Making a Table

Ever wondered how to make a table out of bamboo and some bits of wood? No? Not ever? Well, obviously you've been living somewhere without a sense of personal industry. Someplace with a Wal-Mart within a ten min. drive and where twenty bucks isn't around two weeks wages, if not more. Anyway, you lazy ass, here is how you make a table.

First, get yourself some bamboo, a saw, a woman who’s been a Girl Scout leader for upwards of twenty years, and two children to actually do the work. You really only need the bamboo and saw, though, because I’ll be telling you what to do from now on.

Get a slat of bamboo, decide how long you want your table to be, and then saw it off. Then using that slat as the model, measure out the rest of your slats until you have enough to make the table as wide as you desire. Lay them all out on the ground like so.

Next, get some strong twine, or some kind of durable plastic material. Put the twine under the edge of your first slat, and tie a basic cross-over (1st step when tying your shoes) and then place the next slat atop the remaining twine and repeat the process until all of your slats are tied together. When you reach the end, tie it off with some kind of knot, and cut off the extra.

Finally, get some sticks and shove them in the dirt, or some flat-bottomed boards if you’re planning on using these inside a house or on otherwise hard, flat ground. Then tie or nail on some cross-beams, and then throw your mat of bamboo atop it. Boom. You got yourself a table. It’s a little bouncy, but its cheap, durable, and possibly highly flammable. Not bad for an hour or two of work, eh?

NOTE: For beverage containers with low centers of gravity only.

My New Home: My Students

Last month, I introduced my school. Today, I will relate what I learned about the lives of my students. They completed a writing assignment requiring them to talk about their families, their routines, and their dreams for the future. Supplemented with conversations with various local leaders, I pieced together a vague view of the community of my new home.

A student in the Philippines experiences a routine that would be familiar to any school-going youth throughout the world:  They wake up early in the morning, they go to school, they stay there most of the day, they go home, do homework, and then go to bed. However, American school children have countless luxuries, and the advantage of school busses is the most noticeable.

In my municipality of San Remigio, there are 27 barangays, which are essentially like large neighborhoods consisting of somewhere around 100 families. My high school in the municipal center barnagay of Poblacion has 1,800 students and it is one of seven high schools in the municipality. It is also the largest. Local estimation concludes that only about 40% of San Remigio's school-age children are enrolled in school. Surprisingly, the problem is in transportation. The municipality is so spread out, that parents cannot afford to pay for the tricycle or jeepny ride to school. And that is a sort of catch-22 because even if these parents could somehow afford to get their kids to one of the seven schools, they are already over-capacity anyway.

This is a problem because families are big here. My students average five siblings. The smallest family is two children, and the largest has an impressive 15 children. So every two graduates of high school produce three times that many future students.  I think these impressive figures can be laid at the feet of the prevalent conservative Christianity present in the country. Most notably, the Roman Catholic Church and their preference for abstinence over contraceptives. In other words, a devotion to the ideal that married couples should not share their love physically unless they are planning on giving birth.

Talking about the way it "should be" is the common tool for ignoring reality. And while it is unclear to me whether parents have children because of a lack of contraceptives or if it is because they do not consider money to be an important reason to not have more children (the "don't worry, God will provide" attitude), these large families come with a heavy financial burden. Later, I will discuss these.

But religion effects more than reproductive practices. Most of my students pray upon waking up, most everyone prays before every meal, the school day starts with a prayer, and every class starts with a prayer, too. If you throw in a before-bed prayer, most of my students average 14 prayers a day. Many students mentioned God or their relationship with Him or Jesus in their papers, but only one mentioned potentially joining the clergy. It is a spiritual life I am incapable of understanding, so I cannot say much as to the effect of all this; however, many seem to feel that they are blessed with their families.

Most students carry a heavier burden at home than the average American student. More chores, or even participating in one the trades of the parents to increase family income. 1950's America gender roles are common, and many of my female students are required to awaken early to cook the entire family breakfast. None of my male students are required to do this. A good number of my female students answered my question about their dreams for the future by saying they want to be great mothers. Many others said they want to become teachers, and teachers are probably the only female professionals they come into contact with.

Mothers are most commonly housewives, even in families where the father's income is not enough to provide. Some of the more industrious find money in export crafts, but most could not find a job even if they wanted it. There is little work in the local area, and most young people with a decent chance at a future move to Cebu City as soon as possible. Though half of my students who mentioned a desire to attend college say that their parents cannot afford to send them. And in the Philippines, that's generally the end of it.

"Father had only a small wage being a security guard and it's not enough for our big family. even though mother had a livelihood in making a basket but still it isn't enough for us."

Some students have one of their parents working abroad to provide for their family. This is a result of the weak Philippine economy. One of the highest paying jobs for most college graduates is to work at a tech-support call center. In a standard example of neo-colonialism, western businesses, mostly American, hire out Philippine companies to man their hotlines because people here speak English and they are generally satisfied with a wage of 6,000-10,000 pesos a month. At current exchange rates, that comes out to 133$-222$ a month, or in other words, about half what I used to make washing dishes at a breakfast joint in nowhere Washington every two weeks. You know, a job a moderately competent high school dropout can be hired to do.

The lack of economic opportunity for well-educated people in the Philippines is bad enough, but there is even greater adversity waiting for all the children the education system fails. In San Remigio, there is quite literally nothing to do. Many survive off the grid well-enough through fishing or farming, though most of the farmers are share-croppers who receive only a minor fraction of their harvest. Some are not so fortunate:

"My day starts with the word GOOD MORNING and a prayer from me together with my family. And next, I am going to cook some food for breakfast if I have something to cook, but if I have nothing to cook, I am going to borrow some corn from our neighbor so that we can eat."

"I have one sister and shes graduated here last year and I'am the youngest daughter. My sister working in Cebu to help my parents. She can't studying college because my parents cannot afford her studies. As of now my parents have no work. My fathers sicking [seeking] a job. But he can't find a job because hes an old. I'm just hoping that my father have job so that we have a food to eat every day. Even if my sister find a job her salary cannot give to my parents."

And even families who do not go hungry lack the funds for other important things:

"I have 5 brothers. I'm the only girl in our family. Supposed to be, my brothers are 6 in all but sad to say, my younger brother died last Dec. 19, 2008 because of Apendesitis. We were not able to bring him to the hospital because of financial problem."

I don't know how a parent can handle watching a child die when all that would save his life is a few scraps of paper. Now this is only assumption, but I tend to think that these parents would have an easier time affording daily food and saving enough money for emergency medical care if they did not have to feed and transport five or more children at a time. That's just me. I don't know for sure.

