You want to know the truth? You can't handle the truth.

The law is not about the truth.  The law provides equal rights and opportunities fo all men and women.  The law is there to put order in the distribution of resources and that all may have access to them.  The law is blind.  It is blind to the power hungry and the agenda-propelled.  It aims to treat each individual, party, sector, or community with fairness and seeks to uphold their dignity in the non-partisan, non-sectarian, unbiased enforcement  of its pangs.

Truth is a property of agents making prounouncements about what's real.  Truth is saying what is that it is--that my proposition is supported by evidence acquired from an experience of reality.  The operative word being "an"--"an experience of reality."

There is no one way to experience reality.  Each is condemned by his/her own limited finite sphere--a glass cage of biases from which he/she sees and relates with reality.  Hence, it is a naivete to  speak of truth as being "out there" because we contain and control the truth in our mouths.  The truth will always be based on our subjective thrown-ness upheld by objective reality.

The truth then, is no solid fact.  Truth is facts based on our subjective agenda galvanized by evidence from reality.  Therefore, we can not  talk about one absolute  truth in the ongoing impeachment proceedings.  Worse, we can never know the truth in GMA's case.  Both camps are standing firm on their biases and no one is listening to the other's presentation.  Each has a version of what they want reality to be.  Neither the administration nor the pro-impeachment team is leading us to the truth.  Either they are being evasive or being purposely bent on highlighting the miniscule.  Go attend or watch the committee hearings and live congress sessions.  You'll see!  Listen to  the news, read the papers... what chaos!

People are saying that the law is preventing us from seeing the truth.  But that is the law!  It was written to safeguard the nation from a non-stop battery of impeachment cases filed which will ultimately stun the effective delivery of work.  If you want the amended impeachment complaint which is really, honestly, an altogether different complaint (because of the other cases attached which are totally different and divergent from the original one filed and endorsed), go wait a year. Follow the procedures.  Let us settle the first complaint first which is really what this ruckus is about.  Let us follow what is written on the law and amend it if we deem it incapacitated!

The point(s) being the following:
1.  Our chronic crisis in politics is brought about by a crisis in our morals.  No one stands for integrity, honesty, and dignity while ironically mouthing truth as their value.  Each is driven by lust for power under the guise of truth (and the holy!).

2.  The law is confused as a fact-finder when it is only about equality and equity, about fairness and justice.  Let us not burden the law with our systems of morality and self-interests.

3.  Truth is not out there.  We create truth galvanized by the really real.  The present crisis is not about finding out what's true.  We don't go out on a limb just to state the obvious because that way we are faced with another question, that is, "what for?"  We die for the truth because justice demands it.  This fight is for justice so that we may gain the dignity we truly deserve!

4.  Want to know the truth?  We're raising the wrong banner.  We are shouting the wrong chants.  It's about justice, your honors.  Repackage your complaints.

We were being a cutesy-tootsie couple, playing with our poorly-mixed coffee jelly lite at Starbucks.  Chit-chatting about life, politics, future plans.  Lambasting co-loiterers.  Doing nothing on a lazy day.  Waiting for night to fade.

Prying around, we saw a friend-couple scrounging for vacant seats in an incredibly packed substandard Starbucks.  Like good McDonald's share-a-seat-win-a-friend sukis (or is that Jollibee? Tropical Hut?), we invited them over to join us. 

As expected, they declined and said they were leaving anyway.  More pleasantries were exchanged and more uncomfortable arm-twisting, pulling and insisting-that-they-join-us were offered.  We quit the chase and instead asked them what they were there for.

"Timezone," they said in unison.  Embarassed.  Apologetic.

"We were only for the tickets; a toy will content us." They added defensively.  Then the nervous laughter followed.  And then silence.

My fiancee and myself have been doing all sorts of silly things for more than a year now.  We've gone from dressing up on a not-so-special-day eating dinner in a first class restaurant to dressing down as jologs as can be risking hepatitis just to feast on two peso sticks of chicken and/or pork innards.  We've shopped big time both for couture and 168 kultur.  Beach, zoo, park, hotel, movies, musicales, plays, concerts, prayer meetings even!

We share things.  We now have the look.  The secret eye-conversations.  The private jokes.  We can now communicate in incomplete sentences and still comprehend what the other is saying.  We laugh.  We know.  No one knows but us.  No one else can fully understand but us.

