Existential Song
You’re looking for clarity and meaning, but this world,
baby, offers neither.
Yet, while I acknowledge that life is meaningless, I still
choose to live; that choice makes me one of Albert Camus’s “absurd heroes.”
I’m squeamish about calling myself “hero.” But maybe, by not
choosing suicide, or by not choosing the artificial meaning offered by
religion—by choosing to blindly pluck meaning from the small moments of my
life, by happily taking on the Sisyphean task of dragging the proverbial
boulder up the hill that keeps on rolling down for all eternity–maybe I should
sit a while and accept the fact of my “heroism.”
Maybe people like me are people like Lampedusa’s il Gatupardo: you’re life’s crashing down all around you, yet you bear it all with solemn dignity. Traditions die, memories taper into nothingness, gray areas govern the edges of our time, but like Lampedusa’s Leopard, you choose to move on rather than die with the empire in your head.
Maybe, my decision to choose life amid all these makes me incredibly brave, after all. In
an absurd sense.
You just don’t realize it, but life’s always a race
for some little thing—a race that’s often not really about getting there first,
but about not being left behind. In a nice world, it would be great if we all
arrive at the same time. But even simple orgasms don’t happen that way.
Maybe you just don’t realize it, but life’s about little
fears. Fear because you know you won’t always be intelligent. Or pretty. Or
cutting-edge. Or cool. You won’t always have that body that attracts countless
suckers. You won’t always win. You won’t always be brilliant. You won’t always
be able to smile for every single dawn or dusk that comes your way.
Because you can’t stay forever up in that tower gazing for
new incoming waves, for paradigm shifts. Eventually, time and circumstance will
force you to go down and mingle with those you used to deride. Eventually,
you’ll be weak and helpless. Eventually, somebody has to bury you.
And in the face of all that is meaninglessness. And in the
face of such meaninglessness are “absurd heroes” that quietly, silently plod
through their days, creating, thinking, loving, remembering. Or trying to
forget.
Then you keep going back looking for clarity and meaning.
But this world, baby, offers neither.
Uncategorized | Comment (0)Truncated Stanzas for Astrud
The muzak is Kruder &
Dorfmeister. The Now is Thursday morning. The Here is kitchen, mountainside,
faux mahogany everything, a tireless clique of chair-sofa-chair.
The Moment is lashed with the
faint song of water dripping somewhere. A child babbling. A dog slurping milk.
Or Water. Or Blood. Or a fresh wound.
Home is the world, polystyrene
and glassy under a bubblegum sky.
Love is orgasm restrained. Of
trying not to come until you lose the need, the urge, to fake it.
Love is waiting. And looking
back. And shielding the eyes from the sunlight.
Solo el fin.
[To download this post's soundtrack (yes, this post has one), just click here.]
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Bringing Home the Beacon
[Out of sheer respect and admiration for one of my heroes,
I’m reproducing John Gokongwei’s speech here verbatim. It drives home the point
I’m trying to say in the latter part of an earlier blog post (see
“Tearjerker”), but John Gokongwei’s speech is a million times more powerful and
credible because it’s coming from a lifetime of proving that it works. I’m not
an Atenean, and although this was told before the Ateneo 2004 grads, I hope
this speech hits every young Filipino in the head; I hope this serves like a
stake driven into every heart. To anyone who might be reading this post, please
copy and paste JG’s speech or this blog’s url and send to all the kids you know
who are smart enough to understand the magnitude of Gokongwei’s point and who
have the heart to heed it.]
Speech of John Gokongwei before Ateneo 2004 Graduates
I wish I were one of you today, instead of a 77-year-old man, giving a speech
you will probably forget when you wake up from your hangover tomorrow.
You may be surprised I feel this way. Many of you are feeling fearful and
apprehensive about your future.
You are thinking that, perhaps, your Ateneo diploma will not mean a whole lot
in the future in a country with too many problems. And you are probably right.
You are thinking that our country is slipping-no, sliding. Again, you may be
right.
Twenty years ago, we were at par with countries like Thailand, Malaysia, and
Singapore. Today, we are left way behind.