Despite the challenging childhoods, most of my students dream of helping people.

"I really have a very big dream in my life and that is to help those street children. I wanna help them. I wanna change their miserable life into a nicer life. I will be going to build a school for them in which only those miserable and poor street children could benefit. I want to take up a good kind of course in college someday. I wanna study harder for the sake of those street children. After graduating in college, work harder and saves money for them. And by this, my wish will be finally granted!"

In terms of future plans, the boys mostly mentioned engineering, and the girls mostly wanted to be teachers. Altogether out of 400 students, only 5 different careers were mentioned: engineer, doctor/nurse, teacher, merchant marine, and mother.

Octupus Hunting Link

One of my stories about the Philippines was published by a small literary journal. You can find it here.

My New Home: At Work

Once again, it has been a while since I last posted. I blame all the video games and comic books I have downloaded to my laptop. My work at San Remaigio National High School began two weeks ago, and it progresses much as you would expect any school in the world to progress: I stand in front of a group of young people, say some things about some stuff, and then put them to work at something or other. Standard.

Anyway, the purpose of this post is to get everyone acquainted with my life here in Cebu. I thought it would be best to begin by explaining my daily work at the high school: How I get there, what it looks like, and what the job is like (though you will find my brief description above to be quite accurate.)

My day begins at 6:30am when I wake up in my room at the Rondina Residence. It is a nice home, the food is great, and the family is incredible. When I walk out the front door and turn left, this scene greets me:

This is the highway that cuts through the town. Besides the intersection with the highway that goes to Bogo (city status recently revoked), San Remaigio is a loose collection of 27 Barangays, or barrios/villages/collections of houses, spread out along the highway. Meanwhile, the intersection is the commercial hub of the area, featuring a market with a dozen stalls, two eateries, three lechon manok stands (rotisserie chicken), an internet cafe, a few auto repair shops, and a few stands selling random things like sandles, beanies, basketballs, and cheap sunglasses.

The left before that intersection is the road that leads to my high school. Strangely enough, the corner is adorned with two mortuary services, so every day I pass by stacks of oranate coffins. It makes for a rather macbre commute.

This is the road down to my school. To the left behind the sign is the coffin shop (try before you buy?).

Here is the school. A large area for only 1,800 students, but much of the space is haphazardly used due to large gaps of time between construction projects. As a result, the high school suffers the classroom shortage problem common to high schools throughout the Philippines. Of course, half the issue is a lack of funding for new buildings. Despite this shortage, the faculty and staff of San Remaigio National High School are resourceful, and non-traditional classrooms spring up throughout the campus.

The grounds are rife with lush vegetation, as each section (group of about 55 students, of which there are 36) is responsible for its own garden. Some classes grow eggplants, some tomatoes, and others grow any number of plants that are outside my botanical ability to identify. These efforts turn the campus into a mass of vibrant greenery, and often result in a "Green School of Cebu" competition victory for the school (they won a LCD Projector last year.)

My only noticeable impact on the school environment is this flier for the December English Month writing contests. Not so bad after only two weeks on the job.

The classrooms are cramped and hot, but the students and teachers are tough. I just sweat an obscene amount (makes the chalk rather hard to use, actually.) The smallest normal classes have around 55 students, the largest around 75. But thanks to cultural differences, it is actually easier to manage 55 Philippine students than 30 jack-ass American kids.

So far, I have assigned only two assignments. The first was a one-page essay on the students themselves. I asked them to write about their families, their daily lives, and their dreams for the future. While I think this assignment is essential for my understanding of the local culture, I regret giving it. I currently have 400 papers at home waiting for me to read them. *sigh*

I then assigned a love poem, based on Robert Burns' cliche` Red, Red, Rose poem. In order to provide practice for figurative language, I cut out the similes and hyperbole of the poem and turned it into a sort of mad-lib for the class to fill in. As a result, I sat and listened to 300 students recite 300 love poems yesterday. Some of them have a great deal of potential. I was definitely better for me to use one class period for recitals than to bring 300 poems home to grade by myself in the evening.

That's my job. I'll get back to you about the rest of town.

Pilipinas Halloween

Halloween occurs in the Philippines on November 1st, and October 31st more or less goes by unnoticed. Though thanks to the International Date Line, that means the Philippines and America celebrate the holiday more or less simultaneously on opposite sides of the great sphere. There is little resembling the two celebrations, however.

While the American holiday is a candy-eating, costume-party fest of varied forms of debauchery, innocent and not, the Philippines version is much more subdued; half because of the nature of the tradition, and half because of recent laws instituted by the government.

On November 1st, I accompanied my host mother to various graveyards around the city where her relatives are waiting patiently for the coming of Judgment Day. The places are packed of nearly as many live people as not, and the entrances, and even interiors, are packed with the petty mercantilism which defines most Philippine holidays and celebrations. You can buy anything you need for the traditions: candles, matches, flower arrangements, peanuts, snacks, Coca-Cola and Marlboro cigarettes. The water-hawkers wander through prayer services shouting "Tubig-tubig-tubig!" (water, water, water!)

Once you have navigated the merchants and become equipped with candles and flowers, you go to the grave of your relative, perhaps tidy it up a bit (I saw one fellow redying the lettering of his relative's grave, kids work at scraping off moss, mud, and other filth), light the candles, place the flowers, and offer prayers for the individual so that he/she might make it from Purgatory and into heaven.

Space is at a premium, so many of the graves are solid cement blocks, and when the next family member passes on, a new one is constructed atop the old, forming a sort of ancestral monolith. Along the edges of the graveyard, these towers of the dead form a macabre wall, as if they were set there to ensure everyone else stayed inside where they belong. These are the public graveyards.

Nearby are the private graveyards, which resemble more the ones we are familiar with in the States. However, death is a great opportunity for the living members of the family to show off their wealth and social status. Gated mausoleums for single graves are often nicer than some of the homes of the living. They sit quietly at the edge of the grass field, the gentle slopes of the island mountains rising behind them in the distance. Its like the Hamptons of the city of the dead.

However, on November 1st, the family arrives in the evening with a feast of food and a music player and has a bit of a party over the grave of their kin. In the past, a full scale fiesta would take place: drinking, karaoke, and gambling. But the government recently decided this disrespects the dead and has made those things illegal in the graveyards. I don't know; if I had to spend a year with other dead people, I'd want a party over my grave.

If the graveyard is a little too hard to get to, a family party will occur at someone's house, and candles will be lit in the driveway to guide the spirits to the fiesta. And you can drink and sing there. Big plus.

