jaunt

Run past streets, and lit windows, and empty alleys, and streaks of moonlight, with the winter wind , with the fallen leaves, with the direction of this inner movement.  When there is no reason in sight, when nothing left feels right, when the world has resolved disappointingly  for those who seek to be calm, to release from within them an inner revelry, an inward combustion, the untameable revolution that dares to erupt outward, there is the infinite embrace of the night.

Rush through mingling throngs, swiftly through the riot of the crowd, like fleet-footed Peter-Pan dashing through the energetic strangers, slip through them, dive into the mass of people and physically encounter anonymity. Escape in between unknown smiles, unfamiliar laughter, into the thick of unjustified merriment. Relish the sensation of community, of being commonly unrelated, of being connected with unfamiliar company.  The moment you laugh together with someone, is when someone becomes less of a stranger and more of a friend.

Resign to the urban rhythm, the symphony of train schedules and trundling traffic.  Take off the mask of day-to-day drudgery and find below the steel surface, the beating heart of the city.  Conventions and ethics, traditions and responsibilities, are all held up by warm-bodied people, who beat, who hurt, who trudge-on, who are also capable of being amazing when given the chance, when you look through the surface, when you let your head slip beneath the waves, and let yourself be carried off in peace, held-up by your neighbors, your office-mates  your church-friends, the guys you see every Friday night. They're there with you, holding you up, against the ebb, against the flow, against the capricious tide, their hands will buoy you up just when you wish to breathe in a little more of life.

In the city, as in life, the streets are meant to be passed, they are transitional, the coincidental, they are there only to connect two points together, the road from office to home, the avenue from the grocery to the parking lot, the worn path from the park to the ice-cream shop, from where we are to where we want to go, and it's easy to shut the world out as we travel along.

Don't.

The joy of getting lost is seeing how far you can let yourself go, and even if you never find the way back, finding-out you're still entirely yourself.  And wherever that could be, you'll be alright.

Photo credit: Subway Crowd by iheartartichokes
BGM: We Found Love - Rihanna feat. Calvin Harris (Boyce Avenue piano acoustic cover)

tripping

I woke up, earlier than usual, with the flourescent light left on, and looked around in my room.  It was today, I remembered, the day before the weekend flurry from Tokyo, to Malaysia, to Singapore, to all these things I want to do, but can barely imagine doing, to venture into the unclear, yet entirely feasible, unknown. Today, the preparation opens up into execution. I get up and change for work.

At quarter to 8, I bid my goodbyes to the office folk, and warmly receive everyone's goodbyes back.  And with their goodbyes, there seems to be sandwiched within a hearty "good luck."  The ambitiousness of this trip is not lost on them--and neither on me for that matter.

Walking to the station, traversing Japan's railway system en route to the airport, not a stray thought is wasted on the circumstances that led to the trip, nor the circumstances that might occur during.  There are only destinations and time in my head, as I stand in line at the counter, stoic, among people chattering in yet another foreign language.  Behind the outward calm, inside my head, I've laid-out the weekend plan like a connect-the-dots puzzle, as time slowly draws a line from point-to-point. Like a constellation in the sky leading wayfarers of old, I focus on this and keep moving forward. Nothing else matters.

Malaysia is bustling, and warm.  I walk with pedestrians in bright shorts and loose shirts in the city where most structures look renovated, under renovation, or waiting to be renovated. Including the temples, the city is modern, but felt worn, like a respectable trophy, gilded in silver, detailed with gold, but with a thin, barely perceivable layer of dust and age.  In a few years time, the cityscape may change, but the atmosphere will cling to old roots, like lingering vapors of all the varied spices consumed so far in the history of this place.  The city felt authentic in that way.

And in the center of it, the Petronas tower loomed, erect in the twilight, a beacon of progress casting the light of a hundred-thousand bulbs and pin-lights and spotlights. It was purposely excessive, intentionally awe-inspiring. The city is consumed with innovation, and from out of it protrudes this.

The concert was marvelous. Sonorous melodies filled the concert hall of Petronas, as well as the ears of a young, yet precociously nostalgic audience.  The hall was packed with the smartly dressed youths, collectively reminiscing, remembering those intimate afternoons fighting for love, for glory, for justice.  Overhead, battles were waged and triumph secured on the silver screen coinciding with the revolutions of each piece, a visual composition to repeat and underscore the emotion and feelings freed by the music.  For a short time, we were slaves to our sentiments, captivated by the magic of a tale we grew with and, for a while now, have regrettably left behind.

The trip to Singapore the next day was hectic, and was a lesson in faith, and hope, and blind luck.  The journey on a taxi-less morning, from one distant corner of the city, to the equally distant international airport would have been disastrous if it weren't for a lone taxi with a 7am delivery of tea for the food center nearby.  I arrived at the check-in counter, now deserted save for the check-in staff, and thanked fate, providence, and God in between every exhausted pant for breath.

Singapore is convenient, efficiency made compact and kept in tasteful housing.  It was all business, but clean about it, too. I arrived with no incident save for an address lost inside a dead phone, easily remedied by a payphone call and a knowledgeable taxi driver.

At my sister's home, I saw family again and was overwhelmed with love. All the pent-up longing manifested in a loss for words.  I grew greedy, I guess, and wanted to listen and drink in the warmth of all of them, and if I spoke, I would have interrupted them being themselves. So I kept to myself, but smiled sincerely, and did my best to satisfy missing them for so long.

And I saw Lucas, barely a week old. Tender, warm, and quite restive, clearly comfortable here with my family. Seeing him, a mere baby, struck me with wonder, both at the thought of all the possibility yet to be realized, and all the challenges yet to be endured by this small, frail body. Motherhood is not a solely female attribute, it seems. It is sympathy, born from all our own travails while growing-up, a definitely universal and wholly human experience.

Though slightly delayed by a sudden wave of a hundred and fourteen Christian teenagers celebrating their confirmation at the Sunday mass we attended, I got to say my goodbye's properly and made my way to the airport on time, with an extra kiss and a hug to spare for my mom.  The plane took me back to Malaysia, and at midnight, ferried me back home, to Tokyo.

On the train from Narita airport, heading straight to work, I met a beautiful couple who had arrived that same day and, with their 8 hour layover, hoped to snatch a glimpse of Japan. I helped them as much as I could, told them to keep their pace brisk from the temple at Asakusa, down pedestrian crossing in Shibuya, among monolithic malls of Ginza, and at last at the historic grandeur of Tokyo station.

I thought it was my responsibility to repay the blessings wrought from the weekend, to pay it forward by bidding strangers a safe journey.  Because we've all been there, to that place where there is only the unfamiliar ahead, and the blind hope in our hearts lighting the way ever forward.

purloined

Hello, I am your conscience, on an errand commissioned by the pile of broken hearts you've accumulated in the closet, behind the vacuum cleaner.

They wanted to ask how it felt to sway a heart.  How does it feel to be like the midnight moon pulling from across the vastness of space, compelling the weather and the tides?  What is it like to be the breaching Spring that excites the fauna and flora into wild eruptions of color and fertility, to then faithfully shed and wither so beautifully?

