Two Years

March 2010
Baang Coffee, Tomas Morato

Two years ago, my goal was just to finish the selection process. I had no fantasy of bagging the position, although the sound of being the first home-grown employee to successfully get one of the most critical titles was tempting and enthralling. I was firm to take the application without sitting down, not because I was dying to bring home the bacon but because I was afraid to go home beaten black and blue, even though I was clueless of its consequences.

So I clacked the keyboard mercilessly, wringing my brains for an hour and a half test of creating templates and case study and unleashing presentation and analytical skills during the almost two-hour interview. That was my bloodiest Thursday - speaking eloquently and putting the best foot forward without falter were a deadly combination they almost made me expire from nose bleeding.

Three hours after saying goodbye to the interviewer came the announcement – I emerged victorious. Only then did I realise I just put myself in the prying eyes of everyone, with all my moves being watched, and all my decisions being sized up. At that time, I have known that my life would never be the same again.

My first few months were a series of rising and falling, of learning and unlearning things, of trying to live up to the expectation. When I got the chance to gain knowledge of making things work, I started picking up the pieces together and completing the puzzle. I regained my composure and gave a free rein to brilliant ideas and unwavering commitment, all of these just to meet the expectation.

But expectation is a mountain too high to climb; any missteps would lead you nowhere but to the pits of the earth. From time to time I did slide, but this paved the way for making me become familiar with the word teamwork, dedication, and respect.

Good thing all of the team members have been loyal. In times of disagreement and argument, we try to understand each other, working as one as soon as we find solutions we deem to be fit. In our day to day operations, it has become clearer that there’s a unity in diversity.

Of course it has not always been an easy ride, for ours is a road too difficult and strenuous to travel. But we find ways to manage the exhaustion, sometimes injecting fun to stick to the reality. Haggardness and happiness are what we have to breathe, to feel we are still human in the midst of graphs, analysis and audit compliance. Haggardness and happiness encapsulate my two years of being in the quality team.

Two years after clacking the keyboard to produce templates and case study and making an impression to the interviewer, my goal is now beyond processes.

Should've Been

It should’ve been seven years now, until…

You walked leisurely that afternoon as if you didn’t have anything to do. I knew you had an important engagement because clearly jotted on our shared planner was a red cross on this date. You insisted me on keeping this planner, on always referring to this planner, because between the two of us, it was me who had the tendency to forget.

That’s how you wanted our lives be – simple yet calculated, organised, systematic. Up to know I still could not fathom your definition of these words, for I have been putting up with a world full of complications and uncertainties. Maybe, it’s because I was raised to view the beauty and madness of life through words, while you grew wrestling with it through mathematical equations.

As you drew closer, I understood why you chose to walk at that pace.

I singed my lungs with another stick of Marlboro, unconscious of the blot I created on the red mark on the planner. You passed by the tree we chose to stay whenever we got hold of a time we were deprived of. It was you who picked this tree out of hundreds that queued like a battalion of police during rallies, for, as you mentioned, we had to steer clear of the prying eyes of our bosses who considered what we were doing “underground.”

I knew you remember this tree bore witness to how we put the pieces together to weave our dreams, mixing up letters and dictionary with numbers and calculator. It started with your smile, which encapsulated everything you wanted to crop up. You were a man of a few words; it didn’t take an oratorical piece (which you are good at) to deliver your messages - your eyes spoke louder than your mouth.

After several minutes of looking at the tree, you lighted up the cigarette and proceeded to Vinzons Hill where I was sitting uncomfortably. Shiver started to slither through my system, for it was very seldom that you smoke.

It became clearer to me why your brisk walk, which you were known for (aside from a lot of things) suddenly changed.

You looked tired, even with your new haircut. A week prior to this meeting, you suddenly went mad when I laughed upon seeing your new cut. Carrying your bag full of mathematical/statistical tools I did not recognise, you hauled me at the parlor and made me direct to the hairdresser what your look should be. I never told you that you looked good whatever your hair style is, it was just I preferred you to look like a rockstar with an unkempt hair than a weakling member of a boy band.

You never grew tired of using the pair of shoes that was identical to mine; even it’s obvious it started to look worn out. From the trendy shoes that you wore alternately every day, you settled on using the brown Adidas you saw me wearing during a ManCom. You gave me a brown watch I was salivating after, only to find out it matched with your Timex. Y

our slowness could not be denied, it was as if you were carrying all the angst of the world. The moon started to surface, being chased by Polaris.

