On Confusion

Personally, it's one of the most disagreeable feeling in the world--confusion. That's saying it gently. I can easily see how confusion can become the worst torture there is. The lack of certainty and direction is unnerving and excruciating, more so than the actuality of a mistaken decision--which is plenty ironic. Being confused is God's cruel prank injected into free will. It is the fine print to entering the covenant of knowing Good and Evil. I have to admit, it is funny to see a guy being confused. Looking from the outside, confusion is a fun watch, but when you're the confused guy yourself, you get to resent freedom a little. (It does comfort me to think that God has a sarcastic and mean sense of humor, but that relief only goes so far. It's not a good feeling knowing the joke's on you.)

Even the term "confusion" is confusing itself; what can one be confused about? It can be a lot of things, it can be a few things; it can be big things, it can be small things. You can be confused about anything or nothing at all. That's how confusing "confusion" is.

To add to the confusion, the clock is ticking. The longer you take in making the decision, the more the pressure builds up. The more the pressure builds up, the more you get confused. The more the fun continues. It's no use procrastinating on the decision or ignoring the impending choice to be made; it is in the nature of confusion that you have to make a choice. Otherwise, it's not really confusing at all--it won't be confusion in the first place.

You can be confounded over whether you'll go for burger or rice for dinner, but you won't be calling it the greatest failure in life to be mistaken in either one. But those don't count. The real puzzle is when you start thinking about where you're standing and where you're heading. You look at the streets, the signposts, the direction people are heading, the skies, and the stars just for any hint of direction or destination. You start walking, looking at your feet moving one after another, and you think, "Where am I really heading?" In this sense, stopping and moving really means the same--there's no difference. You seem headed nowhere.

I can hear someone saying: "Get a grip, man!"

True, true. A man should get a grip. To be less sexist, everyone should get a grip.

I tried a lot of things to get through confusing times. I tried Anime, beer, smoking--these have worked so well in the past. To my initial surprise, then horror, they can only go so far. These don't resolve the confusion, they just make you forget it for a few hours (or years). After the hangovers, burnt lungs, and tired eyes, the real solution emerged. It ain't any of these things: the only way to get rid of damn confusion is to make a decision. And deciding entails mostly finding the courage to possibly making the most terrible, stupid, and irreversible mistake ever. (That, and also fortifying oneself to be able to recover from such a blow.) From a rational standpoint, confusion ensues because of the hesitation to make a choice. To be precise, it's the fear of being mistaken.

Now that I seem to have a "grip" on what can remove confusion, I am here writing this post still shaking in terror on making a decision. Ergo, the confusion goes on. Like in most situations in my life, I know what to do, I just don't like doing them.

A Drunken Song

Don't gulp it down
Tomorrow's busy at rest
Certainly, but slow to come
Show respect for the bottle
Show respect for Time
Don't gulp it down
Always leave some
For the palate's enjoyment
Show some taste
By your capacity for taste
Can't you feel it
Bite at your tongue?
Do not hurry
Let it swirl
Ebbing back and forth
Filling the mouth's every corner
As it flows down
It claws through your throat
Like it doesn't want to go
But it goes through the stomach
With an exploding warmth
Then you can't help
But not get enough
Feeling so good
Until you throw up

August 2004

What I Like About Getting Old

There are much things to hate in this life. But there are also much things to like and love. Growing older has a way of teaching things like that. 

With age comes wisdom, as the cliche goes. And that is true. Wisdom is but the admission of how little you really know, according to Socrates, if I didn't get it wrong. 

It's nice to be young since you can be a know-it-all and be forgiven for it. But after wading through all the years of crap that life chose to give you, you'd get to say at the end that "all is good." Though it would be wrong to say that it is true, that everything is "good, " but at least you get to appreciate the irony behind it. Good or bad, that is part of getting through this life. But in general, life is good, the level depending on how you make of it. The cliche "life's little pleasures" holds a very important truth. It seems all we really have are life's little pleasures. It would be a great loss if we fail to see and appreciate them. 

