Tacloban after PAMS and Yolanda

The other week, I was in Tacloban City for the 12th National Symposium on Marine Science. For three days or so, over 400 coastal and marine specialists, exhilarated by fellowship and the prospect of sharing new science, laid claim to the city.

Many of us attending the symposium flew out on the day NAIA was dealing with its radar system upgrade. It was a novel kind of purgatory for someone like me whose most eventful airport debacle was being unable to find a quiet spot to read. While getting off the plane at the Daniel Z. Romualdez Airport nearly five hours after our original ETA, my boss/ friend Mags gestured at the darkness beyond the runway, pointing out that we were surrounded by water. We walked towards the terminal, marveling at this proximity to the ocean. This is what I thought of when I read the tweets about the Tacloban airport being all but wiped out.

The symposium was the first time I would present what I've been working on for my Master's thesis. I also had additional duties as a member of the communications team. With everything going on, I didn't really see a lot of the city.

But I remember the people.

The symposium was held at the UP Visayas Tacloban College, a small but lovely campus, much like my UP Baguio. Dr. Marge De La Cruz, the lionhearted dean, and her tenacious faculty made all 400 of us feel welcome. The secretariat, even when they had no idea who I was or why I always appeared to be hyperventilating, helped me out whenever they could. The college chorale group and their mad vocal skillz serenaded us during the first symposium dinner, their rendition of an Imelda Papin classic an instant crowd favorite.

New images from Tacloban show that much of the campus has been destroyed. I bear the news with sorrow and disbelief, and this tugging helplessness in the face of all things being transient.

Photo from Rappler/ Rupert Ambil

The night we arrived, Mags and I with biodiversity conservation warrior queen Nanay and a research assistant Audrey ended up at the Italian restaurant Guiseppe's for a late dinner. I had the pumpkin soup and the ravioli ragu. Our waiter was a character, a young man made memorable by his affable (and slightly subversive) cheekiness. At the end of the meal, he surprised us with complimentary shots of amaretto.

The night before my very early flight back to Manila, I worried about getting to the airport at 4AM. But the girls working the front desk at Hotel Consuelo arranged a ride for me, no problem. The driver of said ride, upon learning that I didn't have change for fare, stopped at different gas stations (at that ungodly hour) until we found an attendant who could trade me smaller bills. When we reached the airport, the driver gave me his name (Victor) and number, and told me to call if I needed a taxi service in Tacloban again. I thanked him and promised I'd recommend him to other graduate students who'd often return to the city for fieldwork.

I think about these good people now in the midst of all that suffering and devastation, and hope they are okay. 

Many of the people I work with have families in Visayas and Mindanao. It's extremely frustrating not being able to do much to comfort these friends who are sick with fear and worry. The right words escape me, but my thoughts and prayers are with them and their loved ones. And in my heart of hearts, I'm thankful that my own family is safe, far away in the mountains.

The intrepid Solera sisters from Cebu, Leilani and Ligaya, initiated a small relief effort among their friends, and it has gone a long way. I'm grateful to these girls and others like them for being strong for us, for opening up avenues for us to extend some measure of help. I'm drawing light from these individuals, and trying to follow their example. Here, from Rappler, is a list of ways we can assist in relief operations.

Neil Gaiman makes us remember

The Internet hype machine almost ruined this for me. Like the rest of Neil Gaiman's legion of adoring fans, I waited for the release of The Ocean at the End of the Lane. I tracked its progress, but tried my best to avoid reviews. Which was a stretch because, being a highly anticipated novel by a widely loved author, it was simply everywhere. When I finally got my copy, I began reading somewhat rebelliously, refusing to be taken in. The book itself is a slight thing, a three-hour engagement at most. But like that duck pond in the story, it is an ocean. I didn't know what was happening until I looked up and realized I was already waist-deep. The story found me, like seawater finding cracks in a stone wall, and it has been weathering my heart since.

Here is my copy, which I acquired from good, old Fully Booked.

In grade school, some of my friends and I would have lunch in a small wooded area behind the main building. We'd fill the air with our voices and the sounds of our play. When the afternoon bell called us back to our learning, a heavy silence would fall over the woods. There were times I'd find myself there alone, having ran back for some forgotten item or taken a shortcut to the Industrial Arts classroom. The sun would be high in the sky, the bright light casting flickering shadows of leaves on the red-brown soil. The woods felt alive but dormant, as if disturbing the quiet might stir something into waking. I would be a little scared, but curious and defiant, staring at strange, moving shadows longer than I should. The feeling of that place was real and dream-like, an overlap of worlds. And so it was that I read the The Ocean at the End of the Lane under a heady haze of remembrance.

