Kapre” or “Tikbalang”, Ortago and Omas are of the same blood.
The Warrior-hunter class-- to which Ortago belongs, and the Intellectuals-- to which Omas belongs, had a long history of conflict and had fought each other for centuries since after the “Fall”. To prevent further bloodshed, truce was declared and an agreement forged. The Warriors-hunters were banished to the island of Luzon and the Intellectuals were condemned to the yet undiscovered wilderness beyond Luzon island. The island of Siquijor was declared neutral ground-- nay, sacred ground. The Intellectuals-- the guardians of ancient knowledge and the high priests, were tasked to keep watch over the island. Warriors-hunters and Intellectuals alike have equal access to Isla del Fuego on equinoxes for "The Gathering". But the truce was fragile and skirmishes continued thru the centuries. Fewer and fewer showed up for "The Gathering". The few who did feared ambush. Until no one showed up anymore. Many struck out on their own and chose to live solitary lives. Random fighting continued. Some were hunted by humans. Until their numbers dwindled. Until only Omas and Ortago were left. Each stayed within their realm. A semblance of peace reigned. It had been centuries since the truce was broken. Until today.
Ortago knew that Omas would not risk the intrusion for something trivial. Ortago turned to me and grabbed me to examine my chest. He saw the blood stain and at once understood. He held up the Antikythera mechanism then something like a sneer quivered over his gaunt features. He let me go.
Ortago looked up in the skies as he slid the Antikythera mechanism into a satchel. Then he sniffed at the air.
“Panahon na...”
Ortago then produced what looked like a metal tube with what appeared to me as burning embers on one end-- it actually looked like a cigar. And like a cigar, there is smoke emanating from the burning end. The smoke provides a translucent screen that makes Ortago almost invisible. The cats had made their way down and are again on his side and appear to blend with him. He again genuflected. Then from that position, he jumped up and disappeared into the dark night.
Itutuloy...
February 18, 2010
Ode to the Commodore 64
My first hands-on encounter with a computer was in 1987 when I got a pre-owned Commodore 64. The 8-bit C64 was basically a fat keyboard that looked like a breadbox. It featured 64 kilobytes of RAM with sound/graphics performance that was superior to most IBM-compatible computers of that time and rivaled only the Atari 8-bit family computers. The C-64 had a built-in RF modulator and thus you have an option of plugging it into a television set (instead of a specialized monitor-- which was quite expensive at that time). I plugged my C-64 to an old black-and-white Philips TV (The first television I bought. I bought it in 1980 for P999.00 and came with a free clothes iron).
The C64, being pre-owned (-- there's that scary word again), didn't come with a User Manual so I had to figure out by myself most of what the C64 was all about. The C64 did come with a Datassette-- a tape cassette recorder/player with which you could save and upload programs. Like most home computers from the late 1970s and 1980s, the C64 came with an on-board (ROM) version of a stripped down/simplified version of the BASIC programming language (-- yup, that's Bill Gate's Beginner's All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code. Jack Tramiel of Commodore International-- maker of C64 was said to have paid US$25,000 to Bill Gates for a perpetual license for it and thus did not see the need to acknowledge Bill Gates, but typing "WAIT 6502, 1" would invoke an embedded easter egg that would make "Microsoft!" appear on the monitor screen). There was no so-called "operating system" then; the kernel was accessed via BASIC commands. The interface, unlike what is usually expected from computers nowadays, is an austere and unwelcoming blank screen with a blinking cursor on the upper left of the screen. I spent a lot of late nights punishing my poor eyes as I stared on the contrasty B&W television screen. Unlike nowadays where everything could be downloaded from the internet, documentation then was hard to come by. It took some work to figure out the C64 Basic Language and for a long time all I could do with it was to use it as a calculator and as a synthesizer.