You know the facts.
Twenty years ago, the per capita income of the Filipino was 1,000 US dollars.
Today, it’s 1,100 dollars. That’s a growth of only ten percent in twenty years.
Meanwhile, Thailand’s per capita income today is double ours; Malaysia, triple
ours; and Singapore, almost twenty times ours.
With globalization coming, you know it is even more urgent to wake up. Trade
barriers are falling, which means we will have to compete harder.
In the New World, entrepreneurs will be forced to invest their money where it
is most efficient. And that is not necessarily in the Philippines. Even for
Filipino entrepreneurs, that can be the case.
For example, a Filipino brand like Maxx candy can be manufactured in
Bangkok—where labor, taxes, power and financing are cheaper and more
efficient—and then exported to other ASEAN countries.
This will be a common scenario—if things do not change.
Pretty soon, we will become a nation that buys everything and produces
practically nothing. We will be like the prodigal son who took his father’s
money and spent it all. The difference is that we do not have a generous father
to run back to.
But despite this, I am still very excited about the future. I will tell you why
later.
You have been taught at the Ateneo to be "a person for others." Of
course, that is noble: To serve your countrymen.
Question is: How?
And my answer is: Be an entrepreneur!
You may think I am just a foolish man talking mundane stuff when the question
before him is almost philosophical. But I am being very thoughtful here, and if
I may presume this about myself, being patriotic as well.
Entrepreneurship is the answer.
We need young people who will find the idea, grab the opportunity, take risk,
and set aside comfort to set up businesses that will provide jobs.
But why? What are jobs?
Jobs are what allow people to feel useful and build their self-esteem. Jobs
make people productive members of the community. Jobs make people feel they are
worthy citizens. And jobs make a country worthy players in the world market.
In that order of things, it is the entrepreneurs who have the power to harness
the creativity and talents of others to achieve a common good. This should
leave the world a better place than it was.
Let me make it clear: Job creation is a priority for any nation to move
forward.
For example, it is the young entrepreneurs of Malaysia, Thailand, and Singapore
who created the dynamic businesses that have propelled their countries to the
top. Young people like yourselves.
Meanwhile, in the Philippines, progress is slow. Very little is new. Hardly
anything is fresh. With a few exceptions, the biggest companies before the
war—like PLDT, Ayala, and San Miguel—are still the biggest companies today.
All right, being from the Ateneo, many of you probably have offers from these
corporations already. You may even have offers from JG Summit.
I say: Great! Take these offers, work as hard as you can, learn everything
these companies can teach—and then leave!
If you dream of creating something great, do not let a 9-to-5 job—even a
high-paying one—lull you into a complacent, comfortable life. Let that
high-paying job propel you toward entrepreneurship instead.
When I speak of the hardship ahead, I do not mean to be skeptical but
realistic.
Even you Ateneans, who are famous for your eloquence, you cannot talk your way
out of this one. There is nothing to do but to deal with it.
I learned this lesson when, as a 13-year-old, I lost my dad.
Before that, I was like many of you: a privileged kid. I went to Cebu’s best
school; lived in a big house; and got free entrance to the Vision, the largest
movie house in Cebu, which my father owned.
Then my dad died, and I lost all these. My family had become poor-poor enough
to split my family. My mother and five siblings moved to China where the cost
of living was lower. I was placed under the care of my Grand Uncle Manuel
Gotianuy, who put me through school. But just two years later, the war broke
out, and even my Uncle Manuel could no longer see me through.
I was out in the streets—literally.
Looking back, this time was one of the best times of my life. We lost
everything, true, but so did everybody! War was the great equalizer. In that
setting, anyone who was willing to size up the situation, use his wits, and
work hard, could make it!
It was every man for himself, and I had to find a way to support myself and my
family. I decided to be a market vendor.
Why?
Because it was something that I, a 15-year-old boy in short pants, could do.
I started by selling simple products in the palengke half an hour by bike from the
city. I had a bicycle. I would wake up at five in the morning, load thread,
soap and candles into my bike, and rush to the palengke.