How do you live with such influence, such power, over a man's most vital part?  Is it in your beguiling eyes? In your charming smile? In your reassuring voice? In the elegant harmony of all these things, orchestrated by the burning brilliance of your very soul? You radiate such warmth, like a line cast into the sea, that snags the willing fish, caught, never to recover.

Do you revel in the spectacle? Whenever you smile your secret smiles, is it because of the bemused wonderment of your own glamor, of your own glory?  Are you aware how your every word carries such uncanny forcefulness, such unfounded gravity; and how your every gesture, spouts volumes and volumes and volumes?

Can you sleep still, knowing hundreds, out there in the still night, moan, and cry, and thrash underneath rumpled bedcovers and overturned pillows in a soulful dance moved by the loss of their pilfered hearts?

A man should not be so compelling; there is no justice there.  From your neck should hang a placard, with ticks for every heart consumed and left behind, written in the red of freshly spilt blood. Would that suffice?

This is your conscience, a stray thought that tugs at your own equally-fragile heart, an unsettling reminder that one day, someday, the moon will ride across your starlit sky and the Spring will break out from within you.  And on that day there will be justice, in sufficient capacity.

beyond clovers

I noticed it was autumn outside my front door as I stepped out for another day of work. Nearby, an abandoned garden bed had become home to a wild overgrowth of clovers.  Tying my shoelace on the concrete ledge, I stole a glance out among the weeds and wondered if among the clovers hid an extra leaf.  If there were, I can feel its presences, here at the onset of autumn, simply because it has been quite a remarkable autumn so far:

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and I've found the impetus to do some hardcore writing.  That meant I commit to creating a 50,000 word novel by the end of November--that's approximately 1,670 words per day--from absolutely nothing but the random firing of my synapses. Now, barely half-way at day 12 (20,040 words), I am still stuck at 4,000.  The month's not over, but I do hope optimism-fueled writing works just as well as an inspired one.

Also, my sister is giving birth this month to Lucas, which is such a wonderful, amazing thing.  I plan to visit and perform my uncle related duties in December. What those duties are, I have yet to know.  Most of the uncles in my life are people I meet in family reunions that ask me if I have a girlfriend yet; I could start with that.

But surprise, surprise. A friend of mine just invited me to Malaysia for the Final Fantasy Distant Worlds concert. They're based in the US, but had a stint in Australia and picked Malaysia as a stop-over on the way back home.  Seeing that the odds of having a ticket to Chicago, a US travel visa, and a holiday long-enough to accomodate the journey and the concert date was, by several leaps and bounds, less likely than me scrounging up money for a day-trip in Malaysia. I considered pulling the trigger.

Which made me feel stupid.  If I can manage to book a trip to Malaysia, then I can manage a trip to visit my wonderful, amazing nephew in Singapore, too--so, I did.

I am quite aware this trip will burn me out, I also, with a welcome heart, understand that this trip will be the most rewarding.  In that short weekend, family and nostalgia will come in mighty heapfuls, and I believe I have grown enough to know and appreciate with natural sincerity the value of both.

There's also church choir revving up for the 9 Carols event in December. So we're singing and practicing carols after Sunday mass every week, and I've learned to appreciate the time spent with people I've only gotten to know in such a short period, but who now seem to have opened their arms and welcomed me with sweet, sonorous music. Those Sunday's are quite magical, and much cherished.

And at work, they've asked me to be the booth dude at the company's job fair jaunt.  There'll be graduating students at Odaiba for 2 days, and I'll be taking a shift of telling everyone how wonderful it is to work in our company.  To this end, I've learned how to say "Let's build a bright future," "Let's build an amazing relationship," and, my favorite, "Let's work together, and have fun together,"  all in hopefully non-offending Japanese, or at least not creepy-uber-friendly-gaijin-might-be-looking-for-a-date Japanese.  These are just college kids after all.

I've been making some progress in gym, too.  Slow, but steadily getting meatier as the days go by.  I've upped my egg intake-four hardboiled eggs from two--and soon I won't feel as embarassed when surrounded by naked grandpa's with clearly-defined abs and bulging muscles.

Then there's also the Autumn outing that we're planning. With just the 3 of us--Murakami-san, our HR lady, Em, ever helpful and attentive, and I--we managed to plan a trip for 50 people for Autumn. We'll be going to Chiba to see the fall leaves in the valley, pick fruits from the trees, and watch the night descend on a village festooned with a thousand shimmering lights.

There's also some undercover details and goings-on's that won't do me well to discuss here, but, suffice to say, fills my stomach with butterflies and will come to a close soon. There are exciting days ahead, definitely.

All that and day-to-day work, dorm lead duties, nihonggo studies, and the constant battle against mediocrity, I think I'm managing pretty well so far.  But alas, there's still more work to be done.

So with a flourish, I finish tying my shoes, leave the hunt for four-leaf clovers behind, and step onto the road ahead.  If you think about it, roads are lucky, too, if your feet, your determination, your willing heart can take you far enough.

Photo credit: super-rats

The Epidemiology of Art

I believe the highest form of art manifests itself not only from within moldy libraries or padlocked museums. No. It escapes. By virtue so human, so inescapably practical, it enshrines itself in the lives of all who experience and bear witness to it. It sticks, it is virulent, it is a disease that clings to the soul and stains the subconscious.

Like a song, like that song I heard in the coffee shop.  Above the din of chattering strangers, the trampling of feet, the hoots and heavings of the espresso machine, a sly tune finds its way into my ear, down my spine, into my heart.

Within my head I exclaim, "Unbelievable! Is it talking to me? Why does it make so much sense? How could I have lived without it for so long? What is it's name?" And for that brief instant I believe that someone out there gets me--and they sang about it, too.

Touching someone, that's the power of art.

It's like someone managed to rein in all my hopes and fears, saddle it up with allegory, and then yoked it with metaphor.  I want that. There are days that I spin and spin, and all I wish for is some semblance of control, if for only a brief glimpse of understanding.  I hope to harvest insight through art.

And finding your art is a lot like rediscovering life: learning the best way to tell people what we see in our life led me to re-examining experiences and plunging into new ones, continuously and consciously hurtling along in this world we are all hopelessly trapped in and have no other recourse but to parrot.

And those who parrot well enough get a Pulitzer. No one cares if it's the truth, as long as everyone agrees an idea is infectious enough, catches fire among abandoned psyches and spreads like a pandemic--like the truth would.

This is the future. And in the future, any seemingly-truthful idea can scatter farther and faster than ever before. In this day and age, anyone can be an artist, anyone can have an opinion, and everyone has a mouthpiece. The world is primed for a revolution of thought. Where is your flag? Have you readied your sword? And what spoils go to the victor?

I realize now that art, literature, writing, they're all copycats, mere reflections and attempts to say something smart, pithy, interesting about life, another vague attempt to squeeze some meaning out of life, polish yet again another heavily worn facet of life.  Art is the sum of all our vented frustrations about being alive, a philosophy for the radical who prefer explanations framed, sculpted, and in rhyme.