Polaris, I could still recall how important it was to us. During my three-month excursion somewhere in Bicol, I was able to maintain my sanity by just looking at the North Star. You said all I needed was to take a peek of the star. I religiously did, without knowing that that was what you did to make your mind intact while I was away.

Finally, you sat beside me still puffing the Marlboro menthol. For the first time, you did not call my attention for burning my lungs to a crisp. The usual sermon on the death by smoking and on helping multinational corporations become richer by smoking unexpectedly broke off, eclipsed by the silence that was more deafening than the chant during the UP Budget Cut rally.

The night was ideal to play hide and seek with our bosses. Nights such as this we usually raced together until we reached our final destination. You touched me, I was ready to run.

Instead you held my hand tightly. You looked straight at me and smiled. It was followed by a tear which launched a thousand Atomic bombs inside me. You did not say a word at all. You just reached for my cheeks, and set off.

My heart was far more devastated than Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I clasped the planner firmly with the red mark on that date already unrecognisable, washed away by gallons of tears oozing out of my tired eyes.

When I regained my composure, I placed the planner to where you sat and watched it reduced into ashes.

History Revisited

11 April 2009
Tomas Morato
Quezon City

In a small secluded site in Makati, 13 maharlikas silently gathered around to make an accord, while the downtown Manila was in its usual fashion of making both ends meet. Under the scorching heat of March, they were firm to their resolve to go along the course of feat. Though vision was still hazy, one thing was sure – they were out to make a difference. Armed with a little knowledge and with a big heart, they started to unleash the limited but extraordinary power they have, under their chain-smoking, yet very able leader.

For these maharlikas, failure was never an option; so they worked their ass off to put the glory to the republic they envisioned. Soon, they realised everything was falling into place, even without their erstwhile leader who chose to leave them.

The tribe increased exponentially, with the addition of four batches of maharlikas who had similar vision and mission in life. Even if differences cropped up from time to time, the entire tribe was able to work on together to continue what was started. The small tribe soon blossomed to make a name out of their idealism, and instantly became the apple of the eye of the gods and goddesses.

As with the other tribe, the budding republic was also stricken by plague – known as PIP – which cut a swathe through half of the population. Instead of being cast down, the maharlikas picked the pieces together and renewed their vows of making a difference. This was the time when the republic was piloted by a pseudo-leader who fancied himself of a rastaman or of Bob Marley, spending more time in the parlor to ensure his dreads were still in perfect shape than in his station cramming for the performance deck.

For several months, since Mr. Rastaman was preoccupied with how to perfect his dreads, there was no eye watching every move of the tribe, so the maharlikas were free to do whatever they wanted. They friendstered and weboggled until their eyes popped out, alternately doing eggroll or answering quizzes which in no way connected to their work. They pictured themselves as cast of That’s Entertainment or stars of Kapamilya. To everyone’s surprise, this paved the way to the creation of sub-tribes and to other line of work.

Like the first leader, Mr. Rastaman also left the group. This did not at all surprise the tribe, as they deserved someone with a sharper brain, stronger guts and bigger balls. Until Mr. Dictator came along.

During this time, most of the original members of the tribe were given bigger responsibilities. Still tightly sticking to the commitment, they worked together to bring a brand new leadership. They were the new breed of leaders the gods and goddesses molded them to. However, they were shocked by the way Mr. Dictator wanted them to be. This difference created hubbub across all sub-tribes, which led to the resignation of the key persons whose love, dedication and sense of ownership for the tribe could hardly rivaled.

But the tribe kept on going, exerting themselves too much effort. They never got tired, because for them, they were doing everything for the love of the republic they put up. Soon, another tribe flowered, courtesy of the all-green performance of the original tribe. Much to the relief of the tribe, the dictator focused on the new tribe as it was totally different from how the original tribe has worked. This gave way to a series of reflection, which brought the tribe back to how it was working without the guidance of any external forces.

The freedom however was short-lived. While the tribe was on track again of reaping green smileys and numbers, an alien from Indiaputra invaded the place who has thought of himself as the knight in shining armor. From the simple structure, he moved the world of the tribe upside down, placing layers of responsibilities to the maharlikas who were already drowned to piles of undertaking.

The maharlikas were all became alipins of the alien out of the blue, the tribe developed into serfdom. The freedom and contentment were taken away from them. Every move was calculated, every output measured based on the paradigm designed by the alien. Rules and regulations were implemented without consulting the maharlikas, breaking them would mean expulsion to the tribe. The land the maharlikas were tilling and toiling turned into barren and arid, with the once all-green smileys and figures becoming bloody red.