The Last Days of Dumaguette

It's been nearly a month since my last post, and I blame a mix of laziness and lack of inspiration. Dumaguette became my home for this brief period of time, and everyone becomes jaded to what they see every day. The burning 7 a.m. sun no longer amazes, the nightly thunderstorms on the horizon do not amaze, and the cloud bursts are stoically waited out alongside the locals. Though now that I remember those things, each are experiences worth capturing in words for this blog. I'll have to get working on them. Expect a blog on each.

But for now, everything of importance is finished in Negros. The Community Project is completed. We held a teacher training at Negroes Oriental High School about Multiple Intelligences. It went well, but there is little else to say about it. I was in charge of the Naturalist Intelligence, so I took the teachers in my booth outside and talked about plants, animals, and their relationship to English grammar. It was a stretch, but connecting one unrelated idea to another is a specialty of my brain, so no worries there.

Perhaps some might be interested in the Visayan language? It is a verb-first language, so basically the opposite of German. The sequence of the basic sentence that we have learned is Tense-Verb/Subject/object/location/time. For example:

Moinom ko og vino sa dagat sa Domingo.
I will drink wine at the ocean on Sunday.

Nitudlo mo og mga maestro ug maestra sa library kagahapon.
We taught many teachers at the library yesterday.

You can form most questions by using the particle ba as the second element of the sentence.

Gusto ba ka og mga saging?
Do you want some bananas?

Tugnaw ba ang kape?
Is the coffee cold?

Naa ba ka ang tuba?
Do you have coconut wine?

There are many interesting things you can do with prefixes in this language. For example, if you add "pinaka" before an adjective, it means the -est of the adjective.

Maayong - good
Pinakamaayong - the best
Init - hot
Pinakainit - the hottest

etc. etc.

The language is both simple and complicated. It is simple in the sense that it is dead as an academic language. There are few Visayan publications, and it is not studied in universities anywhere. The result of this is that the five-pound, 2,000 page dictionary we have is mostly useless because while the language has a rich history, almost no one alive has anything but a conversational vocabulary. Picking words out of the dictionary for advanced forms of certain concepts like "rage" will only get you blank stares. Angry, becoming angry, furious, rage, all of these words are "suko", which translates to anger. Rage or wrath is simply "suko kaayo," which translates to "very angry."

The language is complicated in that it only has three vowel sounds: aaahh, oooo, and eeee. So "o" and "u" are generally pronounced the same way, and so is "i" and "e." This means that our American accents are not just amusing, they are directly debilitating to being understood. Also, many words are spelled exactly the same, but which syllable you stress will change the entire meaning of what you are saying.

For example:

MolaBAY ko og balay.
I will pass by the house.

MoLAbay ko og balay.
I will throw the house.

This is problematic.

Amusingly, the sound for understanding in America "ohhhhhh..." should be avoided as it means yes in Visayian. This usually is not a problem because in most contexts where you go "ohhhh" saying yes would apply. People here say "aahhhhh." Also, "ooo-ooo", as if you were excited to ask a question, means poop. So... avoid that as well.

A few days ago, my cluster mates and I hiked up into the local mountains, 10 km into the mountain barrios, and visited a sulfur hot spring. The place smelled of breakfast, or rotten scrambled eggs, depending on if you are a pessimist or an optimist I suppose. It was weird to see the yellowish water stream out of a cave mouth, steaming in the hot air. The water was near boiling when it emerged from the earth, making it painful to touch, if not outright scalding.

Large cement cisterns were constructed, and through a simple hose system, we could pump in spring water or cold water from the mountain stream that ran by the cave mouth below the spas. After ten minutes of pumping in the hot water, the pool became pleasantly warm. Then we had to leave after 45 minutes because we needed to walk 10km back down the mountain to catch a bus back to the city. Most people drive there, but we are not allowed to drive anything, and chartering a private jeepney is expensive. My legs are still sore from the steep walk down.

About half the road was paved, the other half was just volcanic soil and rock. Treacherous in the darkness that caught us halfway up the slope, Apo island sitting like a turtle in the ocean in the distance, mocking our elevation and exhaustion.

The Site Visit

Lifting off the island of Negros, butterflies in the stomach as the plane dipped its toes into the sky to test the temperature. Confident, it rose and the land began to shrink. The earth became a lily pad, and I a dragonfly remembering that there were other places to land. Above the clouds containing Bacolod City in a gray box, a landscape of vapor rose to the sun like the peaks of mountains over which cottony zeppelins hovered. Here and there, a gaping hole revealed below green earth and blue expanse.

Gliding over Cebu, the width of the island centered itself in my window, and the ocean framed it. It looked as wide as one giant’s stride. The land was textured with erratic divisions, generations of families relying on history to set the borders of their fields. The mountains followed the style, their bulbous heights resting quietly, and farms climbed into their coconut canopies. Far to the north, the island narrowed and ducked behind the horizon, the ocean slivering in. Somewhere there lay San Remigio. My new home for the next two years.

The plane turned its back on my destination and settled to earth in Cebu City, a sprawling scar reminiscent of Los Angeles. Jammed roads wound their way through sun-beaten buildings, colorful jeepneys ferried their human cargo, honking constantly to warn others of their erratic movements. Pedestrians stand watching, motionless, as if the chaos on the roads kept them in a constant daze. Many seemed to have a destination in mind, and they walked a few steps toward it every now and then, others looked as if they did not know the meaning of the word. A small chair and table, a stone ledge, under shade, these were destination enough for the day. Sit back. Watch life honk, and roar by. A white truck labeled “Department of Environmental Preservation and Natural Resources” passes, emitting a stinking black fog.

Outside the city, the ugly constructions of man gave way to the bursting nature of the island. Trees towered over everything, every hut, every home, every municipal hall, making the road seem more a tunnel than a highway; the lazily leaning palms, the encompassing umbrella of the deciduous giants, and the bushy vegetation that fought for every place in-between.

Here people walked with purpose, hands filled with some important item, dodging to the shoulder of the road as the rumbling bus honked its way towards them. People watched from roadside huts, lounging in the shade behind the table of their merchandise, fruits and squash, laid neatly in rows to be seen by the passing travelers. Others lounged about to lounge about; at bus stops where no buses stopped, under concrete pagodas used for nothing else, on the broken steps of a town hall. It was hot, and the laundry done in the morning was hanging to dry. What else is there to do, anyway? Goats masticated on the roadside, stoic to the traffic speeding three feet from their goatees, focused on grass, breathing, the mechanics of their jaws.