I would rent a stall for one peso a day, lay out my goods on a table as big as
this podium, and begin selling. I did that the whole day.
I sold about twenty pesos of goods every day. Today, twenty pesos will only
allow you to send twenty text messages to your crush, but 63 years ago, it was
enough to support my family. And it left me enough to plow back into my small,
but growing, business.
I was the youngest vendor in the palengke, but that didn’t faze me. In fact, I
rather saw it as an opportunity. Remember, that was 63 years and 100 pounds
ago, so I could move faster, stay under the sun more, and keep selling longer than
everyone else.
Then, when I had enough money and more confidence, I decided to travel to
Manila from Cebu to sell all kinds of goods like rubber tires.
Instead of my bike, I now traveled on a batel-a boat so small that on windless
days, we would just float there. On bad days, the trip could take two weeks!
During one trip, our batel sank! We would have all perished in the sea were it
not for my inventory of tires. The viajeros were happy because my tires saved
their lives, and I was happy because the viajeros, by hanging on to them, saved
my tires. On these long and
lonely trips I had to entertain myself with books, like Gone With The Wind.
After the war, I had saved up 50,000 pes os. That was when you could buy a
chicken for 20 centavos and a car for 2,000 pesos. I was 19 years old.
Now I had enough money to bring my family home from China. Once they were all
here, they helped me expand our trading business to include imports. Remember
that the war had left the Philippines with very few goods. So we imported
whatever was needed and imported them from everywhere-including used clothes
and textile remnant s from the United States. We were probably the first
ukay-ukay dealers here.
Then, when I had gained more experience and built my reputation, I borrowed
money from the bank and got into manufacturing. I saw that coffee was abundant,
and Nescafe of Nestle was too expensive for a country still rebuilding from the
war, so my company created Blend 45.
That was our first branded hit. And from there, we had enough profits to launch
Jack and Jill.
From one market stall, we are now in nine core businesses—including retail,
real estate, publishing, petrochemicals, textiles, banking, food manufacturing,
Cebu Pacific Air and Sun Cellular.
When we had shown success in the smaller businesses, we were able to raise
money in the capital markets—through IPOs and bond offerings—and then get
into more complex, capital-intensive enterprises. We did it slow, but sure.
Success doesn’t happen overnight. It’s the small successes achieved day by day
that build a company. So, don’t be impatient or focused on immediate financial
rewards. I only started flying business class when I got too fat to fit in the
economy seats.
And I even wore a used overcoat while courting my wife—it came from my
ukay-ukay business. Thank God Elizabeth didn’t mind the mothball smell of my
overcoat or maybe she wouldn’t have married me.
Save what you earn and plow it back.
And never forget your families! Your parents denied themselves many things to
send you here. They could have traveled around the world a couple of times with
the money they set aside for your education, and your social life, and your
comforts.
Remember them—and thank them.
When you have families of your own, you must be home with them for at least one
meal everyday.
I did that while I was building my company. Now, with all my six children
married, I ask that we spend every Sunday lunch together, when everything under
the sun is discussed.
As it is with business, so it is with family. There are no short cuts for
building either one.
Remember, no short cuts.
Saint Ignatius of Loyola, your patron saint, and founder of this 450-year-old
organization I admire, described an ideal Jesuit as one who "lives with
one foot raised." I believe that means someone who is always ready to
respond to opportunities.
Saint Ignatius knew that, to build a successful organization, he needed to
recruit and educate men who were not afraid of change but were in fact excited
by it.
In fact, the Jesuits were one of the earliest practitioners of globalization.
As early as the 16th century, upon reaching a foreign country, they
compiled dictionaries in local languages like Tamil and Vietnamese so that they
could spread their message
in the local language. In a few centuries, they have been able to spread their
mission in many countries through education.
The Jesuits have another quote. "Make the whole world your house,"
which means that the ideal Jesuit must be at home everywhere. By adapting to
change, but at the
same time staying true to their beliefs, the Society of Jesus has become the
long-lasting and successful organization it is today and has made the world
their house.