At its core,The Ocean at the End of the Lane is an excellent horror story. The fear, cultivated and absolute, crept into everything. I was so terrified, I couldn't sleep without my back tight against the wall. The last book to affect me this way was Coraline.

The Evil Thing is cunning and amoral, latching on to people's basic tendencies for wickedness. I felt fiercely protective of the narrator as a boy although I should have had more faith in his resilience (I am generally blinded by the charms of little boys, an effect of watching my baby brother grow up). Mr. Gaiman has great respect for children: he is matter-of-fact about the existence of magic, but doesn't spare them the nightmare. He knows they can handle it better than the grown-ups.

This post took so long because, even if I badly wanted to talk about this book and how it made me feel, I didn't know how. I am was a mess of thoughts and feelings, many of them unidentifiable and some too familiar to face directly. I began to think about long-ago and far-away with a sweet ache that, when fully embraced, could swallow me whole. Sometimes I feel old, which, at 27, is ridiculous. The Hempstock women are ancient, but never tired.

The Ocean at the End of the Lane makes me want to write, and write in the best way possible. It "was written for readers," but it is also for writers. Mr. Gaiman's prose is pointed and descriptive, not a single word without function. It is a crystal, boiled down from a balanced solution of talent, skills sharpened over years of practice, and instinct. He sets the example for the Good Art he encourages us to make. In doing so, he has also shared with us something very personal. So here I am, stumbling over my words, trying to say thank you.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running by Haruki Murakami

Some time ago, Alain de Botton tweeted (yes, you may find him on Twitter @alaindebotton) “Most of what makes a book ‘good’ is that we are reading it at the right moment for us.” Such is the case now at the beginning of a new year and I am adrift (as I often am).

I took out Haruki Murakami’s memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, which I’ve had on my shelf for ages, because I’d been unable to concentrate and was looking for something easy to read. I thought, given my recent enthusiasm with the subject, I’d be able to stay focused. I struggled with the first couple of pages, a problem I’d had with the book before, but got to this:

“I’m the kind of person who likes to be by himself. To put a finer point on it: I’m the type of person who doesn’t find it painful to be alone. I find spending an hour or two every day running alone, not speaking to anyone, as well as four or five hours alone at my desk, to be neither difficult nor boring. I’ve had this tendency ever since I was young, when, given a choice, I much preferred reading books on my own or concentrating on listening to music over being with someone else. I could always think of things to do by myself.”

My little brother and I were born thirteen years apart, so for the greater part of my childhood, I was an only child. I found books, made up songs and hung out with imaginary friends, basically spending a lot of time inside my head. When Lem and I were still just friends, we had a label for when I would vanish off the grid for days, not speaking to him: “cave mode.” That doesn’t happen so much now we’re together, but he can tell when I want to be alone. Now, as a novice at running (less than a novice, really), I’ve found that what I enjoy most about it is the solitude.

A very brief history: In a yester-post, I recounted how I had been preparing myself to run again, the main objective being to lose weight. I sort of hinted at my progress in my first TILT entry where I mentioned loving my running shoes. I’ve been engaged in my casual program for about three months now.

Murakami writes “running suits [him].” I like to think it suits me too. I know myself as an inward person, and running allows me to indulge this. He writes that “[he] runs to acquire a void.” I repeatedly have to tell myself to stop thinking. Running lets me think about everything and nothing at once.

Murakami writes “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.” As a beginner, I spend a lot of time in pain. My legs, I imagine, are still getting used to all the physical labor. At any time during my runs, my calves, thighs, feet or entire legs act out. They scream bloody murder. There are many occasions where, as Troy on Community puts it, my “whole brain is crying.”

(Photo source)

Murakami writes “Patience is a must in this process, but I guarantee the results will come.” Three months ago, doing some research, I’d come across a blog on the benefits of running. The writer said that people who take up running start preferring healthy sources of fuel over the usual heavy fare. The diet eventually falls into place without too much bloodshed. Six months ago, you’d have found me topping off a bag of pork rinds by myself, but now, I find it easier to stay away from junk food.