And yet here I am, infected by terrors of my own existence and left no other choice but to write about it.

arrival

Foreword: I wrote this exactly one week after arriving in Japan.  And today is especially special since one year ago today , I stepped on Japanese soil and called it home.  And to answer the question posed at the end: I *have* grown, it's just everyone else I have to worry about.

It will be a few hours until the one-week mark since I've arrived in Japan.  I hope to celebrate with a bit of alcohol, and the traditional "kanpai!".

But before the beer erases what memories remain, and even if I did so fastidiously document with photographs these last few days, I think a narrative would still be necessary. And so, follows.

We arrived at 4 in the afternoon on the 11th of October, on a Tuesday adorned with an overcast sky and chilly winds.  Narita airport was the same as I remembered it: clean, convenient, straight-forward. And so was the commute.  Tired as we were having barely slept the night before, Karen and I fueled by excitement--of which all men are beset when entering the unfamiliar--stayed up through the 3 hour bus ride that took us from airport to office in Yokohama.

We stayed there for a bit, and headed home to our new dorm in Gumyouji: a restive suburb that, though populated by commercial outlets, doesn't lose its far-flung-from-the-city charm.  This place reminds me of Paranaque--minus the horrid commute, plus more old people.

The succeeding days were sleep deprived.  Between setting up my new room, hanging-out with everyone, setting up the new laptop, and, of course, the long office hours, there wasn't much time left to myself nor to write all the remarkable little details that glimmer with novelty for the newly migrated.

Suffice to say, the dorm-mates are adorable; work is demanding, but not unexpected; and everything that I've come to know and love about Japan is still Japan.

The Japan and work parts--soon to be integral parts of my life and have been subject to much thought and consideration--I already knew. But the wonderful surprise of having such amazing dorm-mates in such an amazing place as Gumyouji still fills me with awe and gratitude.  Loneliness here would not be the uphill battle I imagined.

The food, awesome as ever, also fills me with gratitude, and my stomach with, well, keeps it thoroughly busy.

This is a a new life and an awesome opportunity for something I've been thinking a lot about. I've been playing around with the idea of a "reset": a clean slate to work with all the wisdom earned so far.  It's my acid-test to see if I've grown enough to do it right--life, I mean.

I'll let you know when I do.

just keep swimming

Right. Left. Right. Left. Breathe. Don't Panic.
Right. Left. Right. Left. Breathe. Don't Panic. Don't Panic.

It was swimming day today.  I had this weekly workout regimen: 3 weight-training days & 2 cardio days--with an optional 2 cardio days if the weekends were quiet enough.  It's a strict schedule, and if I happen to miss a weight-day, I'll have to sacrifice a cardio day for it.  So I'm quite happy it's swimming day today since it proves that I stuck with the plan this week. That and I'm starting to enjoy wearing skimpy trunks. I'd like to think I look passably OK in them.

Right. Left. Breathe. Don't Panic.

I had a lot to learn first though.  Much like the train system & conveyor sushi in Japan, they've industrialized the humble swimming pool here as well. At our gym, the top most floor housed 5 swimming lanes, each allotted a specific purpose.  Lanes 1 & 2 are for swim classes.  Lanes 3 & 4 are for circuit swimmers--swimming fro, and swimming to respectively.  Lane 5 is for walking, and cooling down. Given that a lot of the patrons are in their 60's, Lane 5 never runs out of swimcapped people trudging along with vacant expressions.

Right. Left. Right. Left.

Slow as they seem, they move like fish in water.  I found out "first foot" when I struck one speedy swimmer's head with my fluttering feet mid-lane; she had caught up with me.  And from then on, whenever I swim, I carry this small fear of striking some poor old lady's head with my extended feet.  It's not at all impossible. I could one day just as easily be "he who brings the watery death in passably OK speedo attire".

Right. Left. Breathe. Don't Panic.

So I push myself hard all throughout the 30 minute interval, 2 strokes, a snatch of air, and repeat until I reach the end. I keep going despite my thundering heart, the burning in my lungs, and the chemical water threatening to engulf me. I've gotta rush because in Japan, it's already embarassing to lose your beat, to make a mistake, to not be up to quo.  But to inconvenience someone, to actually interrupt someone's life (with my foot), is an altogether keener shade of shame. It's almost akin to stepping on a baby dolphin, or peeing in the Olympic pool, a culpable ignominy universally disparaged.

Right. Left. Don't Panic.

Life in Japan is tough. It's a given and I know this. I'm not native. I don't have a family to rely on, a network of friends I've grown with and trust implicitly, or even a citizenship that entitles me to some kind of government-sponsored coddling.  I am all I have and I am all there is. So what little I have must be utilized, improved, and taken advantage of. Push, and push hard.

Right. Left. Right. Left. Don't Panic. Don't Panic.

But it gets tiring, too. After awhile, I get worn out under duress of my own lofty expectations.  And I grow critical of other people who don't seem to see the opportunities slipping away, sinking further into the depths beyond sight nor reach. They have no idea how much they've held themselves back, this perceived emboldened ignorance stokes within me fervid hate I've never felt before.

Don't Panic. Don't Panic.

I'm 27, and the energy of youth is fading away, day by day. There's not much time left, but there may be just enough if I keep at it a little longer. The water's edge is near, the race will be over soon, a few more strokes will take me home.

Just Don't Panic. And Breathe.

Photo Credit: "Poolside" by Asimetrica Juniper

Eyes on the Horizon

We, all of us, have the capacity to hope.  I think it's a natural consequence of being alive and having an imagination. We live, experience reality for exactly what it isn't, and use our imagination to cover the gap of what it could be.

I imagine neuroses are born when we hold on to hope for too long and it grew into something we expect.  Probability would take our side, I mean, if you wait long enough almost anything can happen, right?

It'll be 1 year since I've moved to Japan. And in that length of time the gap between what is and what I'd like to be have grown closer.  I bought a bookshelf and books to go with it, have a daily gym regimen, biked around, climbed up and rode a snowboard down a mountain, drank beer under blossoms and leaves, got better in Japanese--at least I make them laugh now not just for having silly Nihonggo, but for actually being silly.

And there's still much to be done. I have yet to try archery, get a scooter, try surfing, or attend a proper tea-ceremony.

And even before I get those done, I've started dreaming farther.  Now I hope to furnish my very own place, be more silly on more sillier dates, find out what having a six-pack feels like, feel the security of having a well-stocked bank account, and pay with a swipe of a Japanese credit card with my name on it.

So much hope, so many dreams lay unclaimed in the next year.  What a wonderful perspective to have.

I hoped to explain this horrible feeling of disconnectedness that haunts me as I near the 1 year mark.  But after writing all that down, I feel reassured.  It wasn't such a bad year.  It wasn't easy, but I got through it somehow.  I'll get through the next one, too.

So until next year then, when I tease my dates with the shadow of six-pack abs in the privacy of an apartment paid for by saved money and plenty of credit to spare.