Silly things we share.  Love.  No apologies needed for all the intimate craziness lovers do.  Like complaining about substandard coffee jelly lites yet ordering the same frapuccino every visit from the same substandard Starbucks franchise.  It's not really the drink that matters;  it's the time spent together complaining, lambasting, teasing, joking, planning, playing, loving that does it.

So go ahead, waste money in Timezone.  Be a kid with your beloved.  No apologies needed.

As a child, I'm always fascinated by what story the two wipers on the car windshield has.

The right wiper reliably sweeps the windshielf off water.  It stops halfway and returns to ground zero not allowing any drop of water to rest on its area.

The left wiper likewise tries to fulfill its task.  It cleans its side and at midpoint, it looks back and sees what mess the right wiper is leaving on his domain.  It goes back down, wipes off the water, pardons the right wiper's impudence, and carries on with its job.  At midpoint, it looks right back and sees that the right wiper has done it again.  And again.  And again.  And again.

Left wiper can't complete a full half-circle because Right wiper doesn't complete his.

Meanwhile, the driver doesn't notice the pathos of the wipers as he focusses too keenly on the road.  Two wipers, one driver.  One road made visible by two wipers who cannot complete its full half-circle because Right Wiper sweeps the windshield off water, leaves his tracks onto Left Wiper's domain.  Left wiper sweeps his area, sees Right wiper's impudence, goes back down to clean it up for him, pardons his buddy and carries on with his job.  This happens over and over and over and over again while the driver doesn't notice the horrific story of the two wipers cleaning the windshield for him.

Only the child notices the tragedy of life and still is fascinated by it.

I don't write my essays directly onto the computer.  I write them down first on a sheet of paper, edit it, and later encode it.

I can't think in front of the computer.  My brain just switches into dumb mode automatically.  I am not able to articulate my thoughts and feelings well.  I can't be as critical.

I was able to complete my thesis using the write-and-type method.  It's easier for me that way.  My hand can catch up on my train of thought unlike typing them straight on.  I guess, I am not equipped for multi-tasking.  You know, thinking and at the same time feeling my way through the keyboard.  I'm an old fart in a fast paced modern society.

Someone told me once that I'm a closet conservative.  I may be the Mr. Multicultural man but when it comes to revolutionary steps to address particular issues, I take it slow and lean towards the retention of the status quo.  He may be right.  Maybe not.  Maybe I just know what values I would keep and what battles I should fight, and when.

To each his own.  Writing works for me.  Notebooks for them.  Fighting is their way.  I say nay.  So long as we know why we do things and that we are able to deliver, why not?

I guess, I can still keep my title: I'm the Mr. Multicultural man.

Cathy treats me like a king.  She bakes me apple pies and blends me red grape shakes.  She prepares me dinner (mind you, not just an ordinary dinner she prepares, it's gourmet food with matching table set up!)  She drives for me.  She brings me to school.  She waits for me till I am done with work and then listens and laughs to my old tired jokes.  She does so many things one may probably find rudimentary; not so with my Cathy!

One time we indulged ourselves with a massage therapy at the Garden Spa.  F! recommended that place and because it's just around the corner plus it's super budget friendly, we decided to give it a go.

I'm not into spas and massages.  The only time I've ever been near one was when I joined a friend use up his coupons at the Spa, Libis.  That was when I lost my virginity to such vanity.  A woman touched my body: sliding her hands, rubbing the skin, pressing my tenderness.  With warm ambient music and aromatherapy oils, it's well worth it!

It was a different story at the Garden Spa.  I ended up with sore muscles and loose joints.  It was like surviving a frat war.  Damn, it's the revenge of the amazon women out there!  Cathy felt bad she dragged me there for a massage.  Although not her fault, she took the blame and never again invited me for another bout even if she wanted to have another one.

Until this note on my birthday,

attached to a gift certificate to The Spa.

Today, she once again treated me like a King, now with her ladies-in-waiting giving me an excellent rub down at the Spa.  (The queen likewise had her share of pampering in the adjoining room.)

While lying face down getting the aromatherapy, all I can think of is this girl who loves me so much.  I thank God for her.  I'm so happy I'm marrying this girl.

Sean.

How did you know I'd be here?

I didn't. I just hoped.

Can anything get cheesier than this?  Sappy.

Cheese Ring and Nestle Low Fat Milk for me are the best match.  (Actually, it's more Cheetos and milk!)  Cheese ring gives you that balanced sweet/salty flavor, that unhealthy dirty feeling, those pasted orange crumbs on your fingertips which makes you wanna suck 'em clean. Low Fat Milk, on the other hand, provides the contrast.  Aside from giving the illusion that you're eating something healthy, it melts the rings away together with all the flavor which leaves you dry and makes you wanna have more.