Soon, the prolific civilization turned into nothing but a black hole. Population became worn and torn. All of these miscalculations and major lapses were being blamed to maharlikas, whose voices have become unheard of as soon as the alien arrived.

The tribe is currently struggling to go back to where it should have been. But the alien still persists, adamant on insisting on his version of “right thing to do.” Day in day out, more and more maharlikas have rapidly become despondent to where their well-loved tribe is leading to. However, they are resolved to cling to their commitment.

They are out to rip up the root cause that has become the quandary of the growth of the tribe. They know that in the near future, they would regain the freedom they have been fighting for.

With A Smile

05 April 2009
Tomas Morato
Quezon City

Dear Always Smiling,

You greeted us with a smile that was full of hope and verve about a year ago. You flashed it as if it could launch a thousand ships and could materialise every hope we are pining for. Easily, we have gotten carried away, as this was what we were seeking out for two years; a smile that made us to believe would change the fate of our account.

This would be the same smile that would definitely painted on your face on Monday, when you would learn that my dear friend for three momentous, historical years would submit his resignation letter. Your sweet smile cannot disprove the fact that you would be celebrating, no matter how you try to appear as a victim of a crime you have actually committed and pulled off.

You have always tried to act as an innocent, even if your only purpose is to mess up everything that we have painstakingly built out of our idealism on how to run this industry. You’re a master of looking above suspicion, courtesy of your smile that can cover up everything you have in mind.

You have categorically denied us of the fruits of our labour, have never given any importance to roles we have played and mastered for three years. For you, ours is a style that is already passé, our idea already outmoded.

We have never complained about that for the longest time, even though we have known you are playing a dangerous game. We know we are flexible, so we have welcomed all the possibilities you have instilled us to be working, in the guise of Six Sigma and other call centre patois. We have thought you were better than our previous boss, because you were very approachable, and you made us smile. You have pretended to be the hope of this account, in your hands is our future.

We have entertained your notion, and version of leadership, management, call centre, sense of responsibility and ownership. We have tried to emulate you, because you have wanted us to be cloned to how you work.

It is still fresh to me when you said that our team is like a Stalin’s horse. Amid the thick of the agents, you told me in full blast that while we have freedom to roam around, our team’s vision is only one-dimensional or two-dimensional, perhaps to make the blow softer. You said we have a narrow horizon. I have just shrugged my shoulder then, because it was a feedback from our internal client, even if it seemed very subjective.

I can still recall how you looked like the time you have shouted at me when I have tried to reason out in behalf of our team during a meeting to iron the brewing tension out in the account. Rather than listening, you have opted to call for kicking me out of the team, because for you, I am not a good leader for I am very emotional, although I was just trying to salvage and uplift the morale and drive of the quality specialists that were going directly down to drain. You have put the blame on our transfer to our current site, as you believe that the friction has just appeared during the relocation.

Not satisfied with my firm resolution to stay, you have talked to agents to survey if they could replace me as the Quality Supervisor. For you, they are better than the way I perform. You have even informed the client about that during one of the business reviews, in front of my colleagues I have worked with for three years. I have never groused about that.

Most of the time, you have bypassed me, pulling out the Quality Specialists in the middle of performing their primary tasks. You did not hear any complaints from us even if we have always been subjected to escalation, because you were just taking ownership of this account.

When we are able to do something good, to produce something that has a sense, that has a huge impact to the entire account, we have never received any pat on our shoulders. Maybe, you’re just a perfectionist. That’s why, we have never expected any commendations from you, for you have instilled us that our work is mediocre compared to what you have accomplished.

For you, we are doing no good. For you, everything we are doing is but futile.

Thanks to you, our team has become somewhat robotic. We are trying to cover it up in our mantra “for the love of eBay UK,” even if this has only meant for your satisfaction. We have tried to forget everything that has happened, withstand the barrage of nuclear insults and the onslaught of unending criticisms, which are packaged as an objective feedback. But you have never taught us what to do.

Now, the wind has suddenly blown into different direction. You are wearing a totally different shade of smile. We have realised that to you, even the Ops people are doing nothing, even if you see how some of them have tried to turn the world upside down, just to please you, just to make a difference.
You have resorted to lambasting us one by one, lashing your sharp tongue to anyone you have just thought as an expense to the company. Even to my friends, who have stood by you during your darkest moments.

