Random Ramblings

Not much going on here at the internet café. Six of us are using the computers but not one is a paying customer. The internet is down in all the cafés in town. It happens. There is only one internet provider in this area of the province. In fact, it is the only provider in most of the province, with the exception of “the city” (Cebu City).

I just took a walk with my grand niece, Shane. We walked to the convenience store for a pack of medium diapers. She was wet, so I didn’t carry her until we were on our way back to the shop: when she grew tired of walking and slowed down, I picked her up. Then we talked to the moon for a minute. She stares at the moon for a long time, as if it is something fascinating to see. I agree with that assessment.

One evening, about two months ago, she was out in the front yard with her mom, watching the moon. Shane extended her arm and opened and closed her hand, making a “come here” gesture to the moon, saying “Peso, moon. Peso, moon!” as if requesting the moon for money. I would never have thought of such a thing, myself. I like her ingenuity and it’s a no-lose situation. If a peso falls out of the sky, so be it; if not, nothing lost.

It’s times like this that make me wonder what she thinks. Does she really think the moon can give her a peso? And what ever inspired her, a 1 and one half year-old, to put peso and moon together in a request?

The same six of us, Jan Mark, Clyde, Stefhanie, Frederick and Gabriel, went for a late-afternoon swim. The water was clear and smooth and a perfect sea-green. Jumps and dives off the jetty filled the air with children’s laughter. Splashing, swimming, diving down for rocks and coral, and chasing fish and each other were all on the full agenda for fun.

Jan Mark and Clyde made a game out of picking up a huge chunk of dead coral from the bottom of the ocean, taking it to another location, dropping it, and swimming down to pick it up again. They are both very good swimmers and can stay under water much longer than I can.

All the kids, including Shane, just love the sea – the “dagat” in Cebuano. Each visit to the ocean is as fresh and new as the first; never taken for granted. My greatest joy is watching their never-ending pleasure. I am grateful for the opportunity to witness it, and be a part of it.

A Virus, an Emancipation, Some Pigs

It's Philippine cold season, the kind of cold that starts with a virus and ends a month or two later when the fever, chills, cough, and runny nose have run their course. Luckily, it can only happen in any month that starts  with a letter between A and S. That's how I remember it. I figured that out during the peak of one of my feverish periods two years ago.

I caught my present cold yesterday. A half hour after I felt the scratchiness in my throat, my wife complained of a soreness in hers. I've heard that women who have lived together for a while, have their periodic cycles in sync with one another. (Is there something that links the last two sentences together? I'm not sure.)

Here is a true story about the island of Negros, just a stone's throw and about 10 miles across Tanon Straight, from where we are on Cebu Island. The Spanish invaded the Philippines in the 1500's and possessed it for about 450 years.

The inhabitants of Negros Island had a unique and ingenious way of ousting their captors. Since they had no money for weapons, they made fake ones carved from wood - rifles, canons, etc. They painted their wooden weapons and marched on the capital. When the Spanish saw them marching their way, from a distance, they immediately laid down their arms and surrendered.

How about that? I wish I could get rid of my cold that easily. I would take a placebo, label it "virus killer", swallow it with a glass of water and then wait in front of the toilet with the expectation of hearing the screams and yells of the viruses as they fled my body in a stream of pee.

Never mind.

A ritual started about two weeks ago, at our house. I'm sure it's one of those family-bonding things that the two teenage boys will remember when they are old. One evening I told them the story of the three little pigs.

The wolf, whose name was Justice, was bigger and meaner than the original, and had an awful breath from former pig-eating forays. Because of my growing, age-related confusion, other characters entered the story. Little Red Riding Hood was there, sliding in on her silver skates. The White Rabbit, dressed for tea, booked wagers at 2-to-1 odds, against the wolf, and Johnny Carson, as Carnak the Magnificent, prophesied the fate of the pigs.

B.S. flowed. The lie got bigger.

Stopping just long enough to lubricate the parch in my throat with rum and water, we finally got to the end, the part where Bilbo Baggins carved up a ham sandwich for himself in the house made of bamboo, old Chevy parts, and carabaw dung. But I had forgotten, until the boys reminded me, that the wolf was still hanging around the front door, dreaming and drooling over the possibility of a share in the ham booty. So, the wizard sent in the witch and her flying monkeys, who skewered the wolf and cooked him, live, over an open pit of charcoal designed for roasting pigs. Justice was served.

Every day since the first, the boys ask for stories. Their engrossed faces tell of the magical fascination that is a gift reserved for the young.

It makes me very happy to cater to that fascination.

Newly-Discovered Sexual Position: A Promise of Heavenly Delight!

A new post is an imposing obstacle when all I have in mind is a "sense" of what I want to write. That "sense" contains a lot of sentiment and, as such, is as far away from the construction of words as the brain will allow. But,  that's where the gift of writing comes into play. Somewhere there is an intersection between thought and feeling. For me, it is not direct observation that puts thought and feeling together, at that intersection. What works for me is diving in, swimming around the arena of feelings, then surfacing into thought, looking around for landmarks, and going back under, then, repeating this process until the light comes on in my head that is attached to my typing fingers. Voila! Thoughts come, "stuff" happens and words are formed.

But tonight is different. I don't have a "sense" about anything. I am sitting in front of this computer at our internet cafe, because I feel like writing, but the desire alone doesn't carry much punch. My fingers are ready. The blank screen is waiting for the little black symbols to fill the page. Nothing comes to mind. Kind of like going out for target practice without ammunition. At least there are no bears to contend with. Not that life lacks anything noteworthy: Jane, Emelie's sister and the mother of the kids we take care of, just had another baby. Look. Don't spread it around, but I hope she quits having kids.

It is ant season here. You won't hear about ant season on the weather channel. Sure, there is rainy season and dry season and hot and "cold" season (when the temp drops to a shivering 75 degrees), but it is all a tactic of the Department of Tourism, in cooperation with the media, to avoid talking about ant season, the meanest season of the year.

Fifteen minutes after rainy season, when the earth is dry and hot, the ants surface en-mass, in search of food. Grain, meat, sweets, oil - depending on the kind of ant - are all on the list but your foot is a more-than-adequate substitute for any of these.

 I found out, recently, that ants don't bite, they sting. Well, actually, they drill. That's right. They drill a hole into you and then squirt a bunch of chemicals in that are manufactured in the meanest part of the ant, probably very close to the asshole (excuse my French), since the whole business stinks.

Okay. This isn't science, but you can throw science out the window when you have just been stung on your big toe by an ant. Feels like a nail has been driven through your foot. I got stung three times this past friday, which just happened to have been Good Friday. It was a near-religious experience. Probably would have been the real thing if I hadn't said "Holy Shit!" In this case, "holy" modifies the word the shit, as any English major would tell you, but it don't modify it enough to render it pure and clear. At least, not pure and clear enough to open the gates of heavenly bliss and allow for even a fraction of a second of religious experience. Damn! I screwed up!

Most of the ants that sting are red, but there are exceptions to the rule: notably, a very large black ant, about a half inch long, called the nigerus antus maximus mf. I named it myself. All is in latin except for the "mf", which are the first letters of the two words that I yell out whenever I get pierced by one of these babies!

Okay, that's all I have to say about that.

Well, were you expecting something else?