Photo credit: No Line on The Horizon - U2

almost forgot

Today was your birthday.  I almost forgot after the whirlwind that was the weekend swept over me and left me tired and vaguely functioning.  I forgot that Monday was a holiday, but still imagined I had a workday gap between your special day and the weekend.  So I came in Tuesday (looking a lot like someone who came from a whirlwind that was the weekend) with your carefully selected gift, with the plan to have it wrapped, bowtied, a bit of frizzle here and there, shiny and expensive looking paper, after work, leisurely, and with romantic thought-balloons hanging in the air.

I was wearing this oversized shirt (I've grown thinner and the shirt was sized for US constitutions) and helplessly loose pants (that was less punk, and more honey-I-shrunk-the-kids with a constant threat of indecent exposure) as I ran to the nearby grocery hoping to find a gift-wrapping service.  It was a simple gift, thought-out, and required that the packaging express the preparation involved.  I found the gift-wrapping counter(it was the one with lots of boxes) but to my dismay, only serviced goods bought from the store.  They were kind enough to direct me to the 100yen store across the floor that sold festive paper bags.

The played-down paperbag, in unobtrusive brown with a French blurb legibly written but unintelligible, was a perfect fit.  I shielded it from the sudden Autumn downpour that greeted me as I exited the train station near your office.  I managed to get to your office somehow without looking like a drowned kitty, and made my way upstairs.

As expected, you were hunched over your keyboard with an exquisite mess of hair held up by frustrations and glazed, honey-brown eyes transifixed behind a pair of glasses, quirky glasses.  You hadn't had lunch yet.  I sidled toward your desk, handed you the paperbag, and wished you a happy birthday in awkward Japanese, in suitably corporate tone, with an informal bow, with a rapidly thrumming heart.  You said hi and asked for a minute for you to settle something work-related on-screen, so I said hi to everyone else in the office, and tried to explain casually why I was there for lunch when I was supposedly working in an office 3 train stations away.

We talked on the elevator, nothing serious, nothing broadening, just friendly chatter about the concert you played in, how I think your tenor sax solo was wonderful and went well with the cabaret-themed dancers, how the weather turned to rain again, how we walked towards the shaded staircase near the smoking area, how you've started smoking again, that it is hard to stop smoking when we've got friends who smoke, how the smell of smoke reminds us of good things, and then if you were doing alright, how you celebrated your birthday with your parents at this restaurant near your place, how your mom picked the restaurant and by default paid for the meal, about how our friends teased you about this alleged Filipino custom of birthday celebrants giving gifts out, that that's a crock-of-you-know-what, how I hoped you would like the gift and my fear that you've already bought it for yourself(I had looked up how to say that in Japanese just this morning), that you haven't bought anything lately, that you plan to have dinner with your girlfriend next Thursday, and your hope that she bought a present, and that I thought girlfriends aren't required to bring presents (but it would be sweet if she did), how I had to go since it was almost the end of our lunchbreak.

The sun came-up again as I wished you goodbye, and once again, a happy birthay.  Somewhere in the conversation, I told you I would of course bring a gift. And of course this was because I will always be your friend.  That part, of course, I couldn't forget.

Kairos

When the tide of updated reports, strict deadlines, and unending reponsibilities ebbs out by some cosmic miracle, I take the time to walk along the shore and watch the stark silhouete of the coastline rouse itself from the depths of ambivalence. I study the eroded crags, pummeled rock faces, and beaten cliffs with unblinking attention.  What life have I wrought by staying here?

"Am I exactly where I want to be?" I have asked myself, on those most private of occasions. I went ahead and brought out my mental checklist:

"If my life was to end tomorrow, would I say I did it right?"

"Have I lived free of regret?"

"If I found a way to meet myself when I was 12, would the younger me be impressed?"

"Have I claimed all the happiness available to me at the time?"

Most days I would say yes. Even before the questions were asked, before the very thought of inquiry provoked, I would be accosted by some unintended, entirely casual experience.  It would be wholly mundane, something quiet and pretty and personal, like admiring the sunrise through clear skies, or arriving at the office after an uneventful afternoon commute, or hearing the clink of cold beer among friends and family at twilight.

My heart would somehow become overwhelmed with a feeling of appropriateness, a lot like serendipity, but less dramatic, like finding the missing pair of a sock. I believe that somewhere within me lies this intimate wisdom, an instinct of alignment, that would shout from within me a great "Eureka", echoing out from every corner of my soul.

Though life be a puzzle, it seemed that just for that day, I was the piece that fit.

The scenery of my life is a constantly changing landscape, but it always seemed to me quite naturally beautiful. I walk further along the beach in solemn introspection and gratitude.

Kids Who Knew Good Stories

"Catch Rurouni Kenshin on October 17, only at SM Cinema," the caption exclaimed beside the photo of the all-too-familiar orange-haired samurai in fighting stance.  It was the original poster of this year's live-action adaptation of Rurouni Kenshin. The ”かならず、帰る (definitely returns)” one-liner still starkly encrypted in all its vague Japanese glory.  Someone in SM Cinema was definitely excited to spread the news, blurb and PR-spin free, and couldn't be more right.

And just 30 minutes on the official SM Cinema Facebook Wall, the photo caught traction at 500 shares. By the 45 minute mark, it had caught fire at 1000 shares and still counting.

Listen to the social media clamor long enough and you're sure to strike gold eventually. October 17 may well be the day box office records break and are made anew, if all the Philippine anime fans had their way. For a populace filled with children who grew up on "Samurai X" repeats and have now become working, earning adults, the reaction was all too predictable.

But for the masses who missed those AXN, Studio 23, ABS-CBN noon-time anime mills, how will this movie fare, I wonder. I knew it had a love story, action scenes, social commentary, tear-jerker moments, cute kids, excessive swordplay, handsome actors and engaging actresses, all executed artfully against an amazing backdrop of Meiji-period Japan, then scored with strong music, framed in tasteful cinematography.

I am a biased anime fan, but I am also an avid movie buff. If you are at all like me, you'll come away from this movie with almost-tears, overwhelming nostalgia, and an arresting catharsis.

All those silly, odd afternoons waiting for these cartoons, humming unintelligible gibberish as the show starts to the tune of exuberant Japanese fanfare, have been vindicated.  We weren't being bug-eyed kids, we were being appreciative audiences to Japan's most wonderful tales. Where other's might see pedestrian Saturday morning cartoon fodder, we instead saw vivid characters and compelling story-telling.

It's time everyone realizes that fact: it wasn't just a comic, it was epic--and still is at 2000 shares and counting.

Photo credit: Cosplay Overload
BGM: サカナクション(Sakanaction) - 夜の踊り子(Night Dancer)

not epicureanism, but almost

I've grown the habit of telling people I did/am doing/will do someting crazy lately.  I guess the trip home reminded me what exciting opportunities await the brave foreigner in a foreign land; and also I owe everyone else who don't get to do these things a tale or two.  For the experience of it, since I'm stuck here anyways.