Murakami’s reflections in the book come nearly 25 years after he first started running. The man has run at least one marathon a year since. But for me, in this fledgling stage, nursing a small ember that could go out any minute, I can’t even conceive successfully running a 5K. When he writes that he probably knows pain better than anyone else, I believe him. What I feel on my runs is child’s play. Running is ingrained in his life, whereas I'm still discovering what it means. It is a great divide, to be sure, but I feel like his words belong to me.

I’ve only known Murakami through his strange/ beautiful novels, but it is with this book that I feel closest to him as a writer. His thoughts on writing novels being a physical act (“…a writer puts on an outfit called narrative and thinks with his entire being; and for the novelist that process requires putting into play all your physical reserve, often to the point of overexertion”) remind me of long days finishing papers for graduate school and offer a glimpse of the months I will be drafting my thesis. When I read about his epiphany to become a novelist professionally, I became mindful of the decisions I must eventually make about my own pursuits.

For a while, I didn’t mind what had been happening to my body because I thought I was paying more attention to keeping my mind in shape. I realize now how that thinking has to change. Murakami also wonders “…a person’s mind is controlled by his body, right? Or is it the opposite – the way your mind works influences the structure of the body? Or do the body and mind closely influence each other and act on each other?” At this point, I’m inclined to agree with the third. I think even the Mentat have something to say about that somewhere.

Last year, I struggled with a hostile attitude and a lot of negativity. I’m beginning to think it had something to do with how badly I’d been treating my body. Again, Murakami gives me the right words: “…an unhealthy soul requires a healthy body.” My soul is inescapably unhealthy, but I’m hoping taking better care of myself will balance out that darkness.

Murakami writes of "runner's blues": "At the same time that I'd lost something, something new had also taken root deep within me as a runner. And most likely this process of one thing exiting while another comes in had produced this unfamiliar runner's blues." Even now, I'm still in limbo and suspect that will be the case for the next couple of months. But I'm not worried anymore. This drifty-ness is a necessary pain, like muscles being conditioned for new heights of exertion. Things don't look too bad from where I'm standing. The right book can help you see that.

Reading: year-end review 2012

It's three days into the New Year, and I still haven't written a year-end post. I'll get to it eventually - it's just that some bits of 2012 are a little hard to digest.

On the other hand, some things are easier to write about than others. On The Exchange, we list our favorite reads for 2012. Here are mine:

(Click here to get to the original post.)

These are some of Hanna's:

(You'll have to click here for the rest of her list.)

And these are our shared favorites:

(And you know what to do.)

Another year done. But, of course, the reading never ends.

Later.

Things I Love Thursday

I'm back in the big city and have been feeling a bit grey. I've been trying to finish a couple of papers for a class I kind of neglected last year. The writing is not going as smoothly as I imagined, so I've been angry and frustrated in turns. In the past, I've gotten out of my hole by thinking about things that make me happy. I've always wanted to do a Things I Love Thursday* post, so I thought this is a good time to start.

1. Green cargo shorts - The big city is sweltering. Right now, my favorite thing to wear is this comfortable pair of green cargo shorts I found while thrifting some months ago. I'm practically living in them. And more pockets are always excellent.

2. iPod skins - I ordered a couple of skins for my iPod from stickitskins on Etsy and they arrived recently. They are pretty. My iPod is pretty. I feel pretty. (I love getting things in the mail.)

3. Mendeley - Mendeley is a free reference manager, basically a cheap alternative to Microsoft EndNote. I've been using it for about two years now, and it's been a godsend. It lets me organize my document files in my own arcane way, so it appeals to my obsessive compulsive tendencies. I can also tag my articles and search for specific content. There's a Web version too, so I can access shared folders wherever I am. It's perfect for when I'm cramming writing for work and/ or school. Nerd up, yo.

4. Charcoal leather flipflops - These flipflops are reasonably priced and extremely comfortable. They make me want to forget shoes altogether. They're also good for my skin, which has been recently revealed to be...er...hyper-sensitive.

5. The Elements of Style by Strunk/ White/ Kalman - The "little book" with Maira Kalman's illustrations is quite lovely. With her drawings, the elegant classic is pleasantly whimsical, but maintains its gloriously self-assured tone. (I wonder now if I bought it to resuscitate my ailing writing skills.)

6. Looper (dir. Rian Johnson) - My friend Joyce and I saw Looper when it opened yesterday. JGL puts in a strong performance. Bruce's badassery is indisputable. I think they could've dropped the prosthetics (although JGL may be too beautiful for the intended grittiness). Science fiction was sound (hm?) - time travel is always a good crowd-pleaser.