It was by mere chance that I came upon a sixth copy of a photocopy of a copy of the User Manual (-- which, praise God, included a glossary of BASIC commands and a short tutorial on BASIC programming) in an obscure shop in Greenhills. And after much anguish, I came out with my first program-- a crude clone of the virtual ping pong game. From the same shop I got the MIKRO assembler-- which curiously came in a Game Boy-like cartridge (-- there is a slot behind the C64 console that accepts cartridges), and which integrated seamlessly with the standard BASIC screen editor. I also explored third party BASIC compilers. Then I discovered the SEUCK (Shoot'Em-Up Construction Kit) development suite which allowed wannabe-programmers like me to create original, professional-looking shooting games.
The C64 introduced me to Unix (-- initially via the Unix-like LUnix), and encouraged me to explore scripting via Python (-- and later AppleScript) and object programming via SmallTalk-80 (via its quirky dialect, Squeak), to look and think beyond the GUI that present day operating systems have forced down our throats-- and to confront the CLI. It taught me perseverance, patience, to think logically and not to trust what I see.
February 5, 2010
Gēmu Otaku San
Gunpei Yokoi (横井 軍平) is said to have hit upon the idea of the Game & Watch when, while traveling on a train, he saw a bored businessman pressing the buttons of a calculator to kill time. The Game & Watch triggered the evolution of mobile gaming and it wasn't just to "kill time" anymore, it had become a lifestyle. The Game & Watch also led to the mass production of Chinese bootlegged game consoles and culminated, in the 1980s, with the Brick Game craze when just about everybody lugged a Chinese bootlegged version of the game console; and for a time offered Filipinos a virtual respite from their miserable lives.
Mobile gaming was so-so and mainly served as virtual baby-sitters for dorky kids until the Portable Sony PlayStation (PSP) came around. Maybe more as a marketing strategy rather than anything else, game developers began to target serious gamers by porting the most popular PC and PS games into the PSP. This allowed hard core gamers (-- as against those who are casual gamers who only played simple arcade style games to "kill time") to be Solid Snake (-- and Gabe Logan in the Syphon Filter series; and Kratos in God of War; and Sam Fisher in the Splinter Cell series) even when they're on the road. I'm a Metal Gear Solid (MGS) fan and I've beaten every MGS reiteration on the Sony PlayStation (PS1/2) and now the PSP had snipped the umbilical cord that attached me to the PS. Although I was a bit disappointed with the first MGS on the PSP: Metal Gear ACID (Active Command Intelligence Duel), because the action-based game I enjoyed so much in the PS had morphed into a card trading/collectible turn-based system where you either draw a card or play your hand to control the character’s movements and actions, I still played it because I haven't played MGS for maybe three years and I missed it. Although Metal Gear ACID is not canonical, it retained the original MGS look. In the game, Solid Snake must retrieve the "Pythagoras" from the Lobito Physics & Research Laboratory. In the end, he will face the latest model of Metal Gear-- the Metal Gear KODOQUE.
The sequel, Metal Gear Acid 2, the protagonist is a clone created from tissue samples of Solid Snake. The game had become totally unrecognizable, gone are the gray and green theme of the original MGS series, instead the in-game models are rendered in stylized anime graphical style that looked more like colorful, clearly-inked concept art. It was disappointing.
Metal Gear Solid: Portable Ops is the first canonical outing of the MGS series for the PSP. It again featured Naked Snake (introduced in MGS1 as "Big Boss", Solid Snake's C.O. in FOXHOUND and who is later revealed as the source of Solid Snake's cloned genes and that of Liquid Snake as well; and who was also Solid Snake's main antagonist in Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake). It also went back to the series' action-based game play from previous PS1/2 console iterations, but instead of Naked Snake doing solo missions, the game has a squad-based approach, with Naked Snake having to recruit allies and form a team. It is set in 1970 in South America, six years after the events of MGS3:Snake Eater. It is nowhere near previous PS reiterations, but it was way closer than the ACID series.
Snake
has yet again returned in Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker. The first MGS title for the PSP directed by the series' creator Hideo Kojima. I look forward to beating it; as eagerly as I look forward to finally getting a PS3 so I could beat “Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots”--which features an aged Snake clone (The only other MGS game I haven't yet beaten).
In the meantime, I alternate between "New Super Mario Brothers" on my Nintendo DSi and "Splinter Cell: Essentials" on my PSP2000 (and my trusty Sony Reader PRS300:-- repository of my "walk-throughs" and e-books).