You could say I'm cutting loose, too. Far and beyond the reach of the prying eyes and unwavering judgement of everyone I used to know, I can do whatever I want as whoever I want to be.  Everything is a thrill and, following every venture, a natural high claims my very soul.  I'd smirk and think "That turned out better than I imagined," as I walked away with a carefree whistle.

Ann Radcliffe characterized the value of a thrill when she made the distinction between terror and horror. Terror is characterized by "obscurity" or indeterminacy in its treatment of potentially horrible events; it is this indeterminacy which leads to the sublime. She says in the essay that it "expands the soul and awakens the faculties to a high degree of life".  And I've never felt so alive as when I dare to do something I've never done before.

And what they dare dream of, dare to do.

I think its also the uniqueness of Japan that fuels the trip. It's a place sufficiently strange, but altogether safe; approachably exotic; a cultural smorgasbord, whose limited only by the gamut of one's apetite and the courage inside one's heart.

It's also a matter of age--that is, the progression of age.  As someone who values experience--and would be thoroughly bothered with just the risk of "missing out"--the pressure of seeing, tasting, feeling everything from the fresh perspective of youth urges me on.

As I change, so too will the things I experience as I unconsciously impose myself on them.  My views, opinions, values and all other things that grow and shift with me will influence my experience, and by consequence my life.

But what's wrong with the experience of old people? Well, it's a given that I'll get there much like everyone else eventually. So for now, I'm placing precedence on the vanishing commodity called youth.

So while I'm young, I'll be a little crazy; and I hope I never grow out of it.

once in a blue moon

With a bit of a wobble, Ryou-kun climbed the steel fence and hopped in.  It was past midnight, and everyone was drunk in the park, laughing in the moonlight.

All of us came together in this far off place in the middle of somewhere I can't pronounce to end the summer properly.  None of us had gone to hanabi this year, and Yoppie-kun thought to buy our own fireworks and celebrate it ourselves, here in this quiet park, among colorful swings and beside the concrete animals.

"Ki wo tsukete, yo (Be careful)!", I hollered after him. Soon, I was climbing the fence myself, and paused mid-stride as I watched him stretch out on the bench, the contours of his frame accented by the inviting shades of dark trees and the gentle glow of dimmed lamps.  I climbed down and sat on the bench, indicating he can rest his head on my lap, but he sat-up instead and looked at the moon.

"Tsuki ga kirei da ne(The moon's pretty, isn't it)?" I murmured, my eyes betraying the true subject of my thoughts.  He smiled, an easy smile as is his custom, and said that in this famous Japanese story, two lovers sat underneath the bright moon much like tonight, and one of them remarked the same thing.  "Atto, Aishiteru itta ("I love you" was spoken afterwards)," he continued, looking at the sky.

I nodded and hummed my assent, then looked to the same sky myself.

We were really drunk, and we somehow found our way to Yoppie-kun's place and made a fun mess of it.

When Saturday morning came soon after, Ryou-kun had to head home, and I tagged along, under the guise of catching my morning Nihonggo class.  We soberly walked the long route back to the station together and managed to talk.  I thanked him for being so kind during my first day at the community center.  He told me he didn't do it intentionally; he just acted according to his feelings, and his feelings said this guy's OK. "Hashirarenai (not someone to run away from)," he said.

I asked him if he remembered that one time when we were eating together and he asked me who I liked. I explained that he must have thought that it was Tomacho-kun, but I proceeded to correct him with a stammer.  "Ryou-kun ga, ano, suki desu (It's Ryou that I, well, like)."

It was easier than I thought, and my heart didn't trip over itself.  I realize he's become a friend of mine, and with dear friends, the truth came out naturally--language barriers or none.

He thanked me kindly, and said it made him happy to be told that. Without missing a beat, I said he can confide with me anything and ask me anything with no restraint. "Arigatou, arigatou (thank you, thank you)," he replied.

By then we arrived at the station turnstiles, and went through our goodbyes.  "Mata raishuu (see you next week)," we told each other, and I turned my back and walked away with no hesitation.

Photo credit: snappydessy
BGM: Chrono Cross - Guldove (Another World)

a tree falls in a forest

While studying Japanese, I came across this wonderful thing called yojijukugo(四字熟語)--Japan's version of idioms, or things so universal(at least in Japan) they coined phrases out of them.  These phrases captured my interest. For someone just starting to grasp a language, finding these expressive shortcuts sped things up. And I get to look smart about it, too, since these phrases have grown esoteric over the years.

My favorite phrase which I learned early in my Japan studies was isshokenmei(一生懸命), whose characters separately mean "in one lifetime (一生)" and "risk one's life (懸命)". Together, isshokenmei describes a method of action where you give it your all, every ounce of effort and passion, every fiber of your being, dedicated and focused into one endeavor.  This word was not only inspirational, it also fit my first attempts at Japanese language.

Now, here in Japan, I learned that the word that I carried with me all this time had relatives.  There were other idioms, and my post-arrival life deserved its own.

Kangaimuryo (感慨無量), a combination of the words for "deep emotion (感慨)" and "immeasurable (無量)", is to be caught in a feeling so arresting, so deeply moving, that words lose meaning.

Outlets of expression are scarce when you move to another country.  The language barrier hinders communication, and the dear friends--who know you so well you hardly have to say a word--are nowhere near.

All of my feelings have grown deep because of this: frustration over apathetic dorm mates, disappointment with possible friends, ennui in work, intoxication with new romance, gratitude for life here.  Such mundane things left unresolved, have taken root and burrowed deep into my conscious thought.

I am burdened, and have no way to say it, in any language.

Photo credit: Institute of Environment Policy and Public Policy, Lancaster University

listen to yourself

Joyride. started out back when I was in college. To-and-from school would, given the awful rush-hour traffic in Manila, take about 2 hours; and those lonesome journeys afforded me introspective journeys of my own.

I was young and, rather than inconveniencing my ever-busy parents, I tried to make sense of the world in those peaceful hours marooned in the middle of an urban sea of quiet strangers.

These catalog those thoughts, and the life that snuck-up in between. 8 years and counting.

inevitably

I guess it was bound to happen. Waning interest and dwindling users have finally taken its toll, and Multiply has decided to discontinue their social services this December.  Even before, friends have been chiding me about my choice of syndication; "Still on Multiply?" they would tease with snide astonishment.

Now, I earnestly sympathize with those senile crackpots they feature on TV who, despite practical or sane reason, refuse to leave their broken-down homes filled with peeling wallpaper, yellowed photographs, and the smell of bygone days. This hallowed husk of history isn't pretty, but I cherish it because it grew to be a part of who I am. I've put a lot of myself into this place and made a sanctuary of it, even if it's all rickety and dated.

Inevitably, I must move on. So I'm salvaging what I can and found a new home.

Photo credit: Kaleel Sakakeeny

migration pattern

I imagined coming home would be like visiting an old grave: the absence of life--my life--would have left a gap that I could never fill again. I thought coming home would be like digging up that grave, resting in it, and quietly waiting for all the dead memories to come crawling out of the sodden earth.

