coffee makes the world go round. not angular momentum.

Sometime last year I went with some penfriends to old Manila to look for NOS (new old stock) fountain pens and ink. It’s a part of the city that is the oldest, and consequently the one being consumed by inner-city decay.

Yet along its streets life thrives. Commerce is booming. There are interesting things to see – and buy. Come take a look at what we found. (Click on each picture, then click again to see full size.)

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POP GOES THE WORLD By Jenny Ortuoste for Manila Standard-Today, 26 August 2010, Thursday

Sorry, We Aren’t Trained

That is what the acronym “SWAT” stands for in the Philippines, say many in the aftermath of last Monday’s hostage-taking bloodbath.

Former senior police inspector Rolando Mendoza’s frustration over what he perceived was an unjust termination of his bemedalled service in the police force drove him to hijack a tour bus full of visitors from Hong Kong and demand his reinstatement.

When this did not happen and instead an inept SWAT team took a sledgehammer to the back window of the bus, he slew eight of his captive tourists.

Brave but inept policement prepare to storm the bus. (Click on pics to go to image source.)

Hong Kong erupted in anger. According to the Associated Press, several dozen protesters chanted in front of the Philippine embassy there: “Strongly condemn the Philippine government for being careless about human life!” “Filipino police incompetent,” blared Hong Kong’s Ming Pao Daily News on its front page. The South China Morning Post said the incident was “a wake-up call” to improve gun control and security measures.

Interior Secretary Jessie Robredo, in charge of the police, was quoted by AP as having said, “Had we been better prepared, better equipped, better trained, maybe the response would have been quicker despite the difficulty. All the inadequacies happened at the same time.”

This painful admission underscored the galactic incompetence of those involved in the rescue attempt – the negotiators; the SWAT team members; the government officials who panicked and could not be reached by indignant Chinese diplomats demanding news and the safety of their nationals.

People who had their photos taken in front of the horror bus have been accused of insensitivity.

It also pointed to another tragedy brought about by corruption. There should have been enough funds for equipment and training. The delivery of basic social services such as law enforcement should have been prioritized by government.

Sadly, this hostage tragedy was not the only violence that humans committed against their fellows around the world.

Last week, a South Carolina mother suffocated her two toddler sons, strapped their corpses into her car, and pushed the car into a river before fleeing the scene. Upon her capture, police officers said she showed no remorse for her deed.

On Sunday, a Virginia man killed three family members and wounded four others in a property dispute.

On Tuesday, a suicide bomber killed 32 people at the Muna Hotel in Mogadishu. The attack followed a day of fighting in the Somali city in which around 40 others were slain, bringing the death toll to over 70 in just 48 hours.

Why?

In her column about torture last Monday, MST opinion editor Adelle Chua referred to psychologist Philip Zimbardo’s theory of the “Lucifer effect”, or how good people turn evil through the “pervasive yet subtle power of a host of situational variables” which can “dominate an individual’s will to resist” and cause him to perform actions that he would ordinarily consider evil.

Yet could there be a deeper, underlying cause for all this human rage and cruelty? Eccentric intellectual Howard Bloom, in his controversial 1995 book The Lucifer Principle posits that human evolution can “explain the fundamentals of human nature and the broad sweep of human history”.

Primal rage, he says, lurks within our reptile brains, and “a strange thing happens when humans and other animals are cornered by the uncontrollable. Their perceptions shut down, their thoughts grow more clouded, and they have a harder time generating new solutions to their problems.”

Experiments with rats have shown that faced with electric shock punishments, those given some sort of control (being able to leap to an unelectrified platform) avoided a brain-dulling endorphin surge, “remaining perceptive and alert”.

The rats without control, subjected to shock after shock, suffered from systems flooded with endorphins and were unable to “retain and act on vital information.”

In short, Bloom said, “Control, in humans and rats, energizes the mind. A lack of control can cripple mental powers”.

Perhaps this explains Mendoza’s actions. Freed bus hostage Ng (who did not give her first name) said that Mendoza at first “did not want to kill us, but since the negotiations failed, he shot to kill people.” His lack of control over the hijacking, adding to the loss of control in his own life, pushed a desperate man over the edge.

Many who watched the hours-long live coverage on TV said that it was apparent to them that Mendoza was not thinking clearly. Political science doctoral student and Lopez, Quezon mayor Sonny Ubana said that Mendoza’s use of violence as a way of settling his problems is “not part of our culture; we tend to seek amicable solutions.”