You were smiling when you have given us 30 days to make all queues green. You said it’s a matter of life and death for us. But how about you?

I would like to remind you, it was during your time, when you were directly handling the account, that these queues became not only red but bloody red. Do not try to argue with me, I have a copy of all pertinent data in my PC.I have once blamed my team for this, more so myself, for this was the first time this happened. I have acquitted you of this even if you had a direct hand on the queues, because I have believed you were good, because you could still smile despite everything.

Unlike me who you have hated deep into your bones, my friends have never bothered to answer back to you. They are far more objective, trying to understand every single mistake you have incurred. Instead of giving back something they deserve, you have exploited them, until they have decided one by one to just leave the account they have taken care of for a long time.

I have realised that after all, I am right. You are no saviour.

Now, another great person would leave the company because of you. What tactics you would want to employ against the person? I have heard you are opted to do the dirty tactics, even trying rumor-mongering just to save your ass, just to get what you want.

It’s about time to pack up your bags now, AS. It’s your time to go. Do not be pretentious anymore; we have borne the brunt of your incapacity and we have suffered a lot. If something has gone wrong, you would easily point your fingers to our team, or to others you think are vulnerable and tame. It could not be you, because you are good, because you are the only one who is thinking creatively and innovatively in the team, for the team.

Sorry but we have already discovered your modus operandi. Do not try to cover your ass, because in your entire stay here, we have not seen nor felt any improvements at all. Your promises are empty, you actions very doubtful.

You have to go now and bring your fake smile with you; otherwise, everything would be too late.

Work Stoppage

o5 April 2009
Tomas Morato
Quezon City


Temporarily, I’ve stopped writing. The decision is piercing - I have been craving to weave words for the longest time. It’s like turning back to something that is already within your reach. Or depriving yourself of something you have been hungering after without a break. For a moment, it has caused to break the masochistic surface in me.

But the judgment is a necessity, the verdict final. I can’t go on writing without giving fair dealing to words and metaphors and allegories. It’s all about upholding justice to any prose I am carving; it is a matter of integrity.

While writing for others is just clacking away vowels and consonants from their keyboards, it is a painstaking and scrupulous piece of art to me. Most of the time, it takes me three hours before I put 30 at the end of every article I write, for I would not stop from poring over word over word until they have complied with my taste. It is a vicious cycle of butchering my brain until it has hemorrhaged, tiring my eyes of rummaging around apt words, and going back to base one to check if the article has a sense at all.

Writing is my last resort – to bring me back to reality, to keep me sane. When I’m down in the dumps, I make sure to put everything into paper, without missing a detail, for I believe it is capturing history. It is my own version of photography. It is the thing I am looking after when I am lost (particularly in work), when I am submerged to haggardness, when I am haunted by the spectre of weariness.

I have written numerous articles, but I have settled on bringing them to a standstill as they are not sufficient to raise even a single strand of my hair. They are not up to snuff to exceed my first criteria – the sense of impartiality to all concern. They could be a disgrace to the writing community.

These are the reasons why I hibernate from my pen and paper. These are the very same reasons why PWB – Pseudo-Writer Block – keeps on floating up in my brain. I have no idea when I would start to write again. But since I am in a limbo of being sad and not in my work, I have no choice but to go back to jotting down a piece of crap.

Why Mike Arroyo is not Jesus Christ

There's The Rub
Why Mike Arroyo is not Jesus Christ

By Conrado de Quiros
Philippine Daily Inquirer
02/16/2009

HIS enemies want to kill him by making him appear in the Senate hearing in his fragile state, says Mike Arroyo. (Which makes his enemies out to be patriots in the eyes of the public, but that’s another story.) He says further that having been named in one scam after another doesn’t make him monumentally corrupt, it makes him monumentally persecuted. When his wife took on that tack, a congressman ventured to say that his wife was just like Jesus Christ. Without waiting for another congressman to say the same thing about him, I hasten to write this piece.

Mike Arroyo is not Jesus Christ because:

JC is the Second Person in the Holy Trinity. FG is the First Gentleman in the Unholy Couple. JC’s riches are not of this earth. FG’s riches are out of this world. When JC was born, a bright star shone in the sky, and the Three Wise Men followed it offering gold, frankincense and myrrh to the newborn. When FG was born—or so the rumor goes—the skies dimmed and the Three Wise Men wrapped their gold, frankincense and myrrh in sackcloth and hid it in a deep well.