7. My running shoes - They are like air.

*Things I Love Thursday is a project started by Gala Darling whose philosophy is to live in the present and focus on the positive things around us.

Making positivi-tea.

You guys. Sometimes, I think about taking down Baguio Below because I barely write here anymore. It's been a good run, but perhaps it's time to move on. Nonetheless, it is early and deathly cold in the mountains, and these conditions make me introspective and compel me to inflict my thoughts on the universe.

I have been making a point to do good things for myself lately.

First, I have been trying to eat better. I'd been thinking about transforming my eating habits for a while, since I'd been steadily gaining weight since I left college in 2006. Many people I haven't seen for a long time often use my weight gain as an icebreaker. One gets used to it, but sometimes I wish I owned a samurai and that laws regarding evisceration were more forgiving. I kid, I kid. Anyway, coming back, I have decided to eat better (not less, as it were). So more vegetables and fruits, and less of the deliciously evil things. But not chocolate. I can't seem to get rid of chocolate.

Also, I lost my long hair and am now wearing a 'do that dates back to my senior year in high school. The change has been invigorating, I like to think I shed a lot of bad energy. There would be a picture, but I am bleary.

Another thing is that I have resolved to read more books that I borrow. Hanna and I regularly have an exchange, and I have a growing pile of just her books. Several of them have been with me for months now. I also have some of Nicole's, many of which have been with me for so long, they are practically mine. My friends have been very kind to loan me their books, so I shall read them. This will also allow me to talk to said friends about said books, and not be a disappointment when they ask how I liked them. (Movies are another story).

Finally, I have also decided to start running again. I've been preparing for it (mostly, mentally), and I feel I have reached the point where I am ready for implementation.

I should go make some tea now. Later.

17

Roger Federer (SUI) def. Andy Murray (GBR) 4-6, 7-5, 6-3, 6-4 (Photo source)

It's been a week since Roger Federer won his 7th Wimbledon title.

On the night of the Final, I was nervous. It had been two years since Federer had won a major, and if he was going to win another, it was likely to happen on his favorite surface. But Andy Murray, his opponent, had a winning head-to-head record against him. He was also the home favorite, the British eager to end an eight-decade drought.

The first set was harrowing, and it certainly appeared that the powers-that-be were giving Murray the nod. But Federer held on for the second, and things evened out. Then 1-1 on serve in the third, Federer leading 40-love, play was suspended due to rain. The match stalled for nearly 30 minutes while officials closed the roof over Centre Court. When play resumed, it was a different Federer that stepped out unto the grass. He moved better and faster, made fewer errors, and kept finding the corners and lines. The crack of the ball connecting with his racquet sounded, somehow, more intent.

I haven't written here in a long time, but I felt I had to for this, because a lot of what this blog was about for a long time was Roger Federer. And this Wimbledon was particularly special. There are the obvious reasons, of course: this tournament is his 17th Grand Slam (he holds the record for most won in the Open Era); it is his 7th win at sw19 (he is now level with Pete Sampras); and he has regained his place as World No. 1 (which is almost like an afterthought).

Then, there are the less obvious reasons.

There are younger, stronger players out there (grunting beasts terrified of approaching the net), and Roger Federer is getting older and slowing down. These other guys have discovered he can be beaten, resulting in some disappointing losses over the last couple of years. He no longer dominates the game the way he did five, or even four, years ago. Now, he's in it with the rest of them, in the melee. Federer has never been more exposed. He is playing as a mortal, without his superpowers, but is still able to win Grand Slams. The man's got style.

Also, he beat Novak Djokovic, arguably the best player in the world today, in the semi-final. That guy gets under my skin, but I'll try to be objective here. Or not. Federer beating that upstart was immensely satisfying.

Few things are more beautiful than Roger Federer at Wimbledon. His game is suited for grass, and this year, he looked especially nimble. The Final was a demonstration of precisely what it means to play on the surface. He engaged net play and used serve-and-volley to great effect. His serve was accurate, and his shots from the baseline were absolutely lethal. The elegant angled backhand for the break to 3-2 in the fourth is the kind of genius Federer fans live for. If this truly is the age of his decline but such sublime tennis is still possible, surely this is the stuff of legend.

I have always felt that the events in my life have resembled the dips and swells in Roger Federer's own journey. It has been a challenging few years, but there have been moments of pure magic. And maybe we are seeing the end of his golden era...but what a magnificent end it is turning out to be.

********
P.S. I have nothing but affection for Andy Murray, and he will have his time.