But even so, I love the anger of youth. This anger is from the betrayal of life and ideals. I love youth and its anger. It's because the youth carry such great hopes and dreams that they get to  hurt so badly, which makes them pretty angry. That's the reason why I think young people tend to rebel and do crazy things. It's hard to lose the ground beneath your feet then get back your balance in a short matter of time. Because of this, young people tend to stick to their ideals and close out any other viewpoints. That is irrational, but charming nonetheless. 

With a bit of time and experience, a young person would get to learn how really horrible this world is. It's almost incomprehensible. All the hate that the young person stores in his or her heart would grow pale in the reality of reality. This, naturally, causes despair. But even so, despair is good. Despair tells you that you're still alive. Despair tells you that there is hope. Even if that hope is something fabricated and artificial, hope is the beginning of all. That, and irony. Though Albert Camus says there should be no hope, I don't think that is possible. There truly is no hope in an objectively meaningful existence, but hope is born because of it. Maybe the term is not hope, but possibility. I don't know, but hope opens the doors for possibilities for me. At least Camus taught me the necessity of irony.

With this opening of possibilities, you get to realize the infinite possibilities of human existence. You get to learn tolerance. You get to realize that the viewpoint you would die for, other people think nothing of. You get to realize that the viewpoints you considered as idiocy, other people would die for. It becomes an interesting situation. Of course, "dying" is a stretch, but you would get to realize that there are other points of view that are being held as dearly as you hold your own. 

Thus, you learn to be addle-minded as you grow older. Rather, you learn to look at things with more patience and tolerance. But most of all, you get to realize that your viewpoint is just one of many. You learn that no one needs to be right, and no one needs to be wrong. Although, there are times when you need to make a stand. But in most cases, you're not in the middle of starting a war. In most cases, you realize that talking and communicating is more important--being heard and being listened to. But even after all that, you still stick to your guns, but sans the hate and anger.  In some cases, you even call a truce.

But as you grow older, the more you tend to see how young you really are. Not in the sense that you can still down a case of beer and feel like nothing afterward (I miss those days), but more of realizing there's still a lot to learn. That even after decades, this life and your fellow humans still have a lot of crappy things have to teach you. That after all that happened, you would still contend with the fact that you're still as green as you can be.

And this leads me to another thing: keep moving. Keep learning. Keep growing. Keep growing old. Keep learning. Then let life takes it's course, for better or worse. Or, you can end it yourself; it's your choice. But if you did, you won't get to enjoy the bitter-sweet experience of getting old.

Yes, I am a Lolicon

When I see a little girl dance and twirl with abandon, time seems to stop. Mixed with her song and laughter, I imagine being treated to an orchestra of euphoria. When I think of her coming to me after her play and dance, eyes sparkling with childish pleasure and cheeks flushed from delighted exhaustion, I sigh from a deep feeling of fulfillment. It's her bright eyes and innocent smile that just kills me. Her clear eyes with the potential of the future; her smile that shows a pure and un-defiled soul--these fill my heart with sublime peace and contentment. You would give anything to protect those eyes and that smile. It's one of the greatest pleasures in life to see the play of an innocent child. This may be too cheesy, but if you get the right state of mind, the words above don't come close to describing the emotion.

But the more you love that little girl, the more you begin to feel dissatisfied with time, the world and yourself. Time won't stop--she won't be a child forever; she won't be dancing nonchalantly eternally. She would leave the realm of innocence and join you in the not so ideal world of grown-ups. The world that she'll grow into is a world filled with contradictions and bewilderment, and you become apprehensive at the path that she would take. You begin to look at yourself with criticism: is this the world that you would have her inherit? Have you lived your life as a beacon, a guide, a standard for her to look at, or have you just been an object of cynicism and example of what not to become? You remember the feeling of how you'll give anything to preserve her smile, but how much have you actually given? Have you really given her anything of value? Do you have the courage to look back proudly into her innocent eyes? You feel like you want to be the Catcher in the Rye.