JC told his disciples, “Leave all your possessions and follow me.” FG tells his countrymen, “Leave all your possessions.” Before JC began his public life, he went to the desert to fast, and there he was offered by the Devil all sorts of temptations, all of which he refused, rebuking the Tempter, “Be gone from me, accursed one.” Before FG began his public life, he went to the Nevada desert to live fast and there was offered by the Devil all sorts of temptations. I for one refuse to believe the canard that he replied, “Ain’t enough.” If Joey de Venecia is to be believed though, FG has his own version of “Be gone from me, accursed one,” which is, “Back off!”

When JC saw the temple invaded by all sorts of merchants and hustlers, he became furious and flailed at them, shouting, “My temple is a house of prayer, but you have made it into a den of thieves!” When FG saw Jun Lozada testifying at the Senate, he became furious and railed at him, shouting, “My temple is—feel free to supply what you think it is—but you have made it into a house of prayer!”

JC said “Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God’s what is God’s.” FG says, “Give unto me what is mine and to Pidal what is Pidal’s.”

JC had by his side to comfort him Mary Magdalene, a woman who might or might not have been retired from the world’s oldest profession but who possessed a heart of gold. FG has by his side Miriam Santiago, a woman still actively engaged in the world’s oldest profession (lawmaking of course, what did you think?) and who possesses a heart that ticks violently like a Geiger counter when it senses gold.

When JC entered Jerusalem, the people lined his path waving palm fronds and shouting joyously, “Hosanna! Hosanna!” Before FG announced he wasn’t attending the hearing, people were lining up his path to the Senate, their shoes untied, preparing to throw them in his direction shouting, “Here’s your welcome kiss, you dog!” JC was betrayed by Judas Iscariot for 30 pieces of silver. FG is protected by Congress for more than 30 pieces of silver, taking into account inflation over the last two thousand and nine years.

When JC was arrested, his best apostle, Peter, denied him three times, saying “I do not know this man.” He was vastly sorry afterward and went on to become a martyr. When FG was accused, his best apostle, JPE, who denied Erap three times when he was arrested, recognized him three times, saying, “I know this man, he is the husband of the woman I once goaded the Erap crowd to sugod sugod” (repeat three times). JPE was never sorry afterward and went on to become richer.

When JC was brought before Pilate, Pilate washed his hands clean, telling the crowd, “You be the judge of this man.” Even before FG was brought before Miriam, Miriam washed her hands clean, telling the crowd, “This man is innocent.” When Pilate asked the Jews to choose whom to save, Barrabas, a known thief, and JC, an innocent man, the crowd chose Barrabas. If a judge ever asks the Filipinos to choose whom to save, Lozada, a penitent man, and FG, use your imagination, the Filipinos will choose, well, they’re not beyond being bought. For nailing down JC to the Cross, the Jews were condemned by heaven to wander the face of the earth. For refusing to nail down FG—and GMA, and before them FM and FVR and Erap—to the Cross, the Filipinos have condemned themselves to wander the face of the earth.

JC was crucified between two thieves. FG will be crucified between two honest men.
Breathing his last on the Cross, JC cried out loud, “Consummatum est, it is done.” Breathing his first outside the Senate, FG laughs out loud, “Ayos na, it is done.” JC died and was buried; on the third day, he rose from the dead and ascended into heaven. FG was taken ill and brought to St. Luke’s; on the third week, he rose from his bed, in which direction he went I leave the reader to divine. JC left the care of his truth to the epistlers, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, making them the bedrock of revelation. FG leaves the care of his truth to Miriam, Joker and Juan, making them the fountainhead of obfuscation.

Though innocent, JC took upon himself all the world’s sins and thereby saved humankind from divine retribution. Proclaiming himself innocent, FG has put all the blame on the world, thereby saving his hide from worldly prosecution—for the time being.

JC was lean and mean, so to speak. FG is not very lean and, well, I leave the De Venecias, father and son, to speak the rest.

Taster's Choice

28 December 2008
Tomas Morato

December brings out nostalgia. We are forced to assess what we have become in the past months and try to see what’s in store for us next year.

In a limbo between being drippy and ecstatic, I’ve pulled my portable DVD out of the closet and started to view one of the most memorable films I’ve ever seen. Amid the explosion and blast, I’ve found myself finishing a movie review of A Matter of Taste.


