icoy c. san pedro

THERE is this curiously insignificant term in the English language, used to denote a conversation of sorts.

As all conversations go, it bears no difference other than to merely reach out a curt message to someone.

An opening salvo, if you may, or a sort of warming up when attempting to get through another person.

It’s called ‘small talk’ and if one sifts a little deeper, there is a particular kind that shows that nothing is really small about it since it packs quite a punch when it comes to having a say.

There was this short article long ago in the Reader’s Digest (the everyman’s journal) about Albert Einstein.

Once, while visiting a park, he came across a small child sitting quietly near a pond.

A small crowd of onlookers, among them photographers and newsmen who had come to cover the Nobel prize winner, had gathered and watched from a safe distance, curious as to how the genius would breach the gap between two ages, while attempting to communicate with the small child.

As the article goes, Einstein had merely smiled and gently pointed to the carp on the water’s edge and whispered “fish.”

The two lonely figures then spent the next few minutes seated on the bench, without much of another word, appreciative and lost in nature’s surroundings. The smallest of all small talks, if there ever was one, in all of human history.

Often, too, many lasting friendships start with small talk.

A couple on a commute might perhaps start with one offering a short comment on the weather and, if the other person were responsive enough, their repartee might gravitate toward favorable interests and shared history or other commonalities.

Truly, these are delightful, especially when they’re re-discovered, this time with new  acquaintances. Packs a mean punch, it has, but sadly, there is also a darker side of small talk (but not of the force, just yet).

Often, small talk has a long-drawn enough translation which many do not actively wish to put out in the open.

Roughly, the dark patch of small talk means, when one has nothing left to say. While it is true that on the sunny side of the fence, it is an excellent conversation opener, this opposite represents a bumbling counterpart, lost in balance, with hardly any gas in the tank, so to speak, to offer a flicker of civil exchange.

So often have I heard it cited in waning relationships, “we don’t talk anymore” or “we’ve nothing to talk about anymore,” as though “anymore” were the definitive indicator of the edge.

Also often, when this predicament is shared, this crossroad is uttered in whispers, so that severity is ironically passed onto other willing ears, other than the one who had lost any semblance of a signal to receive it.

Sad, of course, but the intent here is just to put this obvious red flag out in the open. Let’s celebrate the happy side of small talk or casual conversations, if you may, but be wary when a sudden tilt is on the horizon.

Whenever I hear news of heavy rain during the night, I right away think back to many instances in the past where I was a witness to flooding after such downpour. In Manila during the late 70s, the two places I stayed in during the singing years always took home first and second prize, if they handed out ‘most easily flooded areas’ during the time.

In one of those places, which we hide under the name Quiapo, we were so in sync with the crowd there, my singing partner had special sandals made by our local shoemaker, with thick soles carved from tractor tires which he claimed as all-weather. For gear, we crossed the bridge to Raon, where we could buy second-hand US army ponchos, typical 70s wear during typhoons, at least among the folksingers back then.

Many a time, I would hear about how it was back then when the then-proclaimed city of man was still provincial, in comparison to other least developed centers. Old-timers say, true, it had flooding in many low-lying areas too, but that was mostly because of inadequate planning and sewerage, resulting from a mad rush to development in the early days.

“…it looks like rain, I feel it coming in, the mountains win again”.

Back here in Davao, I remember during the late 60s, my mother had brought us to visit a piece of land they had purchased in Bajada. It sat on the crest of a small hill of what is now called Belisario Heights. In order to maneuver one’s way to the lush hill top, one had to either ride on sturdy Willy’s jeeps (or ‘owners’ as the old folks call it), or via “kangga”, those carabao-led carts one sees in the hinterlands which are used for farm work. At the time, the road leading up was no more than a mountain trail, and as I recall, at the top was where only a few families settled.

A few meters further ahead, the land sloped downward and somewhere in the area which is now Belisario and Hillside Subdivisions, we were still able to dip in a fair-sized creek.

Someone who had accompanied us told us that back then, within these areas which stretched beyond what we know now as the Diversion Road, forest animals still dwelled. It included wild ducks (which the Times man, our family friend hunted with his 22 rifle), crocs and wild boar.

Many years after when our family permanently moved there, I would regularly follow my grandfather down a back trail while he visited his other daughter, my aunt who lived in Diamond Village. It was only at this time that I realized, that between us and my aunt’s residence, the forested area had already been cleared and turned into a subdivision. One lasting recollection of my first treks through there was the sight of newly-paved streets which were still empty of houses. The wide stretch seemed like a cement jungle and it had evidently replaced my early images of the real forest that once thrived here.

The I remember wondering, in what specific part of that vast development before me lay the original creek and watering hole of our childhood?

As subtly as it could at first, whenever it rained in that part of the city, water began to seek its own level and slowly crept downward until it flooded the main road leading to the highway near the Carmel monastery. The almost neck-deep waters eventually drained into the swampy area nearby behind the old office of what is now (ironically) the water district.

So now, whenever there’s a heavy rain, be it in Davao or Manila and elsewhere, I’m thinking of the song by Blues Traveler, the mountains win again.

MORE OFTEN than not, there is this strange paradox playing in your mind while being tasked with something to do for the first time. For one, you’re almost like a child again, feeling totally ignorant but a little excited just the same.

Somehow, you feel that at the end of this, no matter whatever heap of uncertainties, you will have learned something new at the same time. A sense of hesitation is the tell-tale sign written in as many faces before you, and you are aware of this.

You quite have an idea that no matter how terrified you may feel at the first step, you’ll be boasting about accomplishing your task later on and how brave you were at that.