So, let live with one foot raised in facing the next big opportunity: globalization.
Globalization can be your greatest enemy. It will be your downfall if you are
too afraid and too weak to fight it out. But it can also be your biggest ally.
With the Asian Free Trade agreement and tariffs near zero, your market has
grown from 80 million Filipinos to half a billion Southeast Asians.
Imagine what that means to you as an entrepreneur if you are able to find a
need and fill it. And imagine, too, what that will do for the economy of our
country!
Yes, our government may not be perfect, and our economic environment not ideal,
but true entrepreneurs will find opportunities anywhere.
Look at the young Filipino entrepreneurs who made it. When I say young—and I’m
seventy-seven, remember—I am talking about those in their fifties and below. Tony
Tan of Jollibee, Ben Chan of Bench, Rolando Hortaleza of Splash, and Wilson Lim
of Abensons.
They’re the guys who weren’t content with the 9-to-5 job, who were willing to
delay their gratification and comfort, and who created something new, something
fresh.
Something Filipinos are now very proud of.
They all started small but now sell their hamburgers, T-shirts and cosmetics in
Asia, America, and the Middle East.
In doing so, these young Filipino entrepreneurs created jobs while doing
something they were passionate about.
Globalization is an opportunity of a lifetime—for you. And that is why I want to be out there with
you instead of here behind this podium—perhaps too old and too slow to seize
the opportunities you can.
Let me leave you with one last thought.
Trade barriers have fallen. The only
barriers left are the barriers you have in your mind.
So, Ateneans, Class of 2004, heed the call of entrepreneurship.
With a little bit of will and a little bit of imagination, you can turn this
crisis into your
patriotic moment-and truly become a person for others.
"Live with one foot raised and make the world your house."
To this great University, my sincerest thanks for this singular honor conferred
on me today.
To the graduates, congratulations and Godspeed.
"Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam."
Thank you.
Uncategorized | Comment (1)Toilet Humor
My sister’s (there’s a sidebar link
to her blog) been bugging me to help her out with her project in humanities.
They’re being asked to produce a clay sculpture of some kind.
I tell her do a Rodin’s Thinker.
She rejects it, saying it’s too
“common.”
Do it differently, then. Make
the thinker sit in the john, instead of stone.
She still doesn’t buy it.
You know what, I say,
exasperated, Do something irreverent. Debase something sacred.
Her face lights up. “You mean,
Jesus Christ?”
I shake my head. “Too risky. Try something local and safe.
Somebody like Lapu-lapu.”
Sitting in the toilet? Doesn’t
make sense to me.
Then try somebody a bit more
modern. Somebody like… Rizal.
Aw come on, are you serious?
I sigh, like I have never sighed
before.
I tell her that in my life, I’ve
only done two kinds of figures: dinosaurs and a naked woman sitting on stone.
In my “really lazy” moments, I’d usually opt to do the female figure; it
doesn’t take much inspiration to make one, anyway. I can do a nude with my eyes
closed and while wiping my drool. In highschool, I did a papier-mache by
shredding old issues of Manila Bulletin,
mashing it up with starch paste. I did it twice because the first time I
completed one, I woke up in the morning and found a swarm of red ants feasting
on my masterpiece; the little fuckers were eating the starch in my obra. The
second time, I crammed the whole piece (it was a prehistoric valley where
dinosaurs—three triceratops and a tyrannosaurus rex—roamed beside a “volcano”
that was only as tall as the animals. I tried positioning the two triceratops
in the act of copulation, but thank God I received last-minute wisdom and
didn’t go on with it) in the freezer to protect it. When I submitted it to the
teacher that afternoon, she was so strangely “excited” that she asked me if she
could keep it. Too eager to please, I said yes, sure, absolutely; I didn’t tell
her that by tomorrow, those goddamn ants would reduce the dinosaurs into
shapeless carcass.
I tell my sister, Make Jose
Rizal sit in the toilet, then tell your professor it’s Rizal’s final night and
that’s supposed to be his last time to take a dump. That’s why Rizal is
thinking too hard.