Moreover, by choosing foreign nationals as his victims, Mendoza violated the norms Filipinos hold most sacred – that of hospitality and its accompanying accommodative behavior. His culturally and morally aberrant actions, many opined, were proof of his mental breakdown.

One cultural meme that he got correct was that of the angry man running amok.

Mendoza’s fatal move of taking and slaying hostages was his way of regaining the control he had lost over his employment situation, which had defined him. Being a cop was his identity. Shorn of his badge and rank, he was a nobody, only a shell filled with rage.

For the Philippines and the world, this lamentable crime points to the lack of control of law enforcers and government over extreme situations such as these; the lack of control over corruption; the lack of control of an entire society over one lone killer.

A recent survey says the Philippines ranks twelfth globally on the “net happiness” scale  despite low per capita income. Are we as a people too high on mind-dulling happy endorphins to think rationally and logically, so that we give police badges and guns to untrained men who either go berserk or who through their inadequacy botch the rescue of berserker victims?

Ours is not the only nation where violence takes place. The Internet is full of stories of murder and mayhem every day. Yet this particular incident could have been avoided or its tragic effects averted or mitigated.

Sorry, world. We aren’t trained to take control.   ***

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Last July my sisters, daughters, and I visited Baguio City, staying at my aunt’s vacation home in a quiet part of town. She has a magnificent garden. I fell in love with it.

You can’t be suspicious of a tree, or accuse a bird or a squirrel of subversion or challenge the ideology of a violet.

~ Hal Borland, Sundial of the Seasons (1964)

The temple bell stops

But I still hear the sound

coming out of the flowers.

~ Basho

(Click on each picture, then click again to see full size.)

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Once upon a time, in a country far far away from where it was made, a blue Pelikan M205 Traditional Series demonstrator came to roost on a Yeah! notebook.

The blue Peli’s fine steel nib has a bit of flex that makes it a joy to write with, yielding good line variation because of its springiness.

It was joined later by a limited edition Pelikan M205 in Gelb (yellow) from Germany.

Its nib is even bouncier than its blue fellow’s.

The clips of both pens are pelican beaks with eyes, the better to see what they are writing.

The ink window mesmerizes; one can gaze at that ink bubble and derive amusement from watching the ink flow here and there as you tilt the barrel.

An ink window is handy for seeing how much ink you have left. You’ll never run dry in the middle of a sentence anymore.

The Yeah! notebook is inexpensive but well-made.

Its paper is smooth and takes fountain pen ink well with little show-through and no feathering.

Interesting pens, notebooks, and inks for doodling make me happy. What are the little things that bring you happiness?

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POP GOES THE WORLD By Jenny Ortuoste for Manila Standard-Today, 19 August 2010, Thursday

“Orosman at Zafira” and Divorce

For its 35^th season, the Dulaang UP of the University of the Philippines is putting on a series of productions kicking off with Francisco Baltazar’s “Orosman at Zafira”, running up to August 29 at the Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero Theater at UP-Diliman’s Palma Hall.

For those who remember having to slog through Baltazar’s epic poem “Florante at Laura” in high school, “Orosman” is the same in flavor; the dialogue is heavy reading in archaic Tagalog and hard to follow, although the narrative, as brought to life by cast members, can be comprehended from the talented and excellent performances.

Reed screens decorate the set and are moved around to create spaces, emphasize separation, and otherwise indicate location. At the beginning, the title of the play is cast upon the screens in light, which fades and shifts to a rainbow of coruscating lights.

Suddenly a woman’s low, husky tones ululate in distinctly Filipino cadences, followed by the doom-doom beat of tribal drums. At those sounds, something primal surges within, a call of the race deep within the blood that hearkens to the rhythm of forebears as the reed screens separate to reveal the singer/narrator, Zelima (played superbly by Tao Aves), clad in flowing robes, mourning the deluge that has overwhelmed their land: “Sa aming bayan, dilubyo sa aming bayan. Tatlong pacha, isang kahariang mahal; nagalit ba ang dakilang Allah, at nangyari na ang dapat na mangyari?”

Then unfolds the story of power and wealth, love and sorrow, life and death, played out in dance and song and words. The women of Baltazar’s “Orosman” are powerful: Tasy  Garrucha enchants as Zafira, princess of the Marueccos tribe, while Jean Judith Javier’s Gulnara, the beloved of Sultan Mahamud, Zafira’s father, convincingly portrays a complicated love. Both turn warrior upon the assassination of the sultan; do not be misled by the flowing gowns and the soft voices; the dulcet tones turn harsh with anger, the gowns stripped to reveal men’s clothing while staves and other weapons are waved at the moment of battle.