But haven't we all grown up alright? Perhaps in our own standards or justification; but can these hold up to the tears of a child? It seems like a cardinal sin to lie to that little girl. It's like seeing yourself in the little girl's eyes: would you have been proud of yourself if you were that child? The room for growth is not for children alone. Adults most of the times are the idiotic children of the world.

It's just that little girls are closer to my heart. But you can be a shotacon and choose little boys if you like. The gender is not the point. You just got to love a child. Even the cursing and devilish ones that you see in the street. Even them cannot hide the emanation of their innocence.

Nobody's perfect, I understand that fully. But since when is it alright to stop and give up?

Every father is a lolicon. Every mother a shotacon. A daughter will never grow old in a father's eyes. A son will always be a mother's darling boy. Every woman will still always be Daddy's little girl. Every man is still Mama's boy. As for me, yes, I am a lolicon. But not in the perverse sense. At least that part should be clear.

How I Love Thee, Peer Pressure!

How do I love thee, Peer Pressure? Let me count the ways... 

I love Peer Pressure for how it twists my arm. I love Peer Pressure for forgetting the essence of a group--which is a collection of free individuals. Peer Pressure is wonderful since it forces one to conform out of intimidation and threat of expulsion. I admire Peer Pressure for how it disregards discourse and reason. I just can't get enough of Peer Pressure for forcing someone to come to a decision between leaving or staying. I have to hand it to Peer Pressure for  the simplicity with which it deals with discord or disagreement: be here, or be somewhere else. I like how your value as an individual is contingent upon your conformity to the group. You're dispensable if you just don't agree. Oh how I love thee, Peer Pressure!

Between the individual and the group, something's gotta give. 


I'd like to be dramatic and say it's the individual against the masses. Or like what Nietzsche says, the individual against the herd. Maybe I take my own counsel and company most of the time--I can't be sure--but I am always mystified by this creature called Peer Pressure.

The opposite side can say the same as well. They can be as equally mystified by an individualistic preference. No man is an island after all. Humans are fated/born to be social creatures. So, why the predilection for being alone?

This dichotomy is what's interesting. This polarity is what amazes me. I'm left speechless with this excluded middle. This dualism is what makes me laugh in irony. As someone remarked, you either join them, or leave them. But why should the choice be limited to two? I find that position hilarious. 

Of course, I have  to admit that this is slightly born from bitterness. Maybe, more out of disappointment. I have this penchant for looking things ideally. I always thought that a group allows for personal differences and that a group's strength is derived from diversity rather than homogeneity. I would have thought that assimilation to a group was done through discourse and acceptance rather than subtle coercion. Any goal worth doing is worth communicating properly. I would've preferred persuasion of the diplomatic, not the dictatorial, kind.


I guess I was looking for rational discourse free from pressure. But that would be impossible. When I was younger, I always greeted Peer Pressure with the middle finger and walked out the door. But as you grow older, you get to appreciate the diversity of life and it's viewpoints. You get to have an allergy for absolutes. You become interested to learn how these viewpoints look like before packing your bags. What you can't comprehend isn't necessarily bad; it's still better to create avenues of understanding. Once you get to see things from different viewpoints, that's when you can better judge the situation. Learning to understand is less complicated as well. Hell, it can be just being a pacifist and a coward.

I love Peer Pressure for its directness and simplicity, but I don't like it for it's lack of creativity and flexibility. I like to deal with Peer Pressure with some patience and understanding, but as we know, patience and understanding are exhaustible resources. But until that time, Peer Pressure would continue to have my love and affection. All Hail Peer Pressure!

The Rain, The Homeless, and Charity

The rain isn't half bad when you're looking at the falling rain from your room's window while holding a cup of warm choco. While sipping your drink, you think that the ashen skies have a distinct charm to them. There's something calming and thoughtful in the rain clouds glowing with a toned-down light, joined by the shushing sound of the rain on the streets and rooftops. You don't feel a hint of menace; you feel like in a meditative trance. Whether good or bad, the rain even brings thoughts and memories of love and romance. During these times, the rain ain't half bad. 