It wasn't.

Life in Manila, though wet, was mostly unchanged. Sure, new groceries popped-up, people lined-up at the MRT(who would've thought?), and there were new responses at mass. But the way I interacted with society, all the modes and mediums that allow me to eat great food, go see a movie, and find my friends and family, were still very much present.

The strangers that do me this service everyday since I was born were still just as helpful. The infrastructure that brought me from one place to another was there (even if it was sometimes in waist-deep floodwater). But most especially, loved-ones were not only accessible, they were welcoming.

Friends hugged me as if I've never left. My tita gave me a hearty kiss on the cheek, a little more moist than I remembered. My mom taught me how to cook, and it was warm, full, and good. All of them found time to spend with me, and I feel like the life I left behind was never gone, only misplaced.

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in," Robert Frost once said. Then Manila is still my home, and the diaspora continues.

on Gengoroh Tagame

As the elevator doors finally drew open, I had to take a deep breath before I could step into the murky waters ahead. It was 5 minutes before 6 on the evening of Gengoroh Tagame's talk here at the community center, and I was a bundle of nerves.

I found Tagame back in highschool--through Altavista or some defunct search engine, no doubt. After the perfunctory age check, the webpage led to a sparse bundle of japanese and english text and hyperlinks listed against a black background. It was spartan, and my dial-up had no trouble serving it up. A few clicks deeper led me to the galleries which had samples of his drawn work. They were raunchy and explicit, filled with brusque men in imaginative poses and situations.

For context, my exposure to gay media prior was limited to fanfiction written by school girls (which meant a chapter dedicated to cuddling), and the few sketches of androgynous men (Hiei & Kurama was all the rage that time) holding hands or almost kissing--in pastel colors.

Compared to that, Tagame was uncharted territory; I've never imagined homosexuality could be so rough, passionate, and hairy. A part of me liked it. In a time when I haven't found my own strength yet, I found refuge in the possibility of strength. Difference did not signify weakness in this world, you simply just had to do what needed to get done.

I felt empowered, and dreamed of becoming that kind of man who was capable of anything--the world be damned. Little did I know that I've learned a valuable lesson here, a Japanese lesson: a man is measured by his capability. Society will always have its judgement, but character is proven by action. And merit through deeds is indisputable.

I opened the door to the community center, and I was surprised to find it filled with men of varying ages. And up in front, the bear of a man that is Gengoroh Tagame sat with an easy smile, a delicate paper fan in hand. He talked about his experience of being a homosexual in Japan, and his travails around the world as his work found its renown. He was all-throughout cheerful, despite the thick beard and dragon that adorned his black shirt. And he always had something funny to say which he'd end with hearty giggle and a twinkle in his eye.

After the talk, I asked him what I could do to learn more about Japanese Gay culture, and with a laugh, he simply said to buy more of his books. If the past is any indication, it was sound advice.

Photo: 田亀源五郎

the Eyes Have It

Over a bowl of steaming ramen, safe from the summer rain pelting the narrow street outside and filling pools with reflected neon lights, a rowdy band of us volunteer kids laughed up the remains of our Friday evening amidst the distant drones and rumbles of indistinct techno-pop music.

We were talking about singlehood, and of the 6 of us, two managed to rid themselves of the affliction. They were more than willing to share a photo or two, so purikura exchanged hands and were met with warm glee plus a slight tinge of jealousy.

Tomacho-kun dated a girl before, and a photo bore the proof of a handsome couple. The current flame though, was in another photo, where a group of teenagers huddled together in a school trip. One of the youths in the photo looked familiar, minus the years.

"Ryou-kun?"

Guy with photo nodded yes as I handed it back. He glanced at the shot, and beamed with a sort of proud smile, rooted from a fulfilled heart. We've been together 2 years, he said, but dated through the first year.

I smiled. "Ii ne(How nice)," I murmured, as raindrops struck the puddles outside and broke the neon constructs into jagged fragments of rainbow and moonshine.

Photo: Robert Cartwright - Neon Street

hopscotch

Let's play a little, shall we? I'll pick a spot for us, surrounded by swaying grass, hidden behind quiet trees, in a secret garden of our own. I'll walk around then stoop for a second while I carve upon the surface of the Earth the boundaries of our little game.

I'll hand you my makeshift maker, and let you throw it from spot to spot, place to place, wherever you like, and I'll gleefully chase after it. An innocent laughter tumbles out of me as I hop along; with every spot I leave a mess of giggles.

And when it's my turn, I'll play sly and make a little trick, and chuck it and not tell you where. And with your every hop, I secretly hope, by some natural instinct, by the hand of fate, in spite of myself, you'll find my little mark lodged in the sodden ground.

When at the last, I'll lose my balance. You lend me a hand, and an invitation to get-up and rejoin the world outside the confines of little games and secret hideaways. Hand in hand, as we make a path through the swaying grass and quiet trees, you toss me back in a carefree arc our worn marker: my heart.

It has grown warm.

Though I lost the game, I wonder if we even had to play at all? You give my hand a tug and stun me with a smile--a smile that says I never would have won.

Photo: Ellen Giamportone

BGM: Ang Bandang Shirley - Larong Kalye

the Few

Courage is an alienated word nowadays. Aside from storybooks, rare police dramas, and the spirited recounting of war stories, I have yet to encounter this word in everyday life. Surely people know what being "courageous" means; it has fallen into misuse simply because the brave and the few have frankly gone fewer.

But there was a time when men bore stout hearts and an iron will, a time when convictions were worth dying for. This was the age of heroes, and for a few days each year we dust off the tomes of history and remember. Great deeds, noble sacrifice, incendiary passions that would spark revolutions weren't the stuff of fiction then, and they shouldn't be now. The blood of proud men courses through our veins still; we have only to live it.

And in this issue, we can make start for it. So why not head out and climb a mountain? Feast on exotic food? Tackle your fitness woes? Why not find the passion that lays dormant inside your heart?

It is the only way to live, the only way to partake of the bounty that is the world borne from the blood and tears of countless, nameless heroes.

Do it for them, for never was so much owed by so many to so few.

my cup runneth

I got a glimpse of how people act when they are alone and at their most earnest. Living in a dorm granted me a rare peek into how most people lived their lives. And I've stayed in 2 dorms since I've gotten here in Japan, so a sample size of roughly 30 men and women of varying sizes and ages should lend me an informed generalization on the average day-to-day of the average joe.

And personally, I was shocked to find out that the average joe spends his time in an average way.

Well "duh!", but give me a chance to explain.

By "average", I meant the humane, practical method of going about ones life: sleep when you're tired, go out when you feel like it, do chores when you can. Laugh, love, and live as you like.

But by "shock", I meant I wasn't being humane, nor practical about how I go about my own life: don't sleep enough, head out whenever I could, do as many chores as possible. Laugh, love, and live in every moment of every day.