As the drama unfolded, I realized that the spirit of warrior women still lives in Filipinas today. Infidelity is endemic in our culture and is cause for much heartbreak in relationships. Our laws are biased towards men, who can only be charged with concubinage upon submission of proof that they have set up a household with a woman not their wife. Women, on the other hand, only have to fail once and be caught in a tryst with their lover to be charged with infidelity. Is that fair?

There are also no strict safeguards for battered women and children, despite the Violence Against Women and Children law which was only passed a few years ago. What recourse is there for Filipino women in the present day to escape from the trap of loveless marriages scarred by infidelity and violence, the wife-beating husband in the arms of another woman, often providing no support for the children?

House Bill 1799 is one such solution. Called the “Divorce Law” and proposed by women lawmakers who are among our modern warrior women, it provides a better option than the costly and lengthy annulment that is the only means at the present for unhappily married Filipinas to be emancipated.

Have you noticed how the proponents and supporters of the bill are women and progressive men, while its opponents are traditionalist men? The reactionary male lawmakers and their like-minded fellows who seek to keep women entrapped at their convenience are selfish and fail to take into account the feelings of the women who yearn for freedom and the chance to start life anew, perhaps find a man who will truly love and cherish them. Why can’t they let go?

These hidebound fogies see women as property, theirs to bind and loose at their whim, blind to the rights of women to live their own lives as they see fit, while they engage in affairs left and right. That is not fair or moral or right. If a marriage is not working, for whatever reason, why not accept that fact and take steps to set both parties free to start anew? That is better than for unhappy couples to stay together for the sake of appearance – that is hypocrisy.

Baltazar’s women took matters into their own hands when it came to love and war. Today’s women need to keep to the law of modern society; wielding swords and bows are not an option. Yet Filipinas are not without weapons – we have our brains to think and our bodies to act to support a law that is long overdue and that will give women that which are our rights and should not be withheld by those who wish to retain their power over half of the population.

As examples of strong and loving women, Zafira and Gulnara are inspirations. Some of the other cast members include Jay Gonzaga (Orosman), Kevin Concepcion (Aldervesin), Roeder Camañag (Boulasem), Acey Aguilar (Zelim), Neil Ericson Tolentino (Mahamud), and veteran Ronnie Martinez as Ben-Asar, Mahamud’s vizier. Directed by Dexter Santos with original music by Carol Bello, “Orosman at Zafira” is a must-see. Call Dulaang UP at 926-1349 for tickets and playdates. ***

Photos from Prof. Amy Bersalona of the UP-Diliman College of Arts and Letters/Dulaang UP.

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I was looking for old files in my computer when I came across this short story I wrote in 2008. I had forgotten all about it. But I remember the impetus for the narrative was my finding a sad note like this one in the story. I put myself in the place of the scribbler of the note, and imagined “What if…?”

SIRE OF SIRES

It was 2008, and Danny was forty.

He felt old. It wasn’t that long ago when he was fifty pounds lighter with a full head of hair, jauntily entering the state university’s Malcolm Hall law school as a student. Where did time go?

Do the math, mocked Rina. How old will you be by the time your youngest child has finished his university degree? I loved you, Danny. I still do, a little. But you got yourself into this situation. Not me.

As much as his hand itched to slap her, he couldn’t do it, couldn’t even find the words to reply, because he knew she was right.

After she had gone back into the house and slammed the door in his face, and after he had driven back to his and Thess’s apartment where she, tired of waiting up for him, tired of putting up with his promises to leave his wife and excuses why he hadn’t, couldn’t yet, was asleep on one side of the bed, her bulk taking up fully two-thirds of the mattress, he went down to the living room and sat at his desk.

Drawing a piece of paper toward him with trembling hands, he made a list of his offspring. Lissette, born 13 November 1990; Migs, 25 October 1998, Marco, 29 October 2002. His youngest by Rina, Manolo, was born 8 March 2004, barely a month after Thess had given birth to their firstborn, John, on February 16. His and Thess’s youngest, Matthew, came along on 8 August 2005. Roselle’s baby was due in December.

In 2010, Lissette would be in her fourth year of college; Migs, in sixth grade, Marco in the second, John and Manolo both in Prep, Matthew in senior kindergarten.

In 2015, Lissette should be working, unless she took it in her head to attend law school; Migs would be in his first year at college, Marco in the first year of high school. John and Manolo, the almost-twins, in fifth grade, Matthew in the fourth.