It's been awhile since I last munched on junk food while lying in bed, watching TV in my room, aircon on (the three being necessary conditions to enjoy the junk food).  For one, I try not to eat in bed to avoid breeding insects in my room.  Two, I abstain from junk food because they are precisely what their name suggests: junk!  They've no nutritional value.  Or have they?

I believe I saw 2 grams of protein in a 120 calorie bag of Cheese Rings.  Hmm... not bad!  Pays to look at the nutritional facts at the back side of the bag.  The idea of 2 teeny grams of protein gave me the much needed rationale to finish the entire serving.  Am I fooling myself or am i fooling myself?

Cheesy lines, just like junk food, fills you up but does not have any significant value.   You don't need 'em, but they pump you up.  They offer nothing substantial but they transport you to high heavens.  They give you that "aww moment," that yummy feeling in the heart--makes one feel flattered, elated--but a few minutes later, is (kapow!) forgotten.

Yet, like the 2 grams of protein in a serving of Cheese Ring, the idea behind sweet nothings remains absorbed in the sanctuary of the sacred self, never to be touched, never to be forgotten, never to be lost.  It will always be there as something.

Rubbish then? Not quite.

A certain Philosophy teacher has the habit of telling his kumpadres on his godchild's baptism, "mamamatay din ito!" [this too shall die!] while holding the poor baby in his arms.  He is celibate.

A colleague warned me that the mortality rate of couples tying the knot with less than two years of being steady together is high.  He told me this a few days after my euphoric engagement.  He is a divorcee.

The things they say are true.  They mean well.  There are things however better left unsaid.

This is the customary question we ask each other when we meet along the corridor, when we write letters, or when we answer the phone.  Do we really mean it?

We usually reply with "good", "okay", "great", "fine", and/or "nice"(?).  On with our busy day, on with work.  End of story.  Fin.

To ask how one is doing basically signifies an acknowledgment of the presence of the other. It does not really mean let's-sit-down-and-talk-about-life-and-the-world-and-religion-and-politics-and-the-9/11-attacks-and-Charlie-and-the-chocolate-factory-and-what-have-you.  It's just like a quick nod, a short smile, or a wink.  It's a short greeting which for acquaintances mean that they still bother about you and that you still exist in their phonebooks.  Nothing more, nothing less.

To ask how one REALLY is doing is asked only by friends, family, and intimates.  To ask that question and to not belong in one of the categories above is a sign of intrusion, a gross violation of one's ego boundaries.  It's utter disdain!  No one has the right to probe into your private life and poke the intimate person in you unless invited.

Learn therefore, that a kamusta question ends with good, okay, great, fine and/or nice(?). No obtrusive ogling, no nosy leering, no i-know-something-you-must-tell-me staring.  Otherwise, you're pushing your luck!  You're assuming intimacy!

So...

know your place, we're not yet close.

I'm not into blogging.

Yeah okay, I admit, once, I kept a journal of my thoughts and reflections.  Did this till a year or two ago. It's more of a record of my spiritual journey which i have to do for my counseling and spiritual direction.

Well okay, I also kept a philosophical journal once where I wrote all my philosophical ruminations.  Fr. Ferriols suggested me this.  It's supposed to clarify my thoughts, to practice my english (since almost all of my classes back then were in Filipino and I'm already losing grasp of english.  I was almost better in french then than english which is really nothing to be proud about!)

Okay, I confess.  I did keep a diary once in my life because it served as a vehicle for me to practice my writing skill.  Entries included poems, essays, checklists of things to do, new year's resolution, dreams, and anything i feel like writing about.

It's from highschool where I got this training.  I enrolled in a creative writing class and our teacher would check for entries every week for style and content.  I believe I used up two or three small cattleya notebooks for these.  I remember using yellow.  No rationale for the choice of color.  It's just that we were told to have a separate notebook for our essays, that it should be always with us, like right by our bedside, so we can write first thing in the morning (or was this a remark from my college psych teacher who advised us to write our dreams immediately upon waking?  So... okay, I kept another journal--a dream journal!)  Anyway, I hit it big in my creative writing class.

