Month: April 2012

The Squatters Mentality

Demolition. Scarborough. Demolition. Scarborough. Demolition. Scarborough. These continue to flood the news and both have something in common. I realized that the slums is a microcosm of the ongoing conflict that is happening between us and our neighboring countries who claim that they too own Scarborough Shoal and the Spratlys Island. This local and international news mixed up has been so strong that I think that there are things from the steadfast squatters that every country uses too to strengthen their own claim of the disputed Islands in the South China Sea:

1. Our parents said it’s ours, so it’s ours. (According to web references, the Chinese believe that these islands are theirs since 200 BC.)

2. We were born here, so it’s ours.

3. We’ve already built a house here, so it’s ours. (Several claimants have built their own structure in Spratlys.)

4. No relocation, no deal. (Personal appeal: please relocate me to the West before you guys resort to #5.)

5. Mess us and we’ll mess with you. (This can get ugly…or stinky at the very least. Let’s avoid this at all cost.)

***

Mood: 3/10 Honks! (Hot Monday morning but wifey and Marcus don’t seem to care—they’re still in bed.)

Henry Hates Joyce

I think I shall never see

A sad poem about a parking lot made by Mr. Sy.

A parking lot whose chilly basement is pressed

Against Baguio’s once abundant pine tree crest.

A parking lot that looks at the mall all day;

And waits for cars of shoppers who pay.

A parking lot that covers people in Summer wear;

A nest of evicted bird species in its lair.

Upon its concrete levels Baguio’s cold has lain;

Insensitive of the dead forest’s pain.

Poems are made by fools like me

But only greedy men can uproot hundreds of pine tree.

***

Credit: Poem derived from ‘Trees’ by Joyce Kilmer.

Photo derived from http://www.freephotosbank.com

***

Mood: 1/10 Honks! (Monday and WE are home.)

Easter Bani

Trying to collect himself and checking his location, Bani feels the unmistakable warmth of the bed. It’s still dark but he knows very well that he just woke up neither from a leather-clad, double deck bed nor from a Lazy Boy, both of which where he has perfected 5-minute naps in almost a year; more so in the recent weeks when his sleeping pattern has been abnormal. Well, more than just his sleeping pattern, actually.

Few minutes more of staring blankly at the Discovery program on the wall- mounted TV, he fumbles for his phone, placed alongside the TV’s and air conditioner’s remote control, and an empty liquor glass. “It’s 5 AM,” Bani silently reads from the blinding glare of his Nokia.

Bani soon realized that the cheap gin from his Black Saturday night cap has dried up where it spilled just barely a foot away from where his little boy, Raffy, lies. Just like last week, he has decided to return home from a planned sleepover with the family Bani has jokingly called ‘The Wilsons,’ Raffy being Dennis the Menace.

“Once again, he wants back,” the puzzled ‘Mrs. Wilson’ who lives just a couple of houses away, tells of Raffy who used to enjoy spending the night with them.

An hour more and Raffy remains static, his left thumb in his mouth, eyes partially shut. “His eyes look a lot like you,” he remembers the usual line his wife would tell him, referring to the partially opened eyes. Friends have told him it also means that he distrust people. Bani would agree.