A Matter of Taste [Une Affaire de Gout]

Not for everyone’s taste but Une Affaire de Gout is an excellent film. Released in 26 April, 2000 under the direction of Bernard Rapp, this movie is unconventional and un-Hollywood. Thanks to Rapp’s experience as a journalist, he shuns away from too much drama and focuses on the lives of the characters in a very straightforward yet descriptive manner.

The story revolves around the friendship of Nicolas Riviere (Jean-Pierre Lorit), a young, good-looking waiter who has an exceptional talent in piano, and who has the most beautiful fingers Frederic Delamont (Bernard Giraudeau), a wealthy, middle-aged businessman and a bon vivant, has ever seen.

Smitten by Nicolas’ charm, Frederic offers a lucrative job Nicolas could not turn down – a personal food taster. Soon, Nicolas finds himself enjoying the job he once thought he won’t get used to. However, the friendship that has arisen between the two of them spirals downward into deceit and obsession neither of them are prepared.

The movie showcases the sensational portrayal of Giraudeau, who sucks up everything whenever he goes on screen. His powerful eyes and the very commanding voice leave his co-actors, and the audience completely mesmerised. Throughout the show, he never fails to stand out, always reminding everyone that he is the star of this show.

The movie is unconventional and bold, breaking in a matter in hand directors eschew in the spirit of money.

The Day Tyra Arrives

06 december, 2008

Tomas Morato

Amid the queues of party girls out to outdo themselves by applying several layers of make up on their faces already abounding in colours, I am battling with the feeling of unease that has started to creep into my synapses in a sporadic manner. Thanks to two cups of coffee and several sticks of Marlboro which keep on pushing me back to the real world, and which pave the way to the feeling of fulfillment and the sense of satisfaction.

Today, December 06, 2008, Tyra has become a dream come true. She is now officially part of the family. Her birth signifies another chapter of my life, which entails a handful of responsibilities.

For so long a time, I had dreamt the impossible dream. Tyra had been so elusive. Time and again, I had dismissed the idea of conceiving her. But the longing had been growing, and lurking in the deepest, darkest pits of my mind was the hope that time would come I would be able to finally feel her warmth.

But the universe is good to me; it conspires in helping me achieve what I want. I know that from time to time challenges would come but I am resolved to the highest level that I would flex all my muscle to ensure that Tyra would always be in good hands. Truly, good things happen to other aspect of your life when the other started to wane, let’s say work.

So from now on, my world would be revolving around Tyra, for my future would be with her. I know each day would become meaningful with Tyra. Don’t mind the work, it’s not worth the concentration; it won’t get any better anyway.

Wag Kang Matakot, Andito lang Kami

Tomas Morato,
18 October 2008

I've been itching to write these past days. My blogs have metamorphosed into vacuum they've already developed into a spectre that have been chasing me every now and then, drilling into my head that I've once again broken my pledge not to miss every opportunity to write.

I always think that my failure to update my blogs is due to a hectic schedule, a very lame alibi as even before I was born, the time is already stuffed in 24 hours. Probably, this only mirrors my ineffectiveness in managing my time and my tasks.

After revisiting some of my friends' blogs, a link steamrolled me into time-capsule. Deprived of strength, I anxiously conceded to the force which was heightened by the backdrop of a bleak Sunday afternoon tainted by the smoke of coffee and cigarette. Here's the article of Kenneth, a friend back in UP days, centered on nostalgia to the highest level.

MINSAN, ERASERHEADS

Napanaginipan ko sila noong nakaraang linggo. Hindi ko alam kung bakit. Sa panaginip, pumasok ako sa isang lumang bahay na gawa sa kahoy. Kulay orange ang ilaw. Nadatnan ko sa unang palapag si Ely Buendia. Sa ikalawa, si Buddy Zabala. Sa panghuling palapag, nakatanguan si Raimund Marasigan. Hindi ko maintindihan – hindi naman ako excited sa papalapit noong konsiyerto nila. Hindi ko naisip na manood. Pero nasa panaginip ko sila – maliban na lamang kay Marcus Adoro, ewan ko kung bakit – na ibig sabihi’y nasa laylayan ng kamalayan ko ang Eraserheads.