I'm not into blogging but lately, I found myself reading other people's online journals and caught myself being amused by them.  There are crappy ones; there are honest ones; there are literary-geniuses waiting to be discovered!  My idols in writing are Dave Eggers and Nick Hornby.  (They are not bloggers.  They are novelists.  Oblige me, I just want to mention their names.) They write as if they have ADHD, not completing their thoughts without interruption.  They write while deconstructing themselves.  If my creative writing teacher sees their style, they sure will get a hefty scolding with lots of red marks for their adventurism in writing.  And boy, there are quite a number of  Eggers and Hornbys in the blog house!

What the heck!  That's precisely what's good about blogging.  It's a no holds barred world: no rigid watchdogs who play by grammatical rules, syntax, S-TV-IO-DO sentence patterns and Strunk and Whitean techniques. It's Marshall McLuhan who said that the medium itself is the message.  The medium is the internet and the message is pretty clear, people want to be heard however insubstantial or irrational their thoughts may be, in whatever form and language they wish to speak by.

Worlds collide while the universe expands, and the marginalized majority is weighed down by the noise of the few.  The silent reality whispers its truth in the unpublished URLs and hidden links of online writers.  Underground is an ineffable wealth of joys and pains dying to be discovered, understood, and appreciated.

Random quotes from Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything is Illuminated:

.

"What is being awake if not interpreting our dreams, or dreaming if not interpreting our wake?"

"We must go backward in order to go forward... but don't take too long, or I'll forget."

"It's dusk in this dream that I have every night, and I'm making love to my wife, my real wife, I mean, to whom I've been married for thirty years, and you all know how I love her, I love her so much."

"We burned with love for ourselves, all os us starters of the fire we suffered--our love was the affliction for which only our love was the cure."

.

This book is a must read!  I know I'm doing him injustice by isolating these lines from their context.  Get a copy.  Now!

P.S.  Cathy, I'm almost halfway.  I'll lend it to you asap.

A question by a confused student left me similarly bothered, "If hospitals are for sick people, why aren't schools accepting kids who don't have the brains but are teeming with the desire to learn?"  On the one hand, the question seems to overlook the fact that hospitals likewise discriminate.  They discriminate against those who cannot pay. But this is not discrimination discrimination.  It's not like they choose their patients based on their financial status.  They simply need to collect for their operating costs.  They admit people who can pay for their services.  If one cannot afford their world-class/first class (what's the diff anyway between the two?) services then just content yourself with your friendly neighborhood health centers.  So too are schools.  They have standards which are to be met otherwise, the students cannot cope with the demands of school work.  Desire to learn alone cannot last the student in school.  He will eventually be beaten out of the highly competitive environment in the school.

On the other hand, isn't it the role of teachers to harness the student's potential and direct it to fruitful ends?  So, it is imperative that a school accepts a student first not depending on what the applicant already knows but by his desire to learn.  The intelligence quotient will soon follow.  It is precisely what schools are for--to develop individuals who are so passionate about learning even if their grades belie this yearning.  At bar here is the role of grades in assessing a student's drive for learning and his competencies.

Last weekend was a weekend of reality-check.  It's the Ateneo College Entrance Test once again where thousands of aspiring Ateneans dry their brain cells to death solving math problems, interpreting abstract figure patterns, and comprehending english words and essays.  The sheer number of aspirants is an overwhelming sight--these amounts to the number of kids who dream of getting one of the best educational formation in the country.  The number also is an evidence of the undying fervor for quality education.  It is a stamp of the youth's hope for a (yeah, yeah!) better future.

This balloon bursts so soon at the start of the exams.  Simple instructions such as passing papers forward and back cannot be followed.  Writing of names are missed out.  Shading of appropriate circles cannot be carried out properly.  Applicants don't even know where to find their Ateneo Application Number even if they were being told where it's placed!  If one doesn't shade his name, if one doesn't identify whose answer sheet one's is, then how can Ateneo record the test.  To whom shall they credit the accomplished test to?

We have standards and rightly so, they are there to sift out the weaklings from the beefy ones.  The ACET is the first test to face if one feels he has the heart to last four years.  After all, college is so unlike high school, one has to fend for himself--to learn to learn by himself, to trash old values and to shape new ones.  How can aspirants learn new things if they are already too absorbed in their own world?  It is not only Ateneo which they don't deserve, education in general is not for them!

I spotted a number of applicants who should own a spot in the Ateneo.  They are those from Payatas High School and a host of other public schools.  I saw in their eyes the true longing for quality education, and later, a quality life.  Every answer they made was a risk (for) their future.  The mere fact that they tried is enough reason to believe that they are ready for college life.  The only question now is that, were they equipped well for the job?  I pray they were because Ateneo sure has a seat ready for them!

Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam.

The jet safely landed at LAX.  A few minutes later came the passengers out walking down the tarmac.  CNN was covering this live.  I was glued to the screen.  Later, a man stepped out of the plane, walked down the stairs, talking on the phone to someone.  Maybe assuring the other he's okay.  That everything's all right now.  That he's safe.  That he's alive.  That things will push through as planned.  That life will carry on (yet will never be the same again.)

Tears began to well up in my eyes.  I felt the fear and the panic and the momentary relief from despair his loved one is feeling.

Two hours, the plane circled the airport to expend gas.  For two hours, the passengers must be feeling nauseous from anxiety.  For two hours, their loved ones must be seeing the same flashbacks of times spent together, of hard times and good vibes, the passengers are seeing.  Until, the plane landed.  Frighteningly, safely.

What if I were on that plane?  What if my fiancee is on that plane?  What would I do?  What can I do?  The emotional distress, the sadness, the eager anticipation of what's next, hope, despair.

Cathy is leaving in two weeks.  She'll be away for six months.  I'll be alone for a long time.  It's sad to be left behind.

The feeling of emptiness is inching in slowly day by day.  These are the last days of time together.  We watched "A Perfect Catch" last night.  I know something's wrong when tears started dashing to flow out my eyes upon seeing the character of Drew Barrymore running in the field to stop Ben (Jimmy Fallon) from selling his priced Red Sox tickets.  They were a few millimeters from falling.  I managed to hold it up.

We ate at the Cantina and while we're both singing to MYMP's "Especially for You," tears again began to build up.  I stood to get salsa to prevent them from making a sissy out of me.

We walked back to Ateneo, I wanted to leave soon to have my alone time and pacify myself.  But she wished to stay.  Good that the tears rolled back up as we started making fun of the script I had to deliver in Friday's forum.

Until today. It's not supposed to happen.  I was on the videoke when reality bit me. In two weeks time, I'll be singing alone for six months.  Suddenly, I cried like a baby.  Nothing will be lost, but things will definitely be different.

I was transported back in front of the TV wishing that the plane may land in safe.  I'm hoping Cathy is not there but that is her flight number.  Will she be all right?  Will I be able to cope with the thought of losing her?

And so I sang gleaming with hope, "and if dreams were wings, you know I would have flown to you. to be where you are, no matter how far.  and now that I'm next to you... no more dreaming about tomorrow, forget the loneliness and the sorrow, I've got to say it's all because of you..." 

I cried when I hit the word, "together".  I realized we won't be together for a long time and I sure will miss her.  I want us to be together.  Forever Cathy, right?

God, bring her home.  Bring her home.

It was a case of bad service.  Discourteous waiters who'd consciously snub you and avoid your eye.  The bill running after you only when you've faked walking out and not shouldering the bill.  If not only for U- Turn who sang our love through the song "It's You," we would've not even considered staying in that awful place dubbed Tapika.

We stayed on for three hours drinking our extra sour frozen margharitas and munching on nacho (taquitos?) chips while waiting for a table upstairs.  We were only two. It's not that hard to accomodate two bodies!  They can cram us in any small space.  But because it's only the two of us, that small space can be given to a group of four or five which will earn them more bucks than just a couple who are trying to be grossly romantic, one cold night, in a shabby bar.  Shame on these people!

This world has lost its soul to numbers, statistics, profit.  The best pupil is the one who's able to sell the most number of raffle tickets for the PTA.  The most beautiful x (let x be a song, a person, a program, and the like) is the one who got the most number of text votes however unworthy he/she/they may be.  We decide to do something because most want it.  The table was served to four newbies instead of us who had waited for too long.

Students ask me if the truth is decided upon by the majority.  I always answer in the negative because the truth is the truth even if Being has manifested to only a handful.  This should be the case.  Ideally.  But we live in a world too tired to think, too easily-swayed by the bandwagon, by money, pressured by the mammoth crowd.

And so I wonder, have we lost ourselves to numbers?  Is romance (idealism) truly dead?

In Tapika, they don't care if you're there to enjoy U-Turn's music or to seal a covenant with your soon-to-be bride.  What's important is that you buy drinks and food and look like you'll give them good tip, otherwise, go sit downstairs!  Be Mr. Romance in a smoky room with people who have yielded to the humdrum life.

Plugged into: U Turn By Request

meetjopeblack

If you have one shot left on your cam, who would you spend it to and why?