It's nice to be inside with the rain pouring, problem is when you don't have a roof on top of your head. I say this because I remember the homeless. One homeless in particular. 

There is a flyover in front of our office, and you can see this homeless lying down at the foot of the flyover, just along the railing. His situation intrigued me since he was able to lie down on that flyover and sleep. Naturally, vehicles would pass by his "bedroom"; imagine getting sleep in a situation like that. Come late at night, think about counting passing ten-wheeler trucks instead of jumping sheep. But what takes the cake is how that homeless seems to sleep like he's lying on soft pillows and satin sheets. He was so relaxed that I have thought several times that the guy must've been dead. But the rising and falling of his chest told me otherwise. I had to smile whenever I see it. 

Of course, you know that that guy is not right in the head. But that is a topic for another day. The rain just made me think of where that homeless would make his bed. He may tolerate the noise of the vehicles, but I don't think he can take the cold, wet, and chilling rain. I thought right. When I looked outside through the night's downpour, the homeless didn't want to be a soaking wet homeless. But where could he have slept that evening?

This then led me to think about the other homeless. Especially the homeless children. It was freezing that night, then add to that being drenched by the rain: it would be a miracle if you didn't get consumption in the morning. Imagine kids having to sleep through that. Without shelter and blankets, you've got to admire the tenacity of our street ruffians. I would have to tip my hat to them for surviving. 

Both of these--the harsh weather and the plight of the homeless--made me criticize myself a little. What have I done to help? Shouldn't I try to make a difference to these people's lives? Can't I do anything, no matter how small, to improve their situation? 

I know this is being soft-headed and melodramatic. I know this is something that anyone had thought of while seeing someone with a condition poorer than one's own. It's wanting to be heroic. You would like to work for charity somehow. Even if it's not that, it could be the recognition of a need for social justice. 

Then reality and selfishness smacks you in the face. You think about how what you earn isn't enough to cover all your expenses. You think about how you would become charitable when you're rich enough. You would think that you're already paying taxes, it should be the government's job. You would think that you need to take care of yourself first, if there's any left over (which is usually none), you can give to charity. You would think that everybody has their own share of troubles, and everyone should take care of their own. Eventually that spirit of charity would become just a foolish and impractical notion; a whim. You would then live your life as normal like you haven't seen anything at all. You would think about the next movie, nightout, dinner, date, clothes, shoes, gadget, groceries, mortgage, and so on, and so on. 

But when I feel the cold wind brought about by the rain, I think what's more chilling is not the weather itself, but the coldness of people. I imagine a homeless child (a moe loli, if possible) shivering in the steps in front of a building, thinking to herself it would be good to have warm place to lie and that some blankets and a warm cup of choco would be nice. I imagine her teeth chattering while wishing for someone to help. But all the answer she will get is the freezing cold wind and the onslaught of the downpour. She's already chilled to the bone, but it's how the passers-by that glance at her with indifference and apathy that finally chills her heart. I can't imagine how it would have felt to be so cold inside and out. It would have been nice to feel even a warm tear rolling down your cheek, but I would suppose it was too cold to even cry. 

I'm being soft-headed again. What I need to think about is the next movie, nightout, dinner, date, clothes, shoes, gadget, groceries, mortgage, and so on, and so on. I have no time to listen for imaginary cries for help. All these inclinations to help are just like rain drops that roll off my umbrella as I walked through the rain on the way home. My passion for charity is about as hot as the freezing rain that fell down that night. 

And so, I just pass the buck along. It's something I can't do anything about. I'm not rich, and I don't have time and money for charity. I would just have to pay my taxes and hope for the best. I would just wish the flyover homeless the best of luck, and tell my imaginary homeless loli to not give up and fight hard. All of these I do while sitting by my window, watching the rain fall down, and sipping my cup of warm choco. 

Apology for the Suicide

You may condemn the suicide, but you can't deny the suicide respect. This respect is not a platitude given to a nameless dead. For those who have known great pain and sorrow, the suicide is a fallen comrade whom we can empathize with and think of with tenderness and admiration. Yes, even admiration. 