Siyempre, napanood at nabasa ko ang hinggil sa mga nangyari sa konsiyerto. Nakita ko sa telebisyon ang fans. Nakakuwentuhan ang mga kakilalang nanood. Parang reunion, sabi ng isa, hindi lang ng banda kundi ng isang henerasyon. May mga trabaho na, ang iba may pamilya na (dalawang kuwento mula sa konsiyerto: ang isang kakilala, si E, kasama ang asawa at mga kaedad na magpipinsan; ang isa pang kakilala, si J, pinambili ng tiket nilang mag-asawa ang perang dapat gagamitin sa bakuna ng anak). Kaya nang bumili ng relatibong mamahaling tiket. Kung dati, nang mga estudyante pa lamang kami, nagkakasya na sa hiraman ng tapes at pagpuslit papasok sa UP Fair, ngayon, kahit papaano, napagbibigyan na ang hilig. Better late than never.

Reunion nga, at wala ako doon. Sayang. Binalikan ko sa mp3 ang musika ng Eraserheads. Mula sa ultraelectromagneticpop! hanggang sa Carbon Stereoxide. Nasa Circus pa lamang ako – pasakay ng MRT tatlong araw na ang nakararaan – nang bumulaga sa akin ang realisasyon: Oo nga pala, fan nga pala ako nila. Kinalimutan ko na. Naalala ko ang isang kaibigan noong 1995, galit na galit siya sa Eraserheads, nakokornihan, at naiinis sa mga freshmen na ang unang tanong sa kanya’y kung saan makikita ang pinakasikat na banda ng UP. Para mapanatili ang pagkakaibigan, hindi na namin pinag-uusapan ang Eraserheads. Mas gusto raw niya ang Yano. Noong tagal, nahumaling kay Cynthia Alexander.

Pero fan nga pala ako. Parang kinimkim na emosyong bumulwak mula sa akin ang realisasyong ito pagdating ko sa kantang Minsan. Nasa masikip na tren ng MRT ako. Naluha ako. At hindi lang dahil tulad ng persona sa kanta, minsan akong tumira sa Kalayaan Residence Hall. Naluha ako dahil naalala ko ang panahong ito, ang pagkabata, ang pagkamulat. Taong 1994-95, sariwang sariwa, mula sa probinsiya. Wide-eyed freshie na tuwang tuwa na nakatuntong ng UP. Mababaw ang kaligayahan. Sangkatutak ang insecurities. Tinatagyawat. Kahit noon, nagtataka na ako sa kantang ito: Para naman yata ambilis tumanda ng mga ito. Nagno-nostalgia trip, para namang dekada na mula nang umalis sila ng pamantasan.

Pero kinausap ako ng kantang ito. At ng iba pa nilang kanta. Wishing Wells, Alapaap, kahit Huling El Bimbo – panay pagbabalik sa nakaraan ng persona. Pinaalala ng mga ito kung paano ako mag-isip noong panahong iyon, kung paano ko dinamdam ang mga kaganapan sa buhay. Naluha ako dahil naramdaman ko ang paglipas ng panahon. Naramdaman kong tumanda na ako, at nagbago na ang pananaw ko sa mundo. Naging seryoso ang mga pinagkakaabalahan: pulitika, pagsusulat, sining, aktibismo. Nakalulungkot na kinailangang kalimutan ko ang payak at simplistikong mundo ng pagkabata para maging pulitikal na tao. Naluha ako sa paglipas ng panahon, sa henerasyon ko at sa trivial, maliit, makitid na mundo nito.

Tinitingnan ko ang mga footage sa TV ng konsiyerto at naisip ko: pareho pa rin ang hitsura nila, parang hindi tumanda. Si Ely lang, pumayat. Siguro dahil sa sakit niya noong nakaraang taon. O dahil siya ang pinakaunang tumanda sa grupo. Sa pagsulat niya ng mga kantang tulad ng Minsan, Huling El Bimbo, Para sa Masa, parang siya ang pinakaunang nakaramdam ng paglipas ng panahon, ng pagbabalik-tanaw sa nakaraan at pag-aakalang mas maganda ang anumang nakaraan kaysa sa kasalukuyan. Masaya ang buhay-banda – epitomiya na siguro ito ng pagkabata. Naalala ko ang isang linya sa pelikula ni Cameron Crowe: sabi ng isang karakter, “Hindi ba pumasok tayo sa banda para iwasan ang responsibilidad?” Nasa banda raw ang karakter para pansamantalang ihinto ang orasan, at manatiling bata – juvenile, nakatira sa mundo ng “Rock n’ roll Neverland.“

