Word Stack or A Pile of Thoughts

What happened to proper Christmas caroling?  I mean, if you can sing off-key to a Bryan Adams karaoke recording, what’s so hard about giving a bit of holiday cheer by singing "The First Noel" in the same manner?  Apparently, such a feat is beyond the folks in our neighborhood, who have replaced singing for money with simply asking for it.  There’s a word for that: BEGGING.  Except we disguise it by saying "Namamasko po!" Oh, screw it, where did they get the idea they were entitled to something, to the point that they go around and ask for hand-outs?

Okay, granted, Christmas is the season of cynical entrepreneurship, anyone who went to the malls and blew their bank accounts will know that.  One thing though: gift giving isn’t about entitlement.  If you deserve a gift, it isn’t a gift; it’s payment.  You don’t say "Wow, thanks!" for a good grade or a pay check in the middle of the month.  That’s supposed to be something you work your ass off for, and when your done working, you expect a nice, chewy uber-chocolate-chip cookie made with three cups of sugar and two cups of chocolate chips to come your way.  The only people who make a big deal about getting something they deserve, who go around parading their entitlements, are either juvenile or in politics.

The logic (never mind the idea that most of the people don’t have anything left
to give because they spent it all on toys, wrapping, honey-glazed ham,
turkeys, new DVD players, iPods..,) behind "Namamsko po!" is that simply because it’s Christmas, we’re entitled to some sort of treat.  So we ask people to fulfill their holiday obligation for us.  Nothing could be further from the point of gift-giving.

What I think really becomes a gift is when there was no way you could deserve it; in fact, the less you deserve the thing being given, the more of a gift it is.  If I decide to give someone a gift, it’s not because of something they DID (bought me a donut during a debate practice break), or even who they ARE (my sister/blood-bonded friend/favorite dog), it’s simply because I want to express the fact that they matter to me.  There are no conditions attached to gift-giving.  It simply happens.

Which goes to what I think the Christmas celebration really is about.  It’s about love.  The religious roots of Christmas affirm this, but I’m sure there’s enough two-cents on this to go around.  Rather, the focus is on the concept of love, and understanding what that is, minus the religious allegory.  The normal state of human relations is one of reciprocation, give and take.  Love isn’t like this; love is the ultimate gift-giving.  You don’t give love because so-and-so earned it; you love them simply because that’s how it is. You don’t set conditions to love someone.  It’s not "I’ll love you if…" There are no ifs.  It just sort of happens that way.  And then all that matters is making sure that they are doing okay, that they’re having fun and enjoying life.  They don’t even have to return that sort of concern; reciprocation isn’t an issue.  There is no entitlement in love.

That’s the dividing line between the people you love and just everyone else around you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B91ZZE8hMgs&feature=related

Yep, the more popular Hendrix works would be somewhere along the lines of "Voodoo Child" or "Purple Haze", but on a dusty afternoon in Pasig, its the lonely riffs from "Little Butterfly" that seem to fit best.  It’s the sort of music that makes you think of mutts scratching themselves, little kids sipping coca-cola from plastic bags, a man working on an old motorcycle in the shade of a small tree in the front yard.  Which is, pretty much what’s going on outside my window this afternoon.

I think one of the results of being liberated from formal education is that my pursuits are a bit more free-ranging.  I woke up this morning with the urge to learn everything and anything about making good sandwiches.  It’s like all I can think about is sandwiches.  No kidding. 

I’ve always like sandwiches.  At the very top of my list is the peanut-butter and jelly sandwich.  Particularly, it must be smooth JIF peanut butter with Goober’s grape jelly.  The peanut-butter and jelly mix from Goobers is also good, but the consistency isn’t the same as when you slather one slice with jelly and the other slice with peanut-butter.  It’s a classic snack, and its ability to make any afternoon vegging in front of the TV or computer THAT much more fun cannot be underestimated. 

For the longest time, my concept of sandwich remained unchanged, until I went to Virginia and was introduced to a whole range of sandwiches by Mrs. Kelly (not Kelli, Kelly…another Kelly…much older Kelly who used to own The Virginia Deli in Old Town Fredericksburg and worked with me on the preschooler program at the YMCA).  The one that I took to was a tuna salad with American cheese on rye bread.  Very filling, with a coke and Lay’s. 