By 2020, Lissette would be 30 years old, presumably working and with a family; Migs, at 22, should be working also. Marco would be 18 and in his second year of college, John and Manolo, both 16 and in their last year of high school, Matthew, at 15, in his junior year at high school.

By 2025, John and Manolo would presumably be in their last year of college, Matthew in his third. Roselle’s child would be 17, and perhaps newly-graduated from high school.

And Danny? He would be 58, with four children still in college. He would still have to be working and earning; there was no guarantee that Lissette, Migs, and Marco, his older children, would contribute towards their half-brothers’ education and upkeep. They would, of course, help out with their brother Manolo, but with John and Matthew? His child by Roselle? He didn’t think so. On the contrary, he felt that they would tell him in no uncertain terms to go to hell, dragging his own tail.

Buntot mo, hila mo.

The jokes comparing him to the prolific stallion Conquistador who sired countless colts and fillies weren’t funny anymore. No, the entire situation had lost its humor long ago.

He wondered where now were the drinking buddies with their ribald challenges of his manhood, where his employers, the racehorse owners with the expensive young women on their arms, where were they now that his life was falling apart?

Danny placed his scribbled list on the desk, weighed it down with an old horseshoe. His  neck hurt. The house oppressed him; it was as if he could hear Thess snoring, John and Matthew breathing heavily, even though they were yards away from him, in their own rooms. Oh, but he loved them so, and Roselle and their unborn child, and his older children, and yes, Rina too. He was never one to stop loving, he could only love more people, add to those already in his heart. Didn’t the old rascals say, “Magdagdag ka ng minamahal, huwag kang magbawas?”

He had always fancied himself a stallion like the late great Conquistador, and he was, with his six progeny, a filly and five colts by two broodmares, with a third dam in foal, and he was magnificent in his sexual prowess, a stud just like his father, they all said so.

His old man died at the track, watching races till his breath caught in his chest and his heart gave out and whose last sight was of horses running till his vision narrowed to a pinpoint and dissolved into darkness, at whose funeral two wives showed up, the first wife sharing bitter whispers with a woman whose jockey husband had left her for a slut: “They come back to us when they’re dead.”

But there was still one more way Danny could be like Conquistador.

He got out of the house, locked the door carefully behind him (it wouldn’t do at all to have an intruder or a burglar come in, an akyat-bahay who would not be content with stealing the plasma TV or the few pieces of jewelry he had managed to buy for Thess, but who would stab his family where they slept, turning them into another “Massacre In (insert name of city here)”, tabloid-fodder for the masses), got into the car, and drove to the racetrack.

The night guard was surprised to see Danny there so late, but waved him through and went back to sleep. Danny parked as close as he could to the first bend. Sitting in his car in the driver’s seat, the seat pushed back as far as it would go so the steering wheel wouldn’t dig into his gut, the moon shining into the car and filling it with silvery light, Danny unzipped the black leather case beside him on the passenger’s seat.

Inside was the bolt gun he used to put all those horses to rest.

It was heavy, the rubber grip rough in his hand, the barrel cool against his temple. He gazed at the track, it was aglow in moonlight, each particle of sand luminous, and over this brilliant surface he saw Conquistador’s legs pumping, galloping for the turn home.

Smiling, he pulled the trigger, and ran to meet his hero.

It was 2008, and Danny was forty, forever. ***

taste more:

Modification of fountain pen nibs is done by nibmeisters, savvy pen users who can grind plain vanilla or rough nibs to make them smoother or more interesting in terms of line variation or flex.  Fountain pen collector Chito Limson is one such gent, whose ‘chitofied’ nibs are prized by his pen friends, among whom I am fortunate to be counted.

He recently modded three pens for me. All came with stock fine nibs. From top to bottom, a Wality marked ‘Airmail’ from India, a Chinese-made Bulow, and a custom made pen from Rob Beers in Iowa.

After smoothing with micromesh and magic, the Wality is now a crisp italic. Not for daily notetaking, it is toothy and sharp at the edges of the nib to create lettering for special occasions. And doodling.

The Bulow is blingy, heavy, and best wielded unposted.

From a vanilla fine, it is now a sweet cursive italic that yields some line variation since the nib happens to be semi-flex.

The Iowa pen, says Chito, was the easiest to work with and is now a deliciously smooth stub that glides over paper.

It bears a two-tone nib with the edges smoothed to a stub that is wider than a fine, which it was previously.