The vantage of the bus gave a glimpse of the interior. The omnipresent coconut stood silent sentinel over drooping fields of corn and abrupt hills of fallow land. A hut could be seen here and there, but for the most part, people seemed unwilling to live far from the concrete slab that was their connection to the world.

When the highway hit the ocean, it met a perpendicular road running north and south. I was in San Remigio. The town is that single road, bordered by houses, a church, two schools, and the city hall, all nestled against the calm side of the ocean. Banks, shopping centers, a respectable market, all these things are found fifteen miles away in the region’s largest town (its status as a city was revoked a few years before.) I am eager to return, so I can come to know this new place.

Most of my time there was spent at San Remigios National High School. I was given a large welcome ceremony. There was a student singer, a regular Philipino Justin Beiber, and a trio of girls doing a traditional dance from the region. Then I had to speak to 1,800 students, the largest number of people I have every spoken to in my life. I was nervous, but I think I handled it well enough, introducing myself and giving all the usual information. Then there was the gift giving from each class. I received a nice polo with students names signed onto it, four flower leis, a corn hat, twenty balloons delivered one by one by students, two hand painted banners, a large cake, and some traditional rice cakes. I was overloaded with their generosity.

Finally, my counterpart teacher gave some quote from Gandhi about friendship, and then said, “And now Mr. Gage will end with his final reflection.” She handed me the mic, that instant being the first I had ever heard of any such requirement. I managed a stately “uhhhh…” which echoed majestically about the school grounds, and then I went into a long sequences of thank yous and appreciative remarks that, while not impressive, seemed to satisfy everyone involved. Glad to be done, I gave away the mic for the last time and took my seat. I look forward to starting my work there in November with much less fanfare and ceremony.

Para-abnormal

Deep in the darkness between dusk and dawn, the bellowing sky rattles the cinderblock house under which I sleep.

Heavy drops beat the tin roof two shadowed floors above my head, the cacophony disturbing my distant bed.

The storybooks tell of Death visiting on such nights, but she worried not me, for I sought her brother, Dream, with frustrating futility.

Time past the witching hour passes in a stream of endless moment. My aching eyes would close, and as has been oft before, history's physical memory began to torment.

Though blind I began to see fuzzy flickering spirits walking curiously above me. A woman joined two men at a table perched in the wall above my bed, and they stared down curiously and I was empty of dread.

Sleep not found, my eyes would open, watch the rain patter outside the ground-level window, and I began to worry that, if it rained too much, it would all begin to pour in.

Closed again, I met a jovial man, curious, with a large mole just off his nose. His skin was dark, and his sockets were enshrouded, but in life I knew they had sparkled. He wondered where I was from, what I was called, and why i was here, only Filippinos had lived there, and only they were there impounded.

Open. My bath towel waves lazily in electric-born wind, the mosquito net is bunched up again. A quick adjustment, a flop back down, and I hoped Dream might be found.

My final vision was a scolding nan, convinced I was a corrupt young man. I had an idea why she was upset, but it was no crime to commit, to live where generously invited. Old memories with old values, or perhaps simply as blind in death as in life.

I stare at the ceiling, felt the breeze, sighted the lightning, embraced the roar, and finally sleep entered from out the door.

Capturing Dumaguete

Like when the cotton candy man dips a stick into the swirling sugar, clouds wrap about the mountains over Dumaguete. Their jagged slopes, canvassed with coconut, banana, vivid blossoms, become adorned with vast puffs of nimbus, a whipped cream topping for paradise itself. Below, a gentle breeze sweeps through the city, swaying the trees intermittently and providing brief relief from the heat. It is the breath of the ocean, though that fact is hidden from the senses; The pungency of humanity hides its salty freshness, stunted constructions hide its azure expanse, the incessant putter of two-strokes mute its whispers. Only by getting close enough to touch the sea do you notice its presence.

Yet it is sufficient that the rhythmic water is a neighbor. Dumaguete has a pulse of its own. With the threat of sunrise, the roads to the city funnel 400,000 people into the grid to join the 100,000 who slumber within. Exotic fruits, smooth or prickled, are stacked high for sale. Chickens are spitted, fires kindled, and their final rotisseries begin. Thousands upon thousands of pots bubble away, millions upon millions grains of rice soften for the breakfast table. Jeepney trucks toot their jingles, trike drivers kick their livelihoods to life and begin to ferry the Gentle People about their lives.

Breakfast eaten, the 500,000 join each other in a dance. Lanes, traffic signals, and stop signs are utterly absent. Daring and acceleration determine right of way, a fear of costly repairs breeds caution and attention. Stern men and women with official jackets stand at notorious intersections and school crosswalks, organizing the fate of dozens with a single sweep of the hand. children in their various uniforms zip past, curious eyes peeking from trike seats, from the back of motor-scooters.

The midday heat returns a sense of calm to the world. Shade becomes a premium, and walking to your destination is regarded as madness. Only the trikes and cycles continue the pace, their drivers and passengers enjoying the cool wind created by the speed of their conveyance, their metal chassis indifferent to the sweltering humidity. It’s snack time. Meriendas. Time to see your friends over a cold Coke and a fried banana-on-a-stick. After all, breakfast was a long three hours ago, and lunch a grueling two hours away. Relax, it will all keep for a little while.

Lunch time! Scurry home! You only have an hour, and the rice is probably bubbling back home in anticipation “Errrr,” says the trike, “Clink-Clink,” says the seven pesos and fifty centavos: thanks for the ride. It’s time to eat, now its time to return. Back to school, back to work, back, back, back. Errrr. Clink-clink.

The heat is growing old now, the breeze becomes stingy. The bicycle-bound peddlers inch their way down the streets. Slow, slow, it’s much to hot for haste. Merchants fan themselves in the shade of their shops, waiting patiently for a trike to deliver them patrons. Shade. Find it. Turn on the fan, ignore your body’s secretions, its constant dripping complaint. Everyone is as sticky as you. You hope.

The sun begins to sink beyond the mountains, readied for slumber, its cruel yoke lightening. The crane trucks rumble into town, the work trucks, the flat trucks loaded with bare-chested men, pleased with the end of their labors. The streets fill again with students, their uniforms loose and flying or stuffed away into backpacks already. Time now to dally, take the slow hours long walk home for dinner. The rice bubbles, the people eat, as the folk of the outlying towns funnel out, the streets become a maelstrom of darting metal and stoic humanity, hair flowing in the wind.