If I were in that predicament, I'll spend it quick on anyone or anything, then rush to the nearest photo shop and buy another roll of film.  I have 13 days left; must capture every moment with her.

But then again, this is the digital age.  I don't need no rolls of film.  I have a memory card and memories of her will be stored there safely.  They will not fade.   Will always be in the present.

Forever is being fully present.  It is the sustained yes to the yes to the finitude of human infinitude.   Forever is the retrieval and the re-retrieval of what is being buried.  It is the constant pouring and emptying of the new and the old, preserving the eternal word, the promise.

Still following McLuhan's thought, "the medium is the message," Pinoy Big Brother is a hit among pinoys because it is very Filipino.   What is very pinoy?  Not only the housemates who exhibit Filipino qualities such as pagtatampo (loosely translated as throwing a fit), pagdaramdam (being sensitive), conservativism, pakikisama (adapting), and hospitality.  What is very Filipino is the whole Pinoy Big Brother experience which glosses the pinoys' unique trait of seeing the other not as an other but as family, a close extension of the self.  Thus, viewers talk about PBB housemates as if they are their kin.  The pinoy audience cry with them, laugh with them, dance with them to the PBB theme, get excited as the contestants do their weekly tasks. 

"Grabe talaga tong si Raquel..."

"Kawawa naman si Say."

"Ano na kaya ang nangyari kay Jenny?"

They religiously follow the goings-on in the PBB house and the evicted housemates as if it is their own home, as if they have a stake in the housemates' lives.  And mind you, they really get affected!  The tsismosa (rumor-monger) in each viewer comes into being not for rumors per se but as a manifestation of how overly concerned the Filipino is about their new friends/family.  The boundaries that separate the self from the other is even blurred to a fault especially when it comes to voting who should be evicted from the house.

And so I had Sky cable install the 24/7 PBB box today.  I was waiting for this since Saturday.  This is one of the last things Cathy and I will share.

Was waiting for it the whole morning till a call from dad came in.  I had to pick him up from somewhere.  I hurriedly drove away only to see a Sky cable truck stop by our house.  It's the PBB box!

On my return, I rushed to my room to see my PBB friends on TV live and direct.  Running up the stairs then to my room, I opened the door and lo, a despicable sight!  The technician was sitting on my bed while waiting for the box to be activated.

Sweaty soiled pants on the bed I dressed up.  I bellowed in disgust within.

Too "close" for comfort--that's what pinoys are. It has its downside, you know?  Losing the inviolabe personal space.

Was about to withdraw from the ATM when a woman in her twenties with an old man from the adjacent machine approached me to ask,

"Ilang zero ba ang ten thousand?" [How many zeroes are there in ten thousand?]

I thought she was joking, I gave her a bewildered look.

"Huh?" I exclaimed.

"Ilang zero meron sa ten thousand?"

Panicking that this might be a trick question due to the simplicity of the query, I said "apat" [four] while counting with my fingers to verify if I gave the correct answer.

"Yeah, apat nga." I assured her and myself.  She said thanks and resumed her transaction.

Later, she returned and like a grader, she pulled me over to her ATM and showed me her work.

"Tama ba?" [Is this correct?]

"Dagdagan mo pa ng dalawa. Kulang pa eh." [Add two more.] Apparently, she got confused by the X.XX format of the amount due.

Transaction completed.

Two things struck me:  one, I'm amazed by the kind of trust this woman gave to me.  She's essentially entrusting me her whole savings.  In the economic situation we have, I never thought trust is still readily given to anyone especially when it comes to money matters.  I pray that her trust will not be dismissed and abused by anyone as plain naivete and a total come-on for opportunists.  Two, (which lingers on till this moment) I was shocked to see that there are still a number of people in the metro who lack basic mathematical competencies.  The encounter with Miss Ten-Thousand-Twenty-Something and the old man is disturbing because it spoke of a much larger and deep-seated incompetence.  The whole national educational system and governmental institutions are brought to the fore and are put in question.  How effective are they in servicing its citizens?  How could Miss Ten-Thousand-Twenty-Something and the old man not have known how many zeroes there are in ten thousand pesos? 

I have a theory:  maybe because for the common tao, the average income a person can get never reaches that amount (10,000) or maybe, she was taught whole numbers and decimal places to the ten thousands and thousandth digits before but because of the dulling effect of poverty and the country's brainless politics, she forgot how 10,000 pesos is written and what it looks like.

Transactions will never be completed this way.