I do all this because I look up to my friends who get things done. I can't help but feel this deep respect for people who handle things briskly. You can tell, they always have this crisp, business-like tone when they mention what they're currently up to. And I never hear them say "I wish I could." Instead, it's always "Next month I will" or "When I get this done I'll go and" or some variation thereof.

They actively participate in their lives. Instead of "I am alive", they would say "I live."

In my hopes to "live" here in Japan, I brought with me a paradigm of "If I want it, I'll do it" and this has taken me pretty far: I started singing the Psalms solo at the English Sunday mass as part of a Japanese choir; volunteered for a NPO in Shinjuku every Friday distributing various materials on health; took on the new dorm by installing new bulbs, cleaning up the storage and common areas, and taking-up network admin tasks; tackled the Editor in Chief position at the inter-company quarterly magazine.

All this in addition to the two company projects I'm working on at the same time for embedded systems and mobile development, daily exercise schedule, Japanese language studies, daily reading (currently halfway through "Kafka on the Shore") and writing (once a week, sorta) quota, and, of course, a bit of Diablo 3 on the side.

I get all this done somehow day by day, and I plan on doing even more soon. But when I saw how easy life can be with less to pursue, I saw the contrast and am completely, with all heart and soul, overcome by exhaustion, like the debt of all those long hours finally caught up with me.

So, I have to ask myself, am I doing it right? Or should I ask everyone else, are you living at all?

Photo credit: Sam Shere

kung Wari

Maari ba kitang mahalin nang pakunwari? Sadyang buksan ang dibdib, sadyang abutin ang nakaratay na puso, at buo itong hugutin at ibato sayong nakatalikod na anino? Buong malay kong ihahandog ang hubog ng aking kalooban, matinik, nakatayo nang alanganin, ngunit puro. Kabisado ko na ang masaktan, at ang maiwan sa arawan pati na rin ng ulan. Hindi ako umaasa, ako lamang ay sumusubok.

Susubukan ko lang naman matuklasan ka. Bibihisan ko ng pulang esposesa't ng bagong pitas na bulaklak ang iyong bawat salita, at kakabisaduhin ang unti-unting pag-ukit ng ngiti sa iyong mga labi. Ang marahan na pag-baling ng kabilugan ng iyong mga mata sa akin ay parang pagtawid ng buwan at ng araw sa langit, at gaya rin nila'y nagdudulot ng liwanag sa aking mga araw.

Sa mga araw na mainam kong aabutin ang layo at tarik mo, mag-iiwan ako ng mga mensahe sa mailap na hininga ng hangin. Hanapin mo ang lihim at lalim ng aking damdamin sa paghulog ng mga dahon, sa prosesyon ng mga nakapintang ulap sa langit. Sa nagkataon na pagkakataon, sa daplis ng daliri, sa nagkasabay na yapak, tunay ang maari.

At kung ano man ang iyong sagot, maaaring hindi ko na ito kailangan. Pinapadaloy ko na lamang ang dugo mula sa aking naka-bukang dibdib, sa naglaglagan na mga ugat, sa puso kong bahagya pa ring tumitibok. Na ikaw ang nakakapagpatibok, ako lamang ay nadamay.

OST: Cynthia Alexander - Dumaan Ako

blessed are the meek

Totally falling head over heels for guys here. There's still the guy from the facebook pictures, for whom I've decided to move on and away from since, though he's friendly, doesn't show any interest whatsoever. I got this picture of him though that made me think twice--still makes me think twice, make that thrice--about abandoning the guy. He cleans up really nice, I think. Also, I am uber-biased.

This other dude I met at the volunteer program. His name is Ryou, and I call him Ryou-kun when I talk to him, or when I whisper his name in the tender moments when I am alone and I remember his smile. He's 22, bit on the buff side like a young rugby player, but with a damn charming smile and a gentle, affectionate demeanor. Imagine having a sleepy bear that keeps nuzzling at you--that plus a charming smile. Haven't seen any fur to justify the metaphor, but for everyone's benefit (mostly mine), I intend to get a closer look.

We hung out after the volunteer event last sunday named "living together": sort of an AIDS mixer but with sharing and videoke and alcohol. It was fun and meaningful at the same time. My job was to play this 8-note tune on the xylophone after every song (much like the fanfare that plays when they post your score at videoke). My timing was awful since I had no idea when the songs would end, and often I interrupted the host. But hey! I'm a hapless foreigner and am easily forgiven.

We ate at this nearby place afterwards and talked (me with my garbled japanese) about the usual gay stuff that gay boys talk about when they're not busy looking for other boys. Such things as when you came out, top or bottom, have you ever tried it with a lit candle, the usual.

He came out at 17, to his little brother first; and his versa-though he prefers bottom; and not yet--mentally noted.

There were four of us, 2 sitting opposite while Ryou-kun and I were sitting beside each other. At some point, we talked about who among the volunteers was my type. I like my man slightly meaty, so when I got to Ryou-kun, in my assumption of how the Japanese subtly do it, I expressed my appreciation for him by not saying anything in particular--a thoughtful "sou desu ne(hmmm, is that so.)" was uttered, I believe--and with a bit of apprehension. Ako na ang puro't dalisay.

Ryou-kun asked me suddenly "Kareshi ga aru no?(Do you have a boyfriend)?" with a look of earnest interest. I was transfixed, but managed to say no somehow. The temptation of not saying anything at all and just have that magical evening pass with his Japanese eyes looking into mine definitely crossed my mind.

We moved on to this other guy "Tomacho-kun" who introduced me to the comic fest (of questionably content) that I enjoyed and am forever grateful for. I said he was "hontou ni omoshiroi (truly funny)" since he's a bit gruff, outspoken, but cute as a button. He was bit on the buff side too, and to that Ryou-kun concluded with an exasperated "Ah, Tomacho-kun".

I have the urge to correct his understanding of who I really liked, and I intend to on volunteer day this Friday; that and the actual volunteer work, of course.

Stand & Deliver

I did not know what I'd do once I get there, but at least I knew how to get there. It'd take an hour and 2 train transfers to Shinjuku, and after that, I didn't have much else to go with aside from some flyers--mostly in Japanese. From what little I managed to translate, it had something to do with volunteer work, condoms, and men in green overalls; and I'll be doing that, giving those, and wearing those, too (in that order), a foreigner gone solo in a foreign land.

It started with a misinterpreted invitation while I was looking for an art exhibit, and I consented. I did say I would do brave things once I got to Japan, and diving head-first into civic work in a distant land sounded like perfect auto-bio fodder.

But I was nervous, despite my resolve.

My hands shook a little, while filling up the registration form. Odoriko-kun was briefing me on what it meant to be a "Delivery Boy", at a small table off to the side of a well-lit room filled with colorful books, pamphlets, posters. People would walk in and be warmly greeted by everyone, and they'd sit down together and browse and chat, like old friends meeting in that tree house they built when they were kids.