Dinner is over. Let’s stay in. Turn on the TV. Let’s go out to the mall, to the market, to the table on the sidewalk with a bottle of rum, to the girlfriend’s house on a shining clean motor-scooter, to the park for calm romance, for exercise, to the fish ball stand on the corner, to the Video-K saloon. Laugh, talk, sing, drink, be merry, the night comes and tomorrow is still a day away.

The sky slips into a dark purple. The dime lights of trikes glow lazily in the growing gloom. The city turns to orange under the lights as the sky goes black. It is quiet now, its people have left. Now it belongs to the cats, the dogs, the roaches. The inhuman janitors scurry, fight, and make loves.

Sleep now, those loyal who stay here. You want to be rested to do it all again.

Dumaguete City

Dumaguete City. My training site. How do I describe you?

I shall start with the people. No where else in the world will you find a more hospitable and friendly place than Dumaguete City. Everyone has a smile to return, and all jump at the chance to share their meals, their homes, their lives with you.

The Founder's Day Parade for the local Silliman University.

I have been gifted with my host family, who instantly took pains to ensure I felt as one of their own, and I have experienced the same hospitality from every other family I have had the pleasure of visiting. Also, those responsible in local government and law enforcement have also been extremely welcoming and kind. I hope my work here will be of service to them, and will be seen as adequate repayment.

The sights, sounds, and smells of the city I will try to describe with honesty. The main downtown area exists around a small grid, perhaps eight blocks by eight, and then a single main highway extends out either end to the next town somewhere in the distance. The roads are constantly filled with trikes, motorcycles with an attached sidecar that function as the area’s main transportation device.

An early morning petty cab.

A distance greater than four blocks seems to be too far to walk for the average Philippines citizen, so they take the trikes, or ride their own motor scooters, which dodge in and out of the slow-moving traffic in an eternal dance.

"Brrrrrrrrrr"

It is common to see a brave man riding on a small scooter with a two-year old on his lap, or perhaps even two or three of his children on the way to school or some other destination. No helmets, of course.

Everything moves at 25 MPH

The jeepney is still about, but they tend to cover the travel between this town and the next, and their smaller cousins, which look like a miniature delivery truck converted into a bus, are the only ones generally seen in the city. The trikes are loud, but smog doesn’t generally hang over the city (its too small), even though 2,500 of them are running all over the place without pause. Though the mornings are rather heavy with the stuff before the noon wind begins to blow. The city is right on the ocean, but there is no real beach within the city, and the water is dubious enough to make swimming a rare activity to even the locals. Everyone heads up or down the coast a ways before entering the water, usually at some sort of maintained and gated resort beachfront.

Garbage is a bit of an issue. The city trash disposal system is limited in scope, so the streets are quite littered. Corners without nearby habitation are generally heaps of debris. A water-treatment plant is currently in development, but for the moment most solid waste travels down roman-esque concrete trenches that run along or under most of the roadways. I assume the water evaporates well before it reaches the ocean, and the trenches are probably drudged from time to time.

The buildings are well-used, obviously beaten by the consistent sun and humidity, but the interiors are carefully maintained by their respective owners. The public market is truly a sight to see. No where else will you turn a corner and see an old woman taking a meat cleaver to the head of a squid bigger than she is. I’ll try and get a picture of that the next time I wander  there.

So far, we spend most of our time in a condo where our language and education classes are held. The first week is constant lecture, four hours for each topic, with an hour for lunch. Next week we begin observations in the high school, which should offer a bit of variety in the day. The time after work is usually spent wandering about the city, visiting fellow Peace Corps Trainees, or taking a dip in the public pool (15 pesos a dip, however). This is followed quickly by dinner with the host family, and then perhaps another trip out to hang out, or a longer night of studying Cebuano, the local language.  This is hard to do, as most of the people here recognize enough English to make communication easy.

There are a number of things I have needed to get used to here. Wiping myself with my bare hand was one of them (and it was a surprisingly easy transition.) The other was being a member of a formal familial group again. I’ve grown accustomed to my independence over the last five years, so remembering how to be a dependent again has been a little difficult.  However, I am not one to rebel against supreme kindness and hospitality, so it will simply be something I have to get used to again for these three months in the city.  I already feel like I am in a routine, and the differences between this city and any American version seem smaller every day. While I will enjoy my time here, I am already eager to hear of my permanent placement: to get my true adventure started, and for a new change of pace.

P.S. My host family took me on festival, and I ate lechon at one of their friend's homes!

Them be some sad pigs.

In the Resort

The Grand Ballroom on our resort devoured the last few days of our lives. 8:30 a.m. to 5 p.m., with an hour for lunch. Yes. Listening to lectures was our employment. Though as jobs go, it was easy, but attention became slippery after the lunch; the span between two-thirty and five was agonizing.

I am confident that challenges with actual substance are on their way, but for the moment, the end of those long days is relieving.

Today, we went to the beach for water safety training. The process of putting the thing on brought all the airplane flight-safety presentations I’ve seen in my life to the physical world. Until today, the yellow inflatable vest was more an ethereal concept. While it took perhaps thirty seconds to accomplish on the dry run, the experience would likely be useful if you found yourself consumed by the maelstrom of a typhoon at sea. A delay in 30 foot swells could be problematic for your continued consumption of oxygen.

Then we practiced the fine art of using the life vest in the water. There are two main schools of thought in this respect: either you lay out on the water like you’re taking a nap, or you do you best impression of an inanimate object, you know, like driftwood, or perhaps a pumice stone. I still need to work on my form.

The pump boat was cool, however.

Random photo of a pump boat.

I was rather impressed by the hand-made construction because the easiest way to describe it would be “it’s like a canoe that was made by a genius.” It has two pontoons made of some light wood, like bamboo, and these make the thing damn near impossible to tip over. In comparison, the western-style canoe is like a visually-triggered epileptic attempting to walk a tight-rope with a strobe light tied to their face.

A river would make the pontoons problematic, especially the tiny streams common to mountains, but these pump boats should be in lakes all over the world. Right now.

We then just sort of hung out at the beach. Peace Corps orientation is hard.

The weather waited politely for us to be inside out hotel rooms before unleashing a flash rain storm. It then lessened a noticeably degree in time for us to leave for the local super-mall. It was a very hospitable storm.

To get to the mall, we took a jeepney, a sort of privately owned mini-bus. They are extravagantly embellished with all sorts of do-dads, and the front window shield is more like a narrow visor than anything else. But jammed with bipedal hominids, these prevalent logistical marvels ferry the people of the Philippines about with immediate efficiency. In short order we were at the mall, and only 10 pesos lighter for it (about $.25).