I am speaking about the suicide that looked at life in the eye and was disgusted with the sight. I'm referring to those crestfallen at the world they were thrown into. I'm talking about the suicide who decided that the best course to take in life is to end it.  If it takes courage to continue, it also takes courage to quit. 

There is much to say about everything not being all that bad; I agree with them wholeheartedly. It takes continued existence and patience to be able to understand that fact, even vaguely. Maybe the suicide would have done better to wait to have been able to see that truth, but the suicide knows it is excruciating to do so. One can still smile, but the suicide knows that even that can be painful. There are days of dark and light, but it is that continuous cycle that exhausts and enervates the suicide. 

The suicide can be admired for honesty and sincerity. The suicide is honest enough to admit that this life is too much, is of no absolute value, and is absurd. The suicide has decided to end it, and has followed through. In an ironical sense, the suicide lived for what he or she believed in, only it led to the suicide ending his or her life. 

One can say that the suicide is weak and foolish. That has some truth. The suicide is weak and the act of suicide is the admission of that. But let's remember that not everyone is strong. More accurately, not everyone can find enough reason to aspire for strength and persevere. Those born strong may find this quizzical, but those who grew strong from weakness would be sure to understand. We may disapprove of weakness, but it exists nonetheless. The allowance for strength is also the allowance for weakness. 

Let us not forget that the only shoes we wear are our own. We can only approximate how another's life is lived, but to truly know of it is impossible. What the suicide sees, feels, thinks, and believes is a matter for the suicide alone. If we can't respect the suicide's decision, we should respect his or her agency and freedom. We might think the suicide mistaken with his or her views and action, but it's still the suicide's decision to make. It was the suicide's pain and revulsion, not ours. 

The suicide is all of us. For those who are unaffected, they are to be envied like how you would envy the blissful ignorant. One can say that those who contemplated suicide and desisted more deserve our respect. But the suicide also deserves some respect for lasting as long as he or she can. The suicide may have chosen to retire from the battle early, but you can't say that the suicide hasn't put up any fight, nor has suffered any wounds. Even if a soldier runs away after the first volley, the fact that he stood up to face it before fleeing is not without merit. 

Should we pity the suicide? The suicide would have no need for it. You may say the same for respect. Perhaps, but respecting the suicide is more for our benefit than the suicide's. Again, the suicide is you and me. It takes some understanding of the human condition and magnanimity to see the suicide in a gentler light. It takes an admission of our humanity and how some of us have lesser vessels than others. But even so, we have to recognize the presence of struggle, no matter if it was given up. 

This is not to condone suicide nor to encourage it. This is just an apology for the suicide. This is not an appeal for charity but understanding. The suicide is our brethren. This is more so because of the fact that they have leapt off the edge. The suicide has shown us another possibility--it may not be the best, but it is a legitimate one for us being human born. 

Lessons From The Little Prince

Well, it's time to counter some of the negativity in this blog. We need to have a happy-mushy post for the sake of balance.

The Little Prince is one of my all-time favorite books. The lessons to be learned from that short but profound book are priceless and enduring. I think our society won't do bad if we include this title as one of the required readings for all levels of education. We can all grow up too easily, forgetting the children that we once were. Hopefully, that book can prevent kids from growing up into jaded, crooked, and useless adults like yours truly.

And so, I would like to outline some of the lessons that can be learned from The Little Prince. His simplicity and naiveté reveals the wisdom to be found in an innocent outlook in life.

What is essential is invisible to the eye

Of course, this is not referring to women's undergarments or bikini shots (though I would like to interpret it as such). It just points to looking for the essences of things and to not be preoccupied with appearances. Seems like a Buddhist teaching of trying to look beyond the tip your nose. For those who read the book, the previous line goes: It is with the heart that one can see rightly. Like looking for a well in the middle of the desert, or cherishing the house because of a secret treasure, it's not what we immediately see that gives importance. It's the essence and significance of an act, person, or event that's truly important. 

You're forever responsible for those that you tamed. 