Despite his best explanations of the prevalence of HIV, the weekly commitment, the large and equally diverse community in Shinjuku Ni-chome, most of the details were gibberish I could only nod my head and utter a vague "aaaah, sou desu ne" to. A moment of silence went by as I faltered with the form, and Odoriku-kun volunteered to write my address down for me. I've got some guts volunteering when I can't seem to help myself, I thought, but pushed on.

It was still about 8pm then, so we waited a bit for everyone else to arrive after suiting up in overalls of varying shades. I looked like the guys from Ghost-busters, but with a bag full of flyers instead of slime, and condoms for fancy equipment. When I looked up "delivery" in my Japanese dictionary, it apparently had connotations of prostitution. I started to wonder what we'd be doing here.

It was simple, really. And for being the Japanese that they are, wholly made in Japan with all that that entails, meant I had nothing to worry about.

It was systematic: 4 teams of 3 people with 2 carry bags--one for condoms, the other for distributive material--and a clipboard. The clipboard mapped the route (and to each team a different one) of bars to visit and drop off the supplies of contraceptives and materials. At each drop, we were to be all smiles and excessively courteous with our "konbanwa (good evening)", "arigatou gozaimashita (thank you very much)", "yoroshiku onegaishimasu (we appreciate your cooperation)", "shitsurei shimashita (excuse us for intruding)." One of us talked and handed the materials to the owner (or master/mama-san in some bars), one checked and replenished condoms, and the last prepared the flyers for the next stop.

My team had 44 stops, and though that's plenty, we didn't have to walk very far. Shinjuku-ni-chome is known for being the densest LGBT district in the world, so each bar is either a short hop, a trip down the stairwell, or the next turn in the dark alley here. We took about 3 hours to cover everything (the flyers included some explaining), but I hardly noticed the time.

There was so much to see, and there was a feeling of privilege for being allowed to see most of it. Bars here have a concept of exclusivity. Usually accommodating just 4-8 people, these cozy bars bear a theme that caters to a specific clientele, and the owner's relationship with his patrons is almost kinship. Such a system is not quite foreigner friendly, but the beauty of it is that there's a bar for them, too.

And I got to see some, about a quarter of it. They asked me afterwards what I thought of the volunteer work, and, in broken Japanese, I said that I enjoyed the experience, though unexpected, and mean to come back next week. I still know how to get here, afterall.

change

We owe a lot to change. Change makes things temporary. Change reminds us to cherish what little time we have left. Within that window, when everything is unstable, when there is only the unknown to keep us company, in that solitary moment, we somehow find within us the courage to adjust, to roll along, and find a resolution.

And since change is constant, resolutions are abundant. It is a common thing to say "embrace change", but where does embracing what is fleeting take the courageous? I don't know. But I would think, wherever that place is, it is a wonderful place where dreams do not simply come true, they are claimed.

an editorial

For most people, Spring is a geographical concept: an event that happens to someone else, somewhere else. Since I was born, I got used to life in the tropical Philippine climate, which would always be only either of two things: too hot, or too cold. Spring is alien to me; it is an imported idea that I know but never feel.

The Fukushima disaster is of the same sort: something that happened to someone else, somewhere else. And for most of the world, we only knew what the media allowed us to know. You'll only really understand the impact, the human toll, when you see it in the faces of those who lived through it. And what I saw here, a year later, is there is hope--and plenty of it.

To be a flagship of all those aspirations by offering fresh perspectives to its readers, this issue continues. As editor in chief, I hope to bridge the geographical divide through culture, and we've brought to you slices of life from both Japan and the Philippines; put a human face to both.

And with time, despite the weather, despite Earth's rumblings, we'll know each other enough to be kindred--if not in season, then in spirit.

Signing-in,

dean

maagap

Mainam din malimutan ang langit. Pabayaan muna natin ang mga ulap at bitwin makipag-habulan. Dito na muna tayo, mata'y malumanay, nagsisikap at nagiimbak ng tagumpay sa mundong ibabaw.

Mainam din sigurong malimutan ang mangarap. Magtanggal ng relo at hayaan makatakas mula sa palad ang mga sandali. Lumatay muna sa lupa, nang buong batok, bisig at binti, at punahin ang walang-hangang patintero ng kalangitan.

Mainam din kayang ilimot ang pag-ibig. Ipagpahinga ang pusong abala, at matutuong magmahal imbis na makipagsapalaran. Maaari din sigurong tumibok ang puso sa marahan na tugtugin, sa payak na ligaya.

Lahat ng naantala ay pansamantala. Sa bingit ng pagkalimot, likas na sigurong mapalingon sa naraanan at tumingala sa langit, dala ng pusong maligalig; matingkad, malinaw, at tumitibok-tibok.

the Quiet and the Human Spirit

It is the quiet victories that add up. As if, in their loneliness, in the manner that they are apart, they resound, like a tremulous echo in the darkened amphitheater, growing, never quite the boisterous crescendo, but accurate, hitting the right notes, the exact vibrations attune with something we all recognize as the tune of naked honesty and intimate truth. Solemn victories, like unknown heroes, who are not marred by renown or prestige, but instead, in their humility, prove their genuineness are deeply personal, and infinitely appreciated.

I'm learning to live off of this tiny triumphs: wake-up on time, get the day's work done, manage to exercise daily. It makes me feel human, as if I am exercising my existence, and winning. It could be said that I am petty, easily pleased, and seemingly wanting of headier fruits. The bumpkin's limited perspective affords him an infinite vista of enjoyments. And I do suffer from excessive wonder, of an overpowering sensation of curiosity and mirth upon meeting the unfamiliar, shaking its hand, and finding out its quite friendly.

It's a simple life perhaps, to appreciate all things; straightforward, to simply live. Unremarkable, yes, but content. And in these times, contentment is worth its weight in happiness.

come as you are

Be like a proof, a testament of your ideals. Stand like a lone tree in the storm, and shed leaves, branches and bark, but stand firm. Be like a truth of who you are. Let others look at you and recognize in you what you speak and believe in. Be apparent, so much so that when you do great things, people will not think them great, but think that's just you being who you are. You are great because you did the things you believe in.

But to do so would be to know who you are. What do you believe in? When you are alone, and there is no one else to see, what do you do? Where would you go?

If you do not know, then know how to know all the things you have yet to know. Capture the unfamiliar. Label it. From there you can define the line that borders the definition of yourself. Discover the differences and similarities between you and all things. Acquaint yourself with all things. All excursions that merit knowing yourself better is worth any price; and because all unfamiliar journeys are revealing, they are always worth the trip.

And once back, and a little more wary of what makes you tick, and what passions drive the inner gears of your very heart, do not doubt. It's unlikely to understand everything about ourselves. But with time and experience, we learn to trust what we know is true, an instinct, and from their find wisdom.

That leads to courage. All the things you've learned so far will tell you one and only one thing: do it. Never tarry. And if you do, and recognize the melancholy and depression that visits as familiar, then understand that depression is anger turned inward. Sadness comes when there's no one else to blame but ourselves. So move. Correct, amend, or change your perspective. Just move.

And with enough mistakes, even without thinking too hard, you'll move in the right direction wherever that leads. Because it is only natural to be natural.