I was told that during the age of 8-tracks, half the windshields would be covered by stacks of tapes.

Local children found a jeepney full of Americans either hilarious (one particularly thuggish looking twelve-year old gave me a view of his boxers with eagerness), or a valuable opportunity to see if the English they were learning in school actually works. “Hello! My name is Glora! I like Ice Cream!”

We pulled up and hopped out at the super-mall. Between the jeepney and the mall, there was a sort of private little parking lot guarded by a bored looking man cradling a short-barrel shotgun to his chest. Don’t key cars in the Philippines, apparently.

The mall was busy, but we had little trouble walking around after we had a great deal of trouble deciding on how we were to split up in pairs or trios to go about our business. Philippines stores are staffed with ridiculous amounts of staff. The J.C. Penny style place had about 8 young people on shoes alone, two on umbrellas, etc. and they gathered about me as a tried a pair of strap sandals. It was like a live action Cinderella scene. I noticed the salesman had motioned the others over, so I assume it was some ploy to use social pressure to make the sale. (or it could have been mere curiosity.) A bit weirded out, I said I would think about them and made a hasty retreat.

In fact, the first thing I did when I entered was look at some umbrellas. I had forgotten that it rains in the Philippines when I packed my bag. Awesome. Not really understanding the purpose of all the staff, I snatched out an umbrella and popped it out, examining it and then collapsing it. As I tried to put the thing away, a rather plainly annoyed saleswoman who had been watching me do this from two feet away finally said “Please, sir,: and rescued her product from my clutches. She then began going about resettling every part of the umbrella, every crease in the fabric, back properly on the wires, making it factory pristine before carefully placing it back in the bag and hanging it on the shelf. Meanwhile, another saleswoman had arrived and was showing me another umbrella.

The American ideal of shopping, of walking around on your own whim and only asking for help as a last resort, is not in effect in the Philippines. You walk down an aisle: “Socks, sir!” “Do you want some perfumes, sir?” “Good evening, sir. Did you see these socks?” (I had perused the socks briefly when I first entered, and they expertly spotted it and sought to remind me.)

Definitely a different experience.

I’ll end with a short list of other different experiences.

Being an alien: Living my entire life lost in the white, average, American masses, becoming the outsider, the different one, is quite different. It makes me a bit uneasy, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it. Or have a psychological episode.

No-Flush toilet paper: You can’t flush it. You throw the used rags into the trash can. Perfectly sanitary unless you suffer from user error (or dig through your bathroom garbage can), but definitely different. You‘ll want to empty the trash every day.

And I think I had more, but I‘m exhausted and again cannot keep my eyes open..

Arrival

The long flight to Japan had a maddening aspect of endlessness. Windows were closed for most of the flight, creating an illusion of a motionless universe. If not for the consistent drone of the engines outside and the occasional bump, we might as well have been sitting in a rusted box car infested by a hive if bees. But the necessity of my stagnation provided opportunity for finishing Ray Bradbury's From The Dust Returned. It was good.

We had an hour in Japan, so my friend Wes and I found some iced green tea and some rice crackers. It reminded me of my Camp Adventure trip, or at least the gastronomic part of it.

When we finally arrived in Manila, our plane was forced to dodge a few rolling thunderstorms. At first I found this ominous. But instead of acting as some warning of the gods, the storms rolled respectfully away into the distance as we went into our final approach. Lightning danced through the dark, illuminating the clouds into gray cauliflower, giving us a grand fanfare into the capital of the Philippines.

The airport was much more of the mortal world. The walk from the gate from made special by a greeting from a large gathering of Peace Corps staff, revitalizing us from our flight, or perhaps encouraging the budding excitement of finally being there. The walk through customs and the wait for the baggage at the conveyor was quite familiar, though; one of the consistencies of all the airports I have visited. However, the general time investment was compounded by the presence of about 100 of us new arrivals. But that's the way it is.

Our bus ride offered a strange introduction to Manila. The darkness hid much, but under the streetlights cars and the ever-present motor scooters darted about in late night haste. Pedestrians wandered about everywhere, and crosswalks are not in general use by the population. Often we passed people standing in the middle of the street, waiting patiently for the rest of  their crossing to open like in the old Frogger video game. It is a refreshing change from the over-protective mommy-ness of American J-walking law, though I have little doubt that people do get crunched from time to time.

Most of the businesses we passed were closed for the night, locked behind sliding metal screens. Most windows are barred, so I assumed burglary is a consistent worry for many residents. What few nightclubs or fancy establishments we passed upped the ante with full gates, creating near fortresses that stand out from the rest of the street. Bare walls were covered in graffiti tagging, mostly simplistic signatures and possibly gang identifiers, though I have no idea for sure. This lead me to believe that at least four or five people wander about the city with spray cans.

Most corners featured a few locals chilling, smoking or talking with each other. Larger congregations relaxed near various sorts of mini-marts that advertised their presence with large signs in the street  lights. Beyond and surrounding most of these shops were mishmashes of  cobbled-together shacks and buildings. Though I could not see far beyond the street lights, I gained the impression that these humble dwellings extended far into the darkness. A blind void hiding a great many people who doubtless possess incredible amounts of fortitude, work ethic, hopes, dreams, trapping them when admirable merit would judge much greater than myself.

Advertisements come in only one size in Manila: HUGE. The billboards which easily dwarf the largest on offer in Los Angeles are common.

We were greeted at our destination with grand excitement. Peace Corps and resort staff turned out to make us feel beyond welcome, and an ingenious organized effort checked us in, delivered our baggage, offered us delicious fruits and juices, and tucked us into our rooms in an amazing twenty minuets.  The effort put forth by those involved in our care was a perfect end to a long and grueling journey, and for that we were all immensely grateful.

Our first day started early. Ancy and unable to sleep, I jogged around our large compound. On two sides, we are bordered by neighborhoods that I assumed to be similar to those we passed the previous night. A few fishing canoes darted about, and wizened masters of the deep cast their nets into the dawn water. The ocean, or perhaps a lagoon, stretched off the final side till it hits another island which seems to exist only as dark fog upon the far horizon. Then we ate an awesome breakfast, and went about our day's schedule of speeches and logistical/financial explanation and forms.

Some fellow PVCs and I then engaged in a game of soccer and a brief exploration of the on-site swimming facilities (complete with three slides!) Capped with dinner and conversations with new people, the day proved incredibly tiring, and I fall keep falling asleep in my chair as I tried to finish this.