A well meaning friend once told me to get a life.
"Hey, I don’t need a life....
... I’m a gamer. I have lots of lives!"
Mobile gaming was so-so and mainly served as virtual baby-sitters for dorky kids until the Portable Sony PlayStation (PSP) came around. Maybe more as a marketing strategy rather than anything else, game developers began to target serious gamers by porting the most popular PC and PS games into the PSP. This allowed hard core gamers (-- as against those who are casual gamers who only played simple arcade style games to "kill time") to be Solid Snake (-- and Gabe Logan in the Syphon Filter series; and Kratos in God of War; and Sam Fisher in the Splinter Cell series) even when they're on the road. I'm a Metal Gear Solid (MGS) fan and I've beaten every MGS reiteration on the Sony PlayStation (PS1/2) and now the PSP had snipped the umbilical cord that attached me to the PS. Although I was a bit disappointed with the first MGS on the PSP: Metal Gear ACID (Active Command Intelligence Duel), because the action-based game I enjoyed so much in the PS had morphed into a card trading/collectible turn-based system where you either draw a card or play your hand to control the character’s movements and actions, I still played it because I haven't played MGS for maybe three years and I missed it. Although Metal Gear ACID is not canonical, it retained the original MGS look. In the game, Solid Snake must retrieve the "Pythagoras" from the Lobito Physics & Research Laboratory. In the end, he will face the latest model of Metal Gear-- the Metal Gear KODOQUE.
The sequel, Metal Gear Acid 2, the protagonist is a clone created from tissue samples of Solid Snake. The game had become totally unrecognizable, gone are the gray and green theme of the original MGS series, instead the in-game models are rendered in stylized anime graphical style that looked more like colorful, clearly-inked concept art. It was disappointing.
Metal Gear Solid: Portable Ops is the first canonical outing of the MGS series for the PSP. It again featured Naked Snake (introduced in MGS1 as "Big Boss", Solid Snake's C.O. in FOXHOUND and who is later revealed as the source of Solid Snake's cloned genes and that of Liquid Snake as well; and who was also Solid Snake's main antagonist in Metal Gear 2: Solid Snake). It also went back to the series' action-based game play from previous PS1/2 console iterations, but instead of Naked Snake doing solo missions, the game has a squad-based approach, with Naked Snake having to recruit allies and form a team. It is set in 1970 in South America, six years after the events of MGS3:Snake Eater. It is nowhere near previous PS reiterations, but it was way closer than the ACID series.
Snake
has yet again returned in Metal Gear Solid: Peace Walker. The first MGS title for the PSP directed by the series' creator Hideo Kojima. I look forward to beating it; as eagerly as I look forward to finally getting a PS3 so I could beat “Metal Gear Solid 4: Guns of the Patriots”--which features an aged Snake clone (The only other MGS game I haven't yet beaten).In the meantime, I alternate between "New Super Mario Brothers" on my Nintendo DSi and "Splinter Cell: Essentials" on my PSP2000 (and my trusty Sony Reader PRS300:-- repository of my "walk-throughs" and e-books).
A well meaning friend once told me to get a life.
"Hey, I don’t need a life....
... I’m a gamer. I have lots of lives!"
February 3, 2010
Ang Huling Tikbalang
Chapter 5: Omas
I willed myself to think. Within me is some kind of Bezoar stone-- a stony concretion that have been embedded, cultured and somehow passed down through generations in our bloodline; that this Mutya or Hiyas or Bertud-- or whatever it is called, is now “ripe” for harvest; and to "harvest" it is to surgically extract it?
He desperately needs it for something really important; but, he’s not forcing it. He could have ripped me apart to get it. But, somehow he didn't. It seems he can’t force it. That’s it. I have to “give” it to him-- or, at least, to acquiesce in to a surgery.
Folklore has it that deception and lies are second nature to his ilk. Deception is the game we are playing right now, but how much is deception and how much is the truth I could not sieve through. Everybody lies. It is not so much as telling an absolute lie as not telling all that is true. Truth is that which is true or in accordance with facts or reality, but sometimes the facts or reality could be unacceptable or incredible to us and for which reason even the truth is rejected and that which is untrue is embraced. The truth, I guess, is what we would like to believe in. Facts and reality are solid rocks we could anchor unto and walk upon, but we need faith to fly.