This is not an S&M (the master is responsible for those which he/she trained) reference, though it can be. This is a reference to the importance of bonds that we make in our life. Friends, family, and loved ones--we are all responsible for those we have "tamed", and those who have "tamed" us. It's such a wonderful notion of looking out for each other and treasuring the connections that we made. As time goes by, it's easy to forget the friends that we made, the past loves, and even our relationship with our family. The simple reminder is that: we should not forget the bonds that we made. 

watch out for the baobabs!

In simple terms, just do not become an addict. Things start out simply, then they would spiral out of control if one is not watchful. Like with addiction, it starts with a simple try, then it would escalate to a habit, then full addiction. But in serious terms, there is the need for diligence and discipline. If you remember, the baobab was just teeny weed and the owner of the planet was a lazy bum. That laziness paved the way for the growth and the eventual invasion of the baobab. So, if you're not careful, you'll end up with something more than you can handle. Big problems always start out small. So stamp out that baobab! (Or weed)

Words are the source of misunderstandings.

Don't we all know it. It's just like saying someone is a good guy then stabbing him in the back. Gestures are stronger than words. Next time, don't say anything and just smack the guy right in the face. But going back to The Little Prince, this is what the Fox said to the Little Prince when establishing rites and taming someone (or something). It's essential to just be silent and let your feelings show through your actions. It just means there should be a feeling out process and let the relationship grow naturally. 

One must observe the proper rites...

You must be wearing a white robe, wash your neck and rinse your short sword with sake or alcohol. Then before slitting your stomach open, you also need to enlist the help of a trusted servant or friend to chop your head when things get too painful. You need to follow the rite, or a certain order of things. This what the wise Fox teaches us: there's a certain way in doing things, and you need to do things with regularity and patience. The Fox also tells us that these things take time, and so you have to wait it out. 

It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.

It's the direct invitation and license for us to waste our time. The more we waste time on something, the more important it becomes. The more we expend our efforts pursuing useless things, the greater the value there is. It's like giving us permission to keep on living fruitless lives. So, we can pick our noses, scratch our bums, and sit in front of the TV or game console for all eternity and it will be alright. 

But in the case of the Little Prince, it's about the investment of time. It is the time that you spent on someone or something that makes it significant and special. It indicates two things: it takes time to build a meaningful connection, and all that time spent is by no means for naught. 

There are several more lessons to be learned from The Little Prince. I know fans of this book would be wanting to kill me now, but that just shows my point: it's one great book. When someone makes fun of it, you feel obligated to protect it. Just like how you would like to protect the Little Prince like that pilot did (yes, you, you Pedo! Shotacon!). It's a must-read. It deserves saying again: it's a must read.

Silenced Through Silence

It was just a normal conversation but I had to mention something about the Absurd. I asked, "Don't you get the feeling that waking and getting up each morning is something unsettling?" I understood that it was a question loaded with a lot of philosophical junk, so I tried to explain the ideas of consciousness, being, the Absurd, and the desire for meaning. But the reply that I got was, "You're weird. Why do you even think about such things?"

I tried my best to explain myself once more. But she just gazed down at her plate of pasta in silence, looking annoyed and zoning me out. She would look up at me from time to time to show apparent interest, but she couldn't resist looking to the side with a slight frown on her eyebrows. She would then look down again at her plate and twirl the pasta on her fork. I think she was desperately wishing for me to stop yakking. She said nothing, but she expressed a lot. And so I stopped. I was silenced through silence. It was awkward since it lasted for a while, but she got the talk going again about an old friend and common acquaintance. We both looked relieved for before that I knew we were both wishing we were somewhere else but with each other. 

What interests me in that situation is the feeling of devastation. I felt my life drifting away as if she was slowly sinking a knife into my heart. Just like that soldier in Saving Private Ryan. There was the feeling of powerlessness, despair, and the sureness of the impending end. I felt like I was murdered magnificently. She managed to erase and deny my existence with ease and nonchalance. 