I tell her, “Rizal probably thought of writing “Mi Ultimo
Adios” while he’s shitting. I usually get most of my ideas that way. So maybe he
took the same road.”
My sister still isn’t buying it.
“But didn’t they use latrine?”
It doesn’t matter, I say. It’s
actually brilliant.
How do I make it look like
Rizal?
Do the hair, baby. People
recognize Rizal by his hairstyle. Part it in the middle, make it a little wavy.
And don’t forget the jawline.
And I add, “Maybe you should
give it a dramatic name.”
I think for a moment, then offer
the name before she can say anything. I tell her, Call it Mi Ultimo Echas.
She grimaces. She says, Corny, corny,
corny.
I shrug. I tell her that in
other countries, people oust a government with this kind of subversion.
This kind of idea, I tell her,
wins a Clio Award in other countries.
But we’re not “in other
countries,” she says. And it’s corny.
I say nothing; I just grin. I’m
thinking of more evil things, but sometimes you should know when to stop. But
when she does decide to use it, should I stop her? When her resistance crumbles
and she begins molding it in her hands, should I admit, finally, that it’s
cruel, that it’s probably in bad taste?
Nah. Maybe I’ll think about it.
League of Monsters
“I don’t buy drugs, but if you
really want it, I know people,” I tell him.
I’m not really into paying women
for sex, but if you really want it, I know people, too. I can show you the way.
I can even hook you up with my ever-bugaw
cousin.
Point the way; that’s what I
usually do, even if somebody’s asking me the path to Hell. Point, point, point,
point the way to directions I myself wouldn’t take.
“But you have to realize you
step into this world,” I tell him, “coming back unstained would be very
difficult. That is, if you can ever go back at all.”
I’m cool as I say this shit. I
feel cool. I feel cool to treat these nontopics as if they were dining-table
stuff.
He says nothing, but I read his
mind.
His mind says: You. Are. Such.
A. Monster.
When I saw Sin City,
I realized these are the characters that live in my head. For the longest time.
Maybe Frank Miller has seen me in a nightmare. In a burning mirage in the
desert. Maybe I’m one of the demons that jump up and down on his chest as he
lies staring at the ceiling, waiting for the Dark Muse.
Anyway, the truth is, I’m really
a clean-living fellow. I don’t even smoke. I get dizzy with my third bottle of
San Mig Lite. My only issues are my very minor character flaws, like my furious
arrogance, jadedness, my quick impulse to mock other people who somehow hold
beliefs that differ from my self-proclaimed weltanschauung,
my megalomania, my heartfelt empathy for fellow perceived monsters like Adolph,
Pantagruel*, Napoleon, and Benito.
And, of course, my incurable
impulse to ogle at women’s white and smooth armpits. Ah, skin, the death of me.
Show me a hint of cleavage and I drop on the floor and die. Show me flawless
legs or thighs and I just become rabid. And I haven’t even mentioned anything
about boobs, yet.
His mind says: You. Are. Such.
A. Monster.
I say nothing; I pretend I don’t
actually read minds.
Because I usually sit on the
fence and let evil take its course, in the calculations of some people, I also
have blood on my hands.
Because I’m usually the only
fellow left on the crossroads when Vladimir and Estragon arrive asking for directions
to find Godot and wait endlessly for the fucker to arrive, because I’m the
fellow who points the way, even to one that leads to their deaths, in the
reckoning of some people, I’m accomplice to murder.
But what I want to tell this
fellow is this: God stands there silently in the corner as somebody is raped.
God walks on the roads of Iraq as mothers and their kids get blown up. And in
the face of it all, God does nothing; God and I are not really different. God
and I are two kids sitting on a fence, blowing the dandelions in our hands as
carrion litter the ground around us.
But of course, I don’t dare say
that. It’s an invitation to tragedy; religion is one of the three unspeakable
things people like customer service representatives shall never discuss with
clients. And I’m a good businessman, so I also know that
And besides, trying to find the
truth is such a big headache. That people like Poncius Pilate, in Mel Gibson’s
much-hyped film, could only say in utter defeat: “Veritas? Quid es fucking veritas?”