Humans are generally assumed to tell the truth in their dealings with other humans, but lie at every opportunity that would benefit them. His kind generally lie; does that mean he tells the truth for the same reasons and motivations we tell lies?
I need more time and a calmer place to think. But, all things considered what do I have to loose? Other than a few drops of blood and a wound that would eventually heal-- not much; in fact, nothing.
And so, I let him do what he had to do.
He told me to take the contents of one of the vial first, which I did. I felt slightly lightheaded. Then he deftly made a small incision on my chest. I felt pain. I felt blood oozing from the wound. It felt warm. But, it was over in minutes. Something like a sneer quivered over his gaunt features as he held up the bertud. He held it up in the air like a priest consecrating the Eucharist. Then he unceremoniously took one vial from my hand and poured its entire contents over the wound. It felt cold on my skin and in a minute a gel had formed over the wound. He said I should drink the contents of the last vial only if I experience pain.
"Para sa iyo..."
He tossed over what looked like a cylinder made of interlocking gold mesh; and as with most of his gadgets, it is studded with precious stones. It looks like a small telescope. I could grasp it in my hand with just a little of it sticking out of my fist. I looked into the eye hole. It’s a kaleidoscope of some kind. I rotated the tube and the rubies, diamonds and other precious stones within the tube interacted with the mirror-like surface inside the tube. It seems to do the reverse of what a kaleidoscope normally does. Instead of seeing changing patterns when the tube is rotated; it puts the Tikbalang in sharp focus. Through the eye hole I could clearly see the Tikbalang-- even with his camouflage turned on.
Then he tossed over a mechanical contraption with a jumble of miniature dials, gears, knobs and levers. It's face is a cross between a bejeweled clock and an intricately designed compass but with several dials. It looks like some kind of a multifunctional steam punk analog computer cum navigational instrument on steroids. The device looks remarkable for its level of miniaturization and for the complexity of its parts and is comparable to that of 19th-century clocks. It has more than 30 gears with teeth formed through equilateral triangles. The Tikbalang flicked a hidden lever and it revealed a dial resembling a clock with a round dial with symbols rather than numbers on them, it has only one hand and it's pointing directly at him. An analog GPS? Cool.
“Kakailanganin mo mga iyan kung nanaisin mo muli akong makaharap. Hindi na kita muli matutunton ngayong natanggal na ang bertud sa iyong dibdib.”
I stuffed them into my pocket with the Zippo.
It seems that the thing inside me is also some kind of beacon that he tunes into to track me. That is how he locates me. Without it, he cannot track me. And now he would want me to be able to track him?
Suddenly, he cocked his head slightly to one side as if he had heard a muffled or a distant sound-- a sound not unlike that made by a intruder in the night as he stumbled on furniture, and he is now straining to confirm it.
What happened next was a blur: he strapped a leather and metal contraption around my waist and torso; then he connected what looked like a cable unto it. He grasped me by my shoulders, looked into my eyes and said:
“Ako si Omas. Sa muling pagkikita.”
Then, without warning, he pushed me out of the door. Instinctively, I grabbed on to him-- I caught a leather pouch that hang on a string around his neck. A blast of white powder sprayed forth onto his face as I my hold tightened on the leather pouch. Anguish and confusion flooded his face.
The sight, smell and sound of the night enveloped me once more. I felt a rush of air. I could see the ground rushing up to me.
I'm falling...
itutuloy...
"Kung iyong ipahihintulot ay gagamitin kong kasangkapan ang bertud upang ako ay magkaroon muli ng pag-asa na makabalik sa aking mundo”
I willed myself to think. Within me is some kind of Bezoar stone-- a stony concretion that have been embedded, cultured and somehow passed down through generations in our bloodline; that this Mutya or Hiyas or Bertud-- or whatever it is called, is now “ripe” for harvest; and to "harvest" it is to surgically extract it?