Pero si Ely – siya na siguro ang unang kumawala sa Neverland. Siya ang unang kumalas sa banda, habang ang naiwang tatlo sinubukan pang palitan siya ng babaing bokalista pero di nagtagumpay. Nagpalagay ng brace sa ngipin, nagpagupit, nagbihis-burgis (nakita ko sa YouTube ang bidyo na ito na panauhin si Ely sa talk show ni Martin Nievera matapos tumiwalag sa ’Heads). Di nagtagal, nagtatag ng bagong banda (Mongols, saka Pupil), pero di na bumalik sa moda ng ’Heads – tila mas seryoso na ang pagiging musikerong artist, hindi na pinangarap na maging popular o populista (Ikumpara, halimbawa, kay Raimund, na kinakantahan pa ang Betamax hanggang ngayon). Wala nang hihigit pang patunay ng napakaagang pagtanda ni Ely sa tila napaagang pagkakasakit niya sa isang karamdamang madalas na naiuugnay natin sa katandaan – sakit sa puso.

Usap-usapang mauulit daw ang reunion concert. Pero tingin ko, hindi na dapat. Sapat na ang isang gabing nostalgia trip – hindi lamang sa musika ng isang henerasyon, kundi sa naglipas na sensibilidad at angas ng henerasyong ito. Tumitindi na ang krisis. Sobrang mahal na ng mga bilihin sa tindahan ni Aling Nena, laluna sa CASAA. Nagmahal na pati ang isaw sa tapat ng Ilang-Ilang. Nag-abroad na si Shirley (sana hindi siya mapabilang sa mga OFW na bumabalik sa bansa sa kahon). Nagbenta ng katawan sa magasin ang dating crush ni Ely. Hindi lang bugbog — pinapatay pa — ang inaabot ng mga bading na tulad ni Jay. Nasagasaan sa madilim na eskinita yung kamukha ni Paraluman.

Aktibista noon sa UP yung kaibigan kong galit na galit sa Eraserheads. Inisip ko noon, galit siya baka dahil wala siyang maaninag na pulitika sa musika ng banda. Maliban siguro sa pag-anyaya ni Raimund sa kalalakihang estudyante na tumiwalag, sumapi sa NPA at “palayain ang sarili,” at isang pagkakatong tumugtog sila sa isang rali kontra komersiyalisasyon sa UP noong 1996, iwas-pulitika at iwas-aktibismo ang Eraserheads. Sa isang pamantasang pinaniniwalaang may mayamang tradisyon ng aktibismo, hindi nila naiwasang makasalamuha at makaibigan ang mga aktibista (Dalawang ehemplo: si Bomen Guillermo ang pinakaunang kritikong nagpasikat sa banda, nang magsulat si Bomen ng rebyu ng demo tape nila para sa Philippine Collegian; at, noong 1998, naka-housemates ni Buddy sa Teachers’ Village ang ilang lider-estudyanteng aktibista. At, isa pa pala: Nag-opening act sa launch concert ng Cutterpillow ang bandang The Jerks, na sa kabila ng mga “boo” ay nag-alay ng kanta noong gabi para sa Pandaigdigang Araw ng Karapatang Pantao). Pero liban doon, banda lang talaga ang Eraserheads. Bandang masaya, magaling, henyo pa nga. Pero banda lang talaga.

Ganyan din ang sinabi ni John Lennon nang tanungin siya kung ano ang tingin niya sa penomenon ng Beatles ilang taon matapos magkanya-kanya sila: “We were just a band…” Aktibista na noon si John Lennon. Nagmartsa siya kasama ang mga Amerikano para labanan ang giyera sa Vietnam. Nagpahayag siya ng pagpabor sa sosyalismo. Naging anthem ng kilusang kontra-giyera ang mga kanta niya. Tulad ni Ely sa ‘Heads, tila si Lennon din ang pinakaunang tumanda sa – at unang na-outgrow ang – Beatles. Pero siya ang pinakabatang namatay. Sabi ng isang interpretasyon sa pagkahumaling ng assassin niya sa librong Catcher in the Rye, pinatay daw ng assassin si Lennon para manatiling inosente’t bata, parang yung karakter na kapatid ni Holden Caulfield na “catcher in the rye.”

Buhay pa naman si Ely, pero tumatanda na silang apat. At ang musika nila, nagiging instrumento ng gunita, ng pagbabalik-tanaw sa isang henerasyon, isang sensibilidad na naglaho na. Pero may panahon pa, para sa mga pahayag na “banda lang kami noon”, para sa mga martsa, mga pagpabor at pagtutol, pag-awit ng mga anthem, at pamumuhay sa mundo at realidad natin ngayon.