ETA: Countless Hours

Philadelphia joins my growing list of cities I’ve been in but not really seen. I arrived in the airport around 5 p.m. and promptly become confused by where my hotel was. My original thought was that the Peace Corps would have chosen a hotel near the airport to cut down on transportation costs and confusion such as mine. However, upon asking a local law student who I befriended on the plane, a sharp dressed man named Drew, he took out his iPhone to punch in the address. Google Maps was as in the dark as I was. So we parted ways, and I found a few other people to ask. All of them shook their heads in a “I thought I knew everywhere in this city, but I’ve never heard of that” sort of way.

Finally, I was directed to the kiosk for hotel shuttle vans, and I was given a number to call and a pager like the ones they give out at Olive Garden when it gets busy. Expecting a wait, I went outside to see what Philadelphia smelled like, and I was surprised by numerous voices yelling my name from a nearby van which I had already been informed was full. Figuring them to be Peace Corps members, I waved and smiled then went back inside because it had started to drizzle but slightly, and then I thought I should have at least gone over to say hello in a more personal sort of way. My timing was impeccable. Already frustrated with waiting for one lost Peace Corps member, the drivers and organizers of the shuttle service snatched my bag from me and threw me into the van. So myself and six others were finally off to the hotel. I heard of a local describing it as "in the middle of nowhere."

The first night, a group of us gathered for dinner at Houlihans, mostly chosen for its name. A general kind of T.G.I.F. kind of place.  Then I headed back to the rooms and met my roommate, Wes. We watched an episode of Hard-Knocks (which I had never heard of but found immensely interesting), and the tail-end of Batman: Dark Knight. The next day, the orientation began at noon.

Orientation involved a multitude of questions and about one answer: you’ll find out when you get there.

Afterwards, I ate at California Pizza Kitchen with five other PCV’s, the Jamaican Jerk Chicken was quite delectable. A large group of us then enjoyed some socializing at the hotel bar before hitting the sack for our 5 a.m. departure the next morning (or rather, that morning) for J.F.K. airport in New York City, New York.

New England is an entirely new experience for me, so I contentedly listened to music for most of the ride, enjoying the mix of old architecture, straight thoroughfares, and the prim and straight vegetation. This slowly gave way to highway, and I promptly fell asleep. When I awoke, I was perhaps five blocks from the Empire State Building.

New York City is like nothing I had ever seen. Movies just do not capture it. Ahead of us, a corridor of tall buildings stretched before as like a roofless tunnel. It seemed the buildings flowed until the curvature of the earth cut off into the golden-orange sky. To right and left at each intersection was the same view, some buildings short and stocky, brick, perhaps six to ten stories; scrunched again them were 40 story behemoths, their windowed facades shining like fire in the morning sun. It like a picket fence made with random length boards the entire way down.

Every which way, people of all different colors scurried about like ants who never stop and talk to each other, either listening to iPod’s or walking as if they really had no clear purpose for the day, ignoring through practice the giant piles of refuse festering in the dawn light. Yellow beetles and blue and grey centipedes crept through the labyrinthine passageways between the buildings, and the humans would scurry in front of them when a green light told them they could. These crissing and crossings would happen at odd moments from each other, down the line of the street, creating a kaleidoscope of human life. A few trees dotted the roadside like an afterthought.

Even the city’s dead were crammed together under the ground like sardines in a tin, sleeping desperately for Judgment Day, when God will roll the tin back and let them loose from their eternal confinement. Cars wizz pass their grassed crypts of rot and age, drivers oblivious, either through lack of imagination or through necessity, of the near tangibility of their own mortality.

The City is easily the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life. Some great monument to human pride and a blight of ingratitude to the Earth and all its other forms of life. If I have my way, I’ll never set foot inside it again.

Now I eagerly await our plane, which will carry us away from this foul place to a land hopefully more green, more fresh, more alive.

A Glut of Pages: Books my fellow PCVs could borrow later

The only thing I have really worried about so far in preparing for the Philippines is books. Without my usual distractions of video games, I will actually need to rely on more productive ways to spend my time. Video games are perhaps one of the more useless ways to spend time in the world (unless you argue they teach eye-finger coordination, and in some cases, various forms of tactical thinking.) So, it is ironic that I have always been a nerdy fan of the concepts of Bushido and the Samurai; as Miyamoto Musashi, the most legendary samurai of all time said, "Never do anything that is useless." So now for the first time in my life, I will be utterly cut off with the only material hobby that has wasted my time. That means I need my savior of boring family road trips: books!

Anyway, I went to a used bookstore today and picked up a thick stack of books. Since I am excited for all of them, I can't help but brag about all my 'phat lewt'. Them 20+ hours of travel ain't got nothing on me now!

My fellow PCVs might just find opportunity to profit from these acquisitions as well. If you're going to be looking for some books to trade around, I'll have these on hand overseas. So let me know if you want to borrow one (or trade if i have finished), and if I am not currently reading it; it's yours.

To the suggestion of some fellow PCV's, I picked up a copy of CultureShock!: Phillippines. I tore through about seventy pages of it at the book store before the time of my exodus. I enjoy how it goes into discussions of gender roles and the psychological development that gives rise to the Philippine mentality. Also, numerous tips and comments will be useful for any volunteer to become effective, and to remain safe, in the Philippine culture. This is one of a few books that is currently competing for my reading time.

I didn't get this one from the bookstore, but I don't think I'll have it done before I leave. Oddly enough, my mom saw this in a bargain bin and got it for me a few years ago for Christmas. Before my trip to visit some of my family, I saw it on my desk back in my room and snagged it up. Good decision. It offers an inside view of the events behind the Chinese Civil War, and the subsequent mess Mao Zedong makes of the entire nation in his blind narcissism. If you have an interest in world history, geopolitics, or the like, this is turning into an excellent read.

The third book of the four I am currently working through (too many!) is the 'ole Bible. Or the Good Book to some. Though I am not a member of any organized religion, this book of God's Scripture is useful for my project for religious world peace over on my Theologia Ameliorate blog. I hope to continue working on said project during my time in the Peace Corps, so this baby will be coming with me.

The 4/4 of my current reads: This little guy I picked up in Victoria, British Columbia. It is a first person account of an actual Potlatch, told by a true member of the Native Canadian Indian culture who attended the last true Potlatch in the early 1900s. It provides unique insights into the ceremony, the mythology, the philosophies, and the psychology of this truly incredible culture. It is an awesome, evocative read, and I'm not even halfway!