He desperately needs it for something really important; but, he’s not forcing it. He could have ripped me apart to get it. But, somehow he didn't. It seems he can’t force it. That’s it. I have to “give” it to him-- or, at least, to acquiesce in to a surgery.
Folklore has it that deception and lies are second nature to his ilk. Deception is the game we are playing right now, but how much is deception and how much is the truth I could not sieve through. Everybody lies. It is not so much as telling an absolute lie as not telling all that is true. Truth is that which is true or in accordance with facts or reality, but sometimes the facts or reality could be unacceptable or incredible to us and for which reason even the truth is rejected and that which is untrue is embraced. The truth, I guess, is what we would like to believe in. Facts and reality are solid rocks we could anchor unto and walk upon, but we need faith to fly.
Humans are generally assumed to tell the truth in their dealings with other humans, but lie at every opportunity that would benefit them. His kind generally lie; does that mean he tells the truth for the same reasons and motivations we tell lies?
I need more time and a calmer place to think. But, all things considered what do I have to loose? Other than a few drops of blood and a wound that would eventually heal-- not much; in fact, nothing.
And so, I let him do what he had to do.
He told me to take the contents of one of the vial first, which I did. I felt slightly lightheaded. Then he deftly made a small incision on my chest. I felt pain. I felt blood oozing from the wound. It felt warm. But, it was over in minutes. Something like a sneer quivered over his gaunt features as he held up the bertud. He held it up in the air like a priest consecrating the Eucharist. Then he unceremoniously took one vial from my hand and poured its entire contents over the wound. It felt cold on my skin and in a minute a gel had formed over the wound. He said I should drink the contents of the last vial only if I experience pain.
"Para sa iyo..."
He tossed over what looked like a cylinder made of interlocking gold mesh; and as with most of his gadgets, it is studded with precious stones. It looks like a small telescope. I could grasp it in my hand with just a little of it sticking out of my fist. I looked into the eye hole. It’s a kaleidoscope of some kind. I rotated the tube and the rubies, diamonds and other precious stones within the tube interacted with the mirror-like surface inside the tube. It seems to do the reverse of what a kaleidoscope normally does. Instead of seeing changing patterns when the tube is rotated; it puts the Tikbalang in sharp focus. Through the eye hole I could clearly see the Tikbalang-- even with his camouflage turned on.
Then he tossed over a mechanical contraption with a jumble of miniature dials, gears, knobs and levers. It's face is a cross between a bejeweled clock and an intricately designed compass but with several dials. It looks like some kind of a multifunctional steam punk analog computer cum navigational instrument on steroids. The device looks remarkable for its level of miniaturization and for the complexity of its parts and is comparable to that of 19th-century clocks. It has more than 30 gears with teeth formed through equilateral triangles. The Tikbalang flicked a hidden lever and it revealed a dial resembling a clock with a round dial with symbols rather than numbers on them, it has only one hand and it's pointing directly at him. An analog GPS? Cool.
“Kakailanganin mo mga iyan kung nanaisin mo muli akong makaharap. Hindi na kita muli matutunton ngayong natanggal na ang bertud sa iyong dibdib.”
I stuffed them into my pocket with the Zippo.
It seems that the thing inside me is also some kind of beacon that he tunes into to track me. That is how he locates me. Without it, he cannot track me. And now he would want me to be able to track him?
Suddenly, he cocked his head slightly to one side as if he had heard a muffled or a distant sound-- a sound not unlike that made by a intruder in the night as he stumbled on furniture, and he is now straining to confirm it.
What happened next was a blur: he strapped a leather and metal contraption around my waist and torso; then he connected what looked like a cable unto it. He grasped me by my shoulders, looked into my eyes and said:
“Ako si Omas. Sa muling pagkikita.”
Then, without warning, he pushed me out of the door. Instinctively, I grabbed on to him-- I caught a leather pouch that hang on a string around his neck. A blast of white powder sprayed forth onto his face as I my hold tightened on the leather pouch. Anguish and confusion flooded his face.
The sight, smell and sound of the night enveloped me once more. I felt a rush of air. I could see the ground rushing up to me.
I'm falling...
itutuloy...
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