Willow

As soon as I stepped into the apartment, turned on the light, and let the cat out of the pet carrier, I knew I screwed up. 

It scrambled away to safety, away from this stranger who, just minutes before, had been holding it hostage inside a plastic bucket. 

It wasn’t as if I had a choice on the matter. My wife, Diana, who hours earlier spent her entire Sunday perched on a foldable ladder trying to get the scared kitten down from a lemon tree, successfully lured it from the tree with some cat food, and I was waiting to catch the poor little thing with the help of a rag – I’m a dog person, have always been, and I honestly didn’t know how to handle a cat. The rag was a pathetic attempt at trying to protect myself from scratches. 

I managed to grab the kitten soon as it jumped down, and it struggled mightily against my clutches, but I was able to place it inside the relative safety of a plastic bucket, keeping it trapped there with a small aluminum washbasin that served as a makeshift lid. Of course I made sure the “lid” wasn’t snug over the bucket’s opening, to make sure the cat could breathe. 

And then something amazing and strange happened. The bucket started to vibrate. 

Like I said, I’ve always been a dog person. 

That was the first time I experienced a cat purring. 

I read somewhere that cats purr when they are pleased, but I was not so sure in this case. How could the kitten be so pleased being held hostage inside a bucket by a stranger? 

At that point we were at a stalemate. The cat was relatively relaxed, but Diana and I didn’t know how long it would be in that state before deciding it had had enough and tried to violently claw itself out of the bucket and into freedom. 

My wife could at last rest for a while after spending many hours – since early morning of that day – trying to get the poor thing down from the tree. But that would be short-lived, because Diana’s mom – who isn’t exactly a pet lover – was already demanding from us what we planned to do with the kitten. 

I had to think fast. I told Diana I’d stay and watch the kitten, make sure it stayed calm inside the bucket, while she ran to the nearest pet-supplies store – wherever that was – and get a proper cat carrier, along with some kibble and food/water bowls. I’d take the cat home to our apartment at least for the night and then decide on its future after we’d talked about it. 

By the time the Uber had picked up my wife, I had already moved the bucket from the garden to the garage. I was leaning against a wall, with my left arm around the bucket and my right hand loosely holding the aluminum washbasin. I was glued to the spot, unmoving, afraid that the cat would suddenly decide it was done with the current peaceful, purring state and go nuclear. 

But it stayed relaxed for a good half hour or more, until Diana came back from a nearby Walmart – that was the best she could do under the circumstances. It was already late on a Sunday night, and the dedicated pet-supplies stores were already closed, if they at all opened that day. Some small mom-and-pop shops here in Mexico City decide to close shop on Sundays for some family time. 

I gingerly took the cat out of the bucket, without the help of the rag. Thankfully, it was already calm, perhaps sensing that we were there to help and not hurt it. I transferred the kitten to the oversized plastic carrier, which Diana said was the only available one in Walmart, and closed the plastic lid. I taped the lid shut using some packaging tape just to make sure. Diana helped me pack a new food-and-water-bowl combo, some kibble, a small sack of kitty litter, and a litterbox into a canvas shopping bag, and the cat and I were off to the apartment. 

The short Uber trip was fairly uneventful. The cat had already stopped purring; evidently asleep, I thought, after a long day. But then that brain fart: letting it out of the pet carrier, thinking that it would start exploring its new surroundings calmly. Instead, it scampered to the safety of the kitchen, behind the fridge. It took me more than 30 minutes to get him out of there by luring him out with some food. 

I gently put the cat back inside the pet carrier and placed its makeshift “bed” inside the spare bedroom where I keep my clothes and shoes. I closed the door and texted Diana, telling her we arrived safe and sound, and asked what she thought of a name for the kitten. 

“Willow,” she texted back. 

Willow it is.

Ode to the Cat by Pablo Neruda

The animals were imperfect,

long-tailed,

unfortunate in their heads.

Little by little they

put themselves together,

making themselves a landscape,

acquiring spots, grace, flight.

The cat,

only the cat

appeared complete and proud:

he was born completely finished,

walking alone and knowing what he wanted.

Man wants to be fish or fowl,

the snake would like to have wings

the dog is a disoriented lion,

the engineer would like to be a poet,

the fly studies to be a swift,

the poet tries to imitate the fly,

but the cat

only wants to be a cat

and any cat is a cat

from his whiskers to his tail,

from his hopeful vision of a rat

to the real thing,

from the night to his golden eyes.

There is no unity

like him,

the moon and the flower

do not have such context:

he is just one thing

like the sun or the topaz,

and the elastic line of his contours

is firm and subtle like

the line of a ship's prow.

His yellow eyes

have just one

groove

to coin the gold of night time.

Oh little

emperor without a sphere of influence

conqueror without a country,

smallest living-room tiger, nuptial

sultan of the sky,

of the erotic roof-tiles,

the wind of love

in the storm

you claim

when you pass

and place

four delicate feet

on the ground,

smelling,

distrusting

all that is terrestrial,

because everything

is too unclean

for the immaculate foot of the cat.

Oh independent wild beast

of the house

arrogant

vestige of the night,

lazy, gymnastic

and alien,

very deep cat,

secret policeman

of bedrooms,

insignia

of a

disappeared velvet,

surely there is no

enigma

in your manner,

perhaps you are not a mystery,

everyone knows of you

and you belong

to the least mysterious inhabitant,

perhaps everyone believes it,

everyone believes himself the owner,

proprietor,

uncle

of a cat,

companion,

colleague,

disciple

or friend

of his cat.

Not me.

I do not subscribe.

I do not know the cat.