Though I have already finished my first reading of the Holy Qur'an, I will be bringing it along in relation to the Theologia Ameliorate project as well because I will need to read it again. This most recent Revelation from God is the most direct in Message, and thus perhaps, the most enjoyable to read. I found it to be both enlightening and important to the world in which we live, and it was the first Scripture to really reach me about the nature of God. If anyone ever told you this book was violent, they obviously never opened the cover.

This was recommended by the only friend I have who enjoys (or perhaps tolerates) religious discussion with me. I believe it was in response to my beginning of the Theologia project, and I think he is correct in thinking I would like to give this a read. In my quest for religious reconciliation, the opinions and thoughts of a trailblazer will be most welcome. I'm sure I will be giving this little book some attention over at Theologia. From what I understand, this is one of C.S. Lewis' crowning works, where he attempts, or perhaps succeeds, at reconciling his intellect with his faith.

At the suggestion of one of my other good friends, I quickly blazed through the Elijah Baily/R. Daneel Olivaw Robot series earlier this year. Easily some of the best Science Fiction I have ever read. With the next big series on deck (The Foundation Series), I thought it would be a great time to pick up this little prequel. Anything Asimov is always incredible, so I do not doubt this one will be up to par. 

Ray Bradbury is one of my favorite American authors. Like Asimov, he is a true master of the trade. This book I have never heard of, but I never heard of Something Wicked This Way Comes before reading it either. And THAT turned out to be one of the most awesome stories I've ever read. Judging from Fahrenheit 451 and Dandelion Wine, I doubt this book will disappoint. Apparently it's like if you took the Munsters and the Addams Family and smashed them together.

The problem with reading Frank Herbert's Dune? You become a sucker for any sort of desert planet science fiction. From the back of Hammerfall, it sounds like that is what I am going to get: desert planet, check, multiple moons, check, space-desert religion, check. We have a winner. Cherryh wrote The Faded Sun Trilogy, which I found immensely satisfying, so I am excited to see what else this Hugo Award winner has up his sleeves. Or perhaps pens? Anyway, I wanted to begin his Foreigner series, too, but the bookstore didn't have a used copy of the first one. I don't like paying full price for a book that has been out for over five years.

Fritz Leiber is one of the newer (1970s) Sword and Sorcery greats inspired by the epic Robert E. Howard (1920s). The stories of Fafhrd and the Grey Mouser are always a great time. This is the only novel based on Leiber's two Conan-esque characters that I know of, and I only know of it because I saw it in the bookstore today. Apparently they are trying to retire, and all the nemeses of their serial adventures are getting in the way. That works for me.

Ah, yes, Piers Anthony. A name from my youth when I picked up a torn copy of Castle Roogna. It still numbers as one of my top fantasies for sheer enjoyment and originality. Many of Anthony's books are that way, but once I hit the 9th book in the Xanth series I started noticing I was reading the same book over and over (David Eddings does that same thing, now that I think about it). Anyway, besides Cruel Lye (I think book 12? It features a guy who is basically Wolverine from X-Men, and the first person perspective is hilarious), the Xanth books got boring, but I always wanted to give his Bio of a Space Tyrant series a try. If the Xanth books are anything to go by, this should be 300 pages of fun, if not depth.

Lee Kuan Yew was one of the top power players in the creation of the modern Singapore city-state. I started reading this in my early college years but balked from its thickness. Homework didn't help either. But now I think I'll have the time to plow my way through this baby. In this book, Yew describes in great detail the statecraft, the policies, the logic, and the means he and his comrades employed to turn a third world island with no natural resources into one of the most powerful economies in the world. Sounds like someone we could use in D.C. to help out a bit.

   

33 and counting...

Thanks to a fellow future Peace Corps comrade on the Facebook group, I became aware that it is only 33 days till I leave home.

Thank God.

Ever since I left the Masters in Teaching program, my life has lacked direction and purpose. The false ambition I nursed for three years hollowed me out, and now I seem only capable of looking on everything with a generalized sense of apathy; what little excitement and annoyance I do occasionally feel quickly fades back into a monochrome grey. It's a steady hope that all the "new" of my service will jumpstart some life back into me.

I have insomnia a lot lately.

I stay up late, either reading or writing new blog posts like this one. Though in the case of this entry, my pattern switched up: I slept from midnight to four a.m., then woke up and could not fall back asleep. Nice change of pace.

Some of what I read are the blogs and comments of members of the Peace Corps Facebook group. It seems everyone is doing something to get ready to go. Either selling material goods, leaving jobs, ending relationships, or visiting family.

I don't own any material goods that are worth selling. So no worries there.

I don't have a job (or ambition for a career).

I don't have a relationship.

And while I am currently visiting family, I find myself incapable of investing interest in anything going on. Like how a jellyfish is propelled about the ocean in the current; yeah, it can move itself, but only in insignificant little puffs that have no effect on its path to the final destination: a grave atop dry sand where children poke at it with sticks.

I think some of it comes from the end of my educational career. My entire life has been chunks of years with arbitrary goals: I need to do well in five years of elementary school so I can move to middle school, I need to do well for three years in middle school so I can get to high school, I need to do well for four years in high school so I can get to college, I need to do well for four years in college so I can get a career.

I missed that last step, as the planking between my degree and my idea of career broke when I remembered I only chose teaching as a path because it would support me while I tried to become a writer. In some ways, that is still what is happening: I'm going to the Philippines to teach English Language Fluency, and I hope to be inspired to write something with "umph".

Yet my confidence in my success as a writer has more of less faded. As just another nameless hack with a dream, I can only look at the countless multitudes of failures, and I can only think that it would be arrogant to believe my ability is anything beyond all of theirs.

The problem with reading history and universal science: you become acutely aware of your utter insignificance.

But my intellectual side holds to hope. History also has its up and downs, years of peace, years of war, misery, happiness, death, life. I just need to ride the cycle, otherwise I'll be like one of those bastards eating a high velocity lunch.

It would just be nice if I could find something to latch on to. Most people just say, "You'll get a good paying job. You're smart, you have two degrees, you will get hired."

I smile politely, but I always think to myself, "So?"

Great. I'll have money. I can buy a big screen TV, have a house or something, and maybe even a car of my own choice.

Material items. Distractions. Meaningless collections of atoms. Yeah, they are fun to have for taking a break while mainly doing something else, but these things aren't goals: they are toys for toddlers who can only walk forward in stuttering steps.

I need to find the right journey before I can actually enjoy any of that useless crap. A purpose.

I think for the moment I just have to take a page from the Blue Lanterns and trust that "All will be well."