How I chanced upon this thought, I recall a scene long ago in our family compound many years ago.

One of our nephews’ better halves, a nurse, had set up a small clinic with several beds as a maternity facility for nearby residents. However, during one particular day, I noticed there was a long line of young boys at the entrance, our younger nephews and grandchildren included, who were scheduled to be circumcised.

On each of their faces was written a different story. Some were blank as though resigned to whatever was about to happen, others were overly anxious and fidgety, with a few constantly trying to peep through the clinic’s windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of the procedures going on inside.

There was no panic overall, but a semblance of fear was clearly in the air, especially when they witnessed those who emerged from the door, done with the operation, with their oversized shirts concealing a bandaged member.

What was written on the faces of those who were through was a certain degree of both triumph and relief, with a growing bravado to boot, with which to boast before the awed and curious audience outside. “It’s no big deal,” that was the common one-liner, and this was gladly taken in by the small group of children. Until it was their turn…

In another memory, I’m reminded of a high school Sing-Out song where it says nothing is free. One has to pay a price or a sacrifice in order to get anything done. Truly, that is the lifelong paradox at play.

For the boys, before one heals, one needs to suffer.  If anything in life proves to be difficult, then that probably matters and most surely has meaning.

All transitions are messy, and not to wax poetic, changes break who you are, to make room for who you’re meant to be. This process of becoming is life’s machine, it’s matrix, if you will. Like it or not, it’s where you need to be.

WHAT GOES up must come down, spinning wheel’s got to go round… as the old song goes. I was hoping to find a weatherman expert’s view on perhaps several probable reasons why we’re presently having quite a spell of scorching weather lately.

What greeted me instead was a dose of double-speak, sugar coating, and the usual drops of runaround. On one, I chanced upon a NASA page where it only touched on a comparison between global warming and climate change, and still, one had to read twice to get what they were driving at.

For starters, it explained that the term weather is not the same as climate. Though that was simple enough as an intro, the hook that was laid out was when it dropped names and continued on, that both global warming (as espoused by one Al Gore of long ago) and climate change (as championed by Greta Thunberg) are not necessarily synonymous with each other. However, to confuse us further, the causes for the two are one and the same.

“… human activities, primarily fossil fuel burning, which in turn increases heat-trapping greenhouse gas levels in Earth’s atmosphere.”  If one still remembers the supposed contention-dash-excuse of a hole in the ozone layer (which comfortably retreated into the background until it was forgotten), this new and unfounded hack is its version two.

For the everyman, why can’t these runarounds just be so easily explained like ‘what goes up, must come down’? Or as “down-to-earth-y,” if one’s trying to be pun-y.

Let the bottom line be clear:  we blew it, people. Be it weather, climate, temperature, or the rapture, we are the culprit.

While others (especially those from the west) may still put the blame on vapor trails in the wake of jets overhead, industrial smoke from factories, and then on car exhaust from our highways, in the end, everything still falls squarely on our laps.

Meanwhile, on the local shores of ours, teachers still say the “kaingin” (slash and burn) practice of people in the hinterland contributes much to what karma has given us in return.

As part of the consequential fallout, the incidences of red tide and acid rain, plus other after-effects like flash floods and erosion, appear as mere tributaries that stretch out in all directions, emanating from only one main vein. And that is the ocean of man’s greed, arrogance, and gross discontent.

Back to the original query of why it is so hot all of a sudden these days?  Go figure.

YEARS ago, I swore never to again waste time watching anything broadly related to politics,  proceedings of any kind, hearings, or speeches by politicians. Not only does this personal block apply to television (which we haven’t turned on in years anyway), but also via the LED screens of our tablets or cell phones.

However, even as I’ve avoided directly listening to these, once in a while, I hear about the goings-on either through many conversations with friends or during dinner chats with my partner.

If it were about an official whom I assume does their job well, then I have no problem, but if it involves what I perceive as politicking, character assassination, and the like, then that’s precisely why I draw the line in the first place.

In a related matter, I have yet to hear a present-day politician who’s eloquent enough to have me lend an ear anyway. Relatedly, it seems to me many public officials still cling to the belief that if they talk and argue so much on the floor, or hatch scoops and exposes meant hugging the limelight, especially when covered by the media, the exposure and mileage from these would positively translate into votes when elections come.

This distorted perception of popularity devoid of content is just so unbelievably dumbfounding; it’s short of calling any electorate ignorant and easily fooled. (or are we?)

Anyway, this is the reason why, and I guess it’s only prevalent in this country, there’s almost a press conference going on every week.

This brings to mind a literature I came across many months ago. It even takes me back to remembering some classmates of mine in college. To cite… “The more you talk in a meeting, the more likely you are to be chosen as the leader of the team.

We award the people who dominate the conversation even though they are not actually better at leadership. And most often they’re worse, because they fail to include and learn from the voices around them. More importantly, we are consistently mistaking their confidence for competence.”

So there. There’s actually a study on this phenomenon, and it’s called the babble hypothesis. Research in organizational psychology points out that quantity of speech often wins over (sic) quality. In other words, people who most often dominate conversations appear as capable leaders. To add… “regardless of their actual expertise, intelligence, or personality traits”.

During one Philo session in college long ago, one particular classmate raised a hand confidently and talked nonsense about a theory for more than a minute.

Our patient instructor listened poker-faced and quietly but firmly declared, “SIT DOWN!” How I wish they would say that to these leaders talking over their heads (and doubtful intelligence).

THE COMMON take these days, especially among the younger set,  defines success partly as acquiring tangible things.  In a study involving this particular set working in BPOs (business process outsourcing) with