Not wanting to choose is already a choice; people like
myself become monsters out of sheer apathy. Or indecision.
The myth of “making a
difference” faded in me so early in my life. These days, I just spend time
killing small animals, spit my blood on the pavement, howl during full moon.
I ask him, You want to know a
bigger monster?
I tell him about this girl,
sixteen years old. She’s pretty, she looks like one of those Korean stars you
see every night on primetime TV. She uses casual sex as a weapon. She knows how
to wield it as if she were born with precocious awareness of the power of her
sexuality. She’s like the vagina version of Joan of Arc. Place her in a world
of men, men who are so stupid they would give all their money just to see a
woman take her clothes off, and you’ll see how she becomes God.
God, all powerful, all bursting
with energy to make horny men suffer.
A world of men. Our world. This
stupid planet.
To give proof of her existence,
I open my laptop and show him her face.
I can give you her exact address
if you want, I tell him.
That’s what I do these days;
point, point, point, point directions, to paths I would never, ever take.
I close my laptop and stop
reading his mind.
Somewhere in that small head, a
seed has been planted. He will leave now, but he will come back, resolved on
his inner issues, asking for directions. And I will dwell in the fleeting power
of one who holds information. I will enjoy it. I will up my rate. Tomorrow,
this power will jump to somebody else, and this fellow will cease needing my
help. But I don’t mind.
There is always a need to be
filled in the future. The crappy, same ol’ future. The world is crawling with
fools asking for directions. And I’ll always be standing there, waiting for
more Vladimirs and Estragons**, pointing to them the way to their absurd,
horrible ends.
*Pantagruel’s one of the lead characters in Francois
Rabelais’s 16th-century series of protonovels.
**In Samuel Beckett’s play, Vladimir and Estragon don’t actually die; I just want them to. Besides, on some level, I think waiting endlessly for something is also a form of terrible death.
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All the Raging Questions
A kid threw me this question
today: When people fart in other countries, does it smell good?
This is the same kid who, three
weeks ago, was leading a platoon of six-year-olds down the road chanting (in
true Lord of the Flies fashion),
“Ibagsak si Gloria! Ibagsak si Gloria!”
They were just having fun, but
the grown-ups were stupefied; they took it as sign from God—now that these
innocent kids were singing “Ibagsak si Gloria,” then it must truly be Vox Dei.
But after their “protest rally”
died down, there’s now a raging debate on farting. And he ran to me because I
suspect one of his aunts had told him I’m the resident know-it-all—a line that
people around me usually say with knife-edge sarcasm.
I tell him, Actually, it’s not
country specific, but it’s more a matter of gender and looks.
When hot, pretty women fart, it
smells like Lacoste Pink. Hot, sexy chicks produce fart that smells so good you
can bottle it and sell it in Dubai and be an overnight bahzillionaire.
You mean, only ugly women smell
bad?
Absolutely. It’s a universal
law. God wants it (I said the last
line with trying-hard Irish accent).
What about men?
Well, us men are pigs. We are animali, as Don Corleone used to say. We
all smell bad, in one way or another. Something about us will always stink. So
don’t raise your hopes. The smell of our fart will never change, in this
country or elsewhere.
“What about Anna’s fart?” Anna’s
his crush from the next block.
Absolutely ambrosial, I say,
like a spring morning. But wait till she grows her boobies. She’ll smell even
better.
Oh, the kid says, and throws me
an odd look. I think there’s something about the word “boobies” that intrigues
him. I’m not sure, though. Who can fathom the mind of a six-year-old kid?
Much later, as I work on another truly evil chapter of my truly evil work of art at my little terrace, I overhear him leading the discussion on farting with his usual
platoon of six-year-olds. The platoon is all ears, and they’re so quiet you’d
think they’re formulating the Five-Year Plan with Comrade Stalin.
And the way I hear him say, “We
are not special. Our fart stinks.” It’s eerie.
It reminds me so much of Tyler Durden.
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