That was one of the occasions when you can see the opaqueness of the usually invisible wall between persons. It was like trying to talk through a clear soundproof glass. You know of each other's presence, but the words and thoughts just won't pass through. I felt like I was at the confined side of the glass inside an insane asylum. She never said a word, but the words "crazy" and "insane" sounded in my head with her own voice. I made no sense to her, and she didn't seem too fond of speaking with a lunatic. 

But what seems to be lacerating was how she stayed silent. It was a polite silence yet filled with restrained annoyance. I was pestering her, but she wouldn't want to be inconsiderate. But this quietude was not passive; it was the same as telling me to shut up and that she does not want to hear anymore. It seemed like it pained her to hear me talk like a madman, and I should stop humiliating myself for it's embarrassing for her to keep listening. It was pity mixed with contempt. I was just insulted out of politeness. 

I can still remember the anger and frustration. When words and thoughts don't connect, it's alienating. When it happens to you and people that you know, it's unsettling. You become strangers in an instant. The bridge that connects became a bridge that divides. You try to cross it, but it seems to spread out infinitely. The crack that would shatter the bond finally appeared, and it was just a matter of time before the shattering. 

She was not at fault. I would like to say it was all mine, but I don't think that would be true. I guess I should have chosen my audience. I'm not looking for anything or anyone to blame; I just needed an explanation. The difference between persons? It may be the possible cause, but I am far from consoled. What I know is even silence can cut deep into the heart and soul. Even politeness can carry the deepest insult. I'd prefer being silenced through violence than through silence. Humans have the latent talent to hurt each other. Even without knowing and willing, we give each other the gift of pain. All it takes is to silence someone with silence. 

Summer Street Sweeper

This was last summer. 

Seeing someone sweep the street in the middle of the burning sun is depressing. It seems a cruel fate to sweep the streets under the scorching summer heat. Then when you think about the repetitive nature of his job, it makes you think of Sisyphus and his rock. When you also consider the fact that he's cleaning up other people's mess, it makes it all the more depressing. You would get an idea that what he's doing is an endless task; add to that that it's a thankless one as well. It makes one really blue. 

As if that's not enough, consider also the pay that he's receiving for such a job. It would be great of he's even receiving minimum wage for his efforts. Somehow, the amount of work that he's doing isn't enough for the amount of effort that he's putting in. That's the depressing thing about it. You think there should be social justice. But that won't happen in a third world country. You just have to sigh at that fact. But sighing won't get us anywhere. 

You also need to consider that the man might not be even unhappy with his situation. What I'm doing is just making assumptions from what I'm seeing from the outside. There are several things to look at. Perhaps the man is simple enough to be happy and that he has a job. Perhaps he's happy just being able to bring money home food to the table. Perhaps he doesn't wish for much; he can be at peace with the idea that he has something for a living. 

Perhaps he has a loving family at home. Perhaps he has children who are proud of their father for being hardworking. Perhaps they don't mind their simple lot. Perhaps they too are thankful that their father has a job. Perhaps they can feel the pride of their father and feel proud about themselves, too. They might be poor, but they live an honest life. Perhaps the children would learn about hard work, sacrifice, and caring for the ones they love. Perhaps they would be inspired and actualize their father's dream of a better future for them. Perhaps they would give a bit of meaning to the endless sweeping of their father. Perhaps it would make the sweeping an act of significance. A means to a good end. 

But there could also be a negative image to this. Perhaps the sweeper isn't as hard working as he's supposed to be. Perhaps he was lazy during his youth: did not persevere in studying, did not maximize his skills and opportunities, did not live his life to the fullest. It would be romantic to say that he was forced to such a humble position by cruel fate, but that would make a mockery of the human will and spirit. You have to consider that most of the things in our life did not end up like that without our will. It's not like we are totally powerless to change our fate. 

It does make for a sight of pathos, that street sweeper. But then you have to temper that emotion with some facts and reason. One cannot feel entirely sorry for the guy, nor can you say that he absolutely deserves his position. 

What I can say for certain is that seeing him sweep the streets under the scalding summer sun makes me depressed. I thought that there must be a better life than that. 