So, all of a sudden, this morning, I just started thinking about these two sandwiches, and have resolved to dedicate the rest of my life (or next few weeks) to the pursuit of sandwiches, their genesis and their consumption with tasty chocolate chip cookies.

Although he was blind, he still dreamed in vivid color.  He would wander through forests that glowed with emerald hues, brilliantly-feathered birds flying through the trees like schools of fish.  He would find himself in a golden field, staring up into an endlessly blue sky. 

He never knew which name went with what color.  What was red? All he knew was the bleeding of a sunset, the petals of a rose, the lips of a woman.  There was no such thing as blue, only the waves on a lake, the glow of a distant star,
a desert beneath a waxing moon. 

Sometimes, when he was awake, he would curse his blindness, the fact that all his eyes could tell him was darkness.  He knew that the color he saw in his dreams weren’t how things actually were.  But no amount of dreaming would ever show him how things really were.  He would never see the dirt and the grime, the tear-streaked faces of children abandoned in the street, the empty eyes of people lost among the gray buildings and dust. 

Meanwhile, Meralco celebrates Christmas in the typical misplaced extravagance of the Filipino kitsch.  They’ve lit up their entire bloc along Ortigas Avenue, sucking up the electricity as if they ran a bunch of nuclear power plants.  All because they’re Meralco.  God, it’s the usual Filipino power-tripping (hehe): just because we can, let’s spit in the face of larger considerations.  Wouldn’t it be great if Meralco ran a "save the electricity, clean up the environment" sort of campaign, gunning for responsible electricity use during the season of lights?  Unfortunately, like most things in life, hoping for something better (in this case, hoping for conscientious  corporate leadership) is a hollow thing.

There was a couple who parked their car outside the apartment this evening, and they must have been having a good time judging from the turned-up bass and the slightly shaking car.  In a way, I thought those two knew were better informed about the spirit of the holidays than most.  They certainly were enjoying it more than the stressed-out holiday shoppers who seem to sum up their expressions of love with standing in line, arguing with sales lady’s, and burning holes in their bank accounts.

For myself, I’m spending Christmas holed up in our apartment in Pasig, which has reached the same level of population density as Calcutta. Although it’s good to be with family, it’s just not much of a heart-warming experience with so much scooting and squeezing involved.

More than ever, I just want to get out of this mess and start making it on my own.  So much for the holidays.

I think one of the things that made watching "Avenue Q" all the more hilarious was that the well-dressed, good-looking yuppies sitting in front of me (who, i was later informed were Tim Yap and his groupie date posse) were straining to understand half of the jokes.  Ah, too bad for them, great for us.  Schadenfreude.

But even without that particular bonus, the performance was quite good.  Rachel Alejandro (played Mimi Marquez in the Manila and Singapore productions of RENT) did a bang-up job switching between the roles of Lucy T. Slut and Katie Monster, although I think Glory (the girl who invited us to watch the play) said Felix Rivera was even better, juggling the roles of Rod and Princeton.  Granted, he was on the stage practically the whole fricking play, I think the preference in fave performer between Rachel or Felix boils down to who we thought was hotter.  Such base reasons for appreciating great acting were simply a premonition of things to come.

If you haven’t seen Avenue Q (or in Enrico’s words, Q. Avenue), then it sucks to be you. 

After the play, we made our way through the crowd, almost noticed Migs Zubiri talking to the Yap Yuppie Group (I would say something snide here, but I didn’t take Media Law and Ethics for nothing; the rule of thumb is, you can only call people dim-wits once in a published article).  Went back to Mike’s house to have a late dinner.

Snatches from the dinner-table conversation:
"Kung alam mo yung talong, alam mo yung pechay."

"Say tite."
"No."
"C’mon, it’s just a word.  Saying it is liberating. Ti-Te."
"I don’t want to say it."
"You should just say it.  You’ll be eating your words later, anyway."

Porschia (did I spell that right?), hats off to you.  You’re cool, with or without tequila. 

This trip is pretty good, so far.