Nib modification is an option to take stock nibs to the next level. Thanks to Chito and his magic hands, these pens have been transformed and given more character.

taste more:

When I was growing up we had so many books that we could have built a house with them, the way environmentalists today build structures from plastic soda bottles or beer cans. I can’t imagine living without books. It wasn’t until I was in elementary school that I found out not everyone loved to read as much as our family did.

So every time I’d visit other people’s homes I’d see if they had books and how they stored them. When I was in college there was this guy, a friend of friends, who invited a bunch of us to their big old house in Manila. His name was Ditto Amador, the brother of the actress Pinky. He had science fiction and fantasy books piled up on the floor of his bedroom knee-high while a sheaf of papers was impaled to the wall with a sword, I swear I am not making this up. We all thought it was extremely cool and we wanted one.

Over the years, hundreds of my books were lost or damaged or stolen or given away. I wish I still had them, so I can revisit the familiar cadences of sentences that drew me to different worlds. Now, through the marvels of new technology, I can rebuild the library of my childhood, and carry with me the books I love as an adult, and later on bequeath them to my children, the stories and wisdom and knowledge of the world all in a gadget I can hold in my hand.

I recently acquired a pre-loved Kindle 2. This gadget is a brainchild of Amazon.com founder and CEO Jeff Bezos. The first-gen model – Kindle 1 – was released in 2007 and followed in 2009 by the second-gen version, while the third-gen device – Kindle 3 – ships on August 27 and pre-orders are sold out.

The Kindle uses e-ink (electronic ink) technology reminiscent of an Etch-a-Sketch and is not backlit, eliminating eyestrain caused by glare which is the problem when reading on computer monitors, phones, and the iPad. You can read in bright sunlight, but you’ll need a booklight in the dark.

Kindle 2 uses only one font but offers eight font sizes and both landscape and portrait orientation options.

How does it all work? Digital files of books in the proprietary .azw format are sold at the website and may be downloaded to your Kindle through wireless technology called Whispernet (the Kindle comes in 3G and WiFi flavors). A file may be received practically anywhere in the world there is telecom access in under 60 seconds – yes, in the Philippines too. It’s like it was sent as a mobile phone message to you – it’s that fast, and it’s free.

The Kindle 2 also reads other formats such as .mobi (Amazon bought out Mobipocket some time ago), .txt, and supports .pdf and mp3 and Audible audio book files.

The device is light and thin and may be held comfortably in one hand for a long period of time, say, reading in bed at night or while waiting for your police clearance at the NBI. The Kindle 2 has a 6-inch display in 16-point grayscale, giving an acceptable level of detail for viewing some types of graphics. For text, it is superb.

Control buttons are at the edges and bottom of the device. “Previous page” and “Next Page” on the left, “Home”, “Next Page” “Menu”, “Back”, and the five-point joystick on the right. On the bottom is a QWERTY keyboard for searching for books at the Kindle website through wireless; for looking up word definitions in the built-in dictionary; adding annotations (the e-equivalent of scribbling notes in the margins); and more.

The Kindle 2 only came in white, which looks clean, though newer versions also come in graphite that offers better contrast.  No, they don’t have it in pink yet, though I have hopes.

The power switch is located at the top of the gadget, with a headphone jack for listening to audio books.

Beneath the Kindle is a USB port for downloading books from a PC and for recharging. Once fully charged, the battery lasts about a week to ten days with normal use and wireless switched off.

It is a delight to read on the Kindle, and to be able to hold 1,500 books with one hand and carry them with you wherever you go. I can give away most of my ink-and-paper books now, saving only those that have sentimental value.

But I still want a sword.

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I’ve been inundated with work the past couple of weeks and am struggling to surface from the depths, swimming upwards to the light and air while fending off sharks, straining seawater through my teeth to obtain plankton for nourishment, and beating deadlines.

For last week’s “Pop Goes the World” column (August 12), I revived an earlier blog post and added social commentary and analysis, as the earlier essay was merely descriptive.

Click here to read the piece at Manila Standard-Today Online.

I had this interesting conversation, apropos of nothing, with an assistant general manager at work yesterday. What makes it special is that I just met her last week:

AGM: “I liked your ‘Psst!”

Me: “Excuse me, whaaat?!”

AGM: (takes my hands) “Psssst!”

Me: (totally clueless) “Sorry, Ma’am, I don’t know what you mean.”

AGM: “Your ‘Psst! Taxi.”

Me: (bright light dawns) “Oh. You read my column? Thanks, that makes two of us!”

AGM: (smiles) “Oo naman.”

I love you, ma’am. <3

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