On Abortion

Just to limit the discussion, I am writing here from an Ivory Tower. I am dealing with ideals here--the world of our visions and dreams. I do have my head in the clouds.

Let me start by saying that abortion is murder. It's the premeditated termination of another life. The real question about abortion is whether this is one murder we'll allow: just like capital punishment or euthanasia.

If you don't think that abortion is murder, I suggest that we call it as we see it. There is this argument that says before 14 weeks a fetus is not yet human. It does have a point, if we don't believe in causality and medical science. If you believe your gynecologist in matters of pre-natal care, then that blob of cells from the union of a sperm and ovum will become a human. If not, why do people even care about pregnancy? One can argue that this blob of cell is not human--well not yet anyway. The hilarious discrepancy here is that one can create a lot of fuss for an expected pregnancy but be cold-hearted towards an unwanted one.

If you want to be indirect yet factual, what you're killing is potential. You're not killing an infant, just the possibility of those cells becoming one. I like this argument since it is apologetic. It's just like leaving someone atop of Mt. Everest with limited oxygen. You're not killing the person outright; you're just limiting that person's potential for survival. Like telling someone to face a firing squad and evade all the bullets. It may not be murder, but it practically is. Do we really need to point a gun at the fetal skull and pull the trigger to call it murder? 

Well, should we allow abortion? There are medical and economic reasons saying why we should. As what the news said, unregulated abortion has been killing women left and right. In terms of economics, if parents can't give a decent quality of life, it might be better for all parties to chuck the kid out. In a larger sense, abortion can reduce overpopulation. These are strong practical reasons for supporting the legalization of abortion. 

But are these enough to end a life? This might be an unfair question, but it's a question that needs to be answered. It would be hard to give life a specified value since it would be demeaning-life is supposed to be invaluable. But for abortion to be allowed, you have to play god and decide who should live and who should die. 

I mentioned to someone before, the only way that abortion can be banned is if we all have a strong sense of social justice and responsibility. Abortion being an option implies that we all have become meaner and apathetic as a people. I'd say we've lost the Bayanihan spirit or the communal feeling. I believe that we were a kinder people before, but somehow we have lost that charity and feeling of community as the changes (or hardships) of time went on. I may be speaking in nostalgia, but I do think that people were more genteel, generous, and noble back then. This may be just a delusion of mine, but I would like to believe that this is true. This makes me think that the problem of abortion is one of cultural values rather than that of practical and health matters. 

How does this relate to abortion? Abortion exists as an option because we like to give people stigma, because we don't take responsibility for our actions, because we've become less forgiving, because we are uncharitable, because we don't think before we act, because we are weak and petty, because we forgot how to be nice in general, because we don't stick to what is right, and because we've forgotten how we were when we were children. It's a cultural thing, I tell you. 

Now, here's also this question: Is it really fair to let the child/fetus/blob of cells pay for it all? Is it alright to get away with murder so that we could just get on with our lives? Is it alright for us to just wash the blood off our hands in exchange of practicality? It is a sentimental argument, but how should we answer it? Killing a potential may be just an abstract action, but aren't we just kidding ourselves? If we didn't believe in the almost sure reality of that potential, then we shouldn't be as expectant with any pregnancy at all. 

What I would like to say is do you remember when as a kid you hated it when the adults did things which we thought was weird and was just plain wrong? I'm not referring to not letting you stay up late or not having more allowance. I'm pointing to the disgust and bewilderment that we felt whenever we saw our parents doing something they shouldn't be doing or saw the world acting contrary to what was taught to us. Haven't we somehow, at one point or another, vowed not to be like that when we grew up? Didn't we all make some form of resolution that we'll be better when we grew up? Weren't we all like the Little Prince before--innocent and good-hearted? 

In this here abortion, have we done that? Have we become adults ourselves? Have we forgotten our ideals? Have we forgotten how to be kind? One can say that kindness cannot feed the world or stop overpopulation. This might be true, but kindness hasn't killed anyone either (I'm not referring to euthanasia, mind you).