I know it all, life and its archipelago,

the sea and the incalculable city,

botany,

the gyneceum and its frenzies,

the plus and the minus of mathematics,

the volcanic frauds of the world,

the unreal shell of the crocodile,

the unknown kindness of the fireman,

the blue atavism of the priest,

but I cannot decipher a cat.

My reason slips on his indifference,

his eyes have golden numbers.

Grow Up, Get Paid

I swiped this image off someone else's post on Facebook.

The gist: most of the time we can't really make money off our passions.

I used to write fiction when I was a kid. It started in sixth grade, all the way through high school, and sporadically in college. I even joined the Palanca Awards once, submitted a short story. But I knew early on that I couldn't make money writing fiction. After dabbling for a couple of years as a journalist -- which, at the very least, paid more than fiction but still not much -- I "sold out" and became a copywriter.

Almost 20 years later I'm still "selling out." But at least I'm still writing for a living. At least I can actually earn a living doing my thing.

I still love fiction, although now I enjoy it by reading stories, not by writing them. Who knows? Maybe I'll start writing short stories again -- just for fun. Maybe I can even post them in this blog.

Sometimes you discover that what you really want to be when you grow up is get paid.

Missing Family

It's been five days since I got back to Mexico City from a three-week stay in Minneapolis to visit my sister and her family.

I have to say I already miss the talks and walks I had with my sister, playing with my two nephews, and the drinking sessions with my brother-in-law.

But such is life. We all need to go back to the place we call home -- wherever that place is.

It's been a little less than seven years since I made the big decision to depart the Philippines for good and live with my wife (then my girlfriend) here in Mexico City. It's been great -- don't get me wrong. Mexicans are warm and friendly (like Filipinos), Mexico is a beautiful country, and it has been fun (okay -- sometimes painful) learning Spanish.  

Living here in North America, however, makes it difficult to visit the Philippines regularly -- the biggest problem, obviously, is the expensive plane tickets. And it hasn't helped that this so-called revenge travel has jacked up the price of flights. 

Which is why I'm thankful that my sister and her family live relatively close to me. Needless to say, visiting them in the United States is a lot easier and cheaper than going home to the Philippines. Still, I wish I could visit them more often, but then I don't have a bottomless pocket, and I can't stay away from work all the time.

As my sister wrote in a caption to a Facebook post where she uploaded a photo of the two of us outside their home in Minneapolis, a picture beautifully snapped by my talented seven-year-old nephew who also has a knack for origami and illustration:

Goodbyes are hard.

The Philippines Has Always Normalized Stealing

Katong officer sa NAIA nga nangawat og 300 dollars sa isa ka foreigner, unya gilamoy ang kwarta para dili masakpan -- that incident brings me back to a conversation I had with classmates back in my elementary days.

Nagstorya mi sa akong mga classmate unsa among ganahan kuhaon nga kurso inig college. Kadaghanan nitubag og Customs Administration, para makapangawat -- para madato. Seriously, dili ni binuang.

Kasagaran man gud kay naa sila'y kaila (pamilya, parente) nga taga Customs -- nga nangurakot, nangawat, unya nadato. What's troubling about all this is that every one of them answered like it's normal to steal, that to aspire to go into Customs means -- yes -- you MUST steal. If you don't, you're a fish out of water.

Mike Ehrmantraut, the bent cop turned "cleaner" and hitman in Breaking Bad and Better Call Saul, lost his son Matty, an honest cop -- who, ironically, idolized his father -- because the kid didn't want to take dirty money. When Matty was being offered a cut by his corrupt colleagues, he asked his dad for advice. Mike told his son that if he declined the money, that if he took a moral stand, he might be seen as a liability -- after all, the entire precinct where both father and son worked was 100% corrupt. Matty took the money against his better judgment, but it was too late. Just the hint of reluctance on his part was enough for his fellow cops to worry about him becoming a whistleblower, and he was ambushed and killed.

Real talk: na-normalize na sa Pilipinas nga kung pwede ka mangawat, and you can get away with it, then go ahead. If you're in a position to steal and you don't, there's something wrong with you.

That fictional police precinct in Philadelphia where the Ehrmantrauts worked is a microcosm of the Philippines. Kung dili ka kawatan, ikaw ang abnormal.

An Unpopular Opinion

 

Here's an unpopular opinion, but I don't give a fuck anyway.

The incident between Vice Ganda and his husband wasn't the problem. The MTRCB, even if it's useless and biased, isn't even the problem. The biggest problem we have -- and not just in the Philippines but worldwide -- are these fucking evangelical Christian churches that are a wellspring of hate and far-right rhetoric.

They're anti-diversity, anti-vaccines, anti-science, and basically anti-reason. They are anti-reproductive health, anti-immigrants, and anti-women. They're pro-guns, pro-violence, and pro-hate.

In a nutshell? These churches are purportedly following and preaching Jesus' teachings, but are actually blatantly flouting them with their anti-Christian beliefs.

So This Is Narcisissm: A Micro Rant

A loved one has told me several times that I might be bordering on being narcissistic, owing to the fact that whenever she asks me a question on any topic, after giving her an answer I always circle back to me -- my experiences, to be exact.

I told her that that's the only way I can make sense of my answer, or think clearly, for that matter -- basing it on my own experience. I'm pretty confident that I'm not narcissistic; I just believe that there's wisdom to be gleaned from the personal. 

Which is why I've always been drawn to writers of the personal essay, the memoir, epistolary novels in the form of journals, and to fictionists who write in the first person.

That's why I'm drawn to blogging.

So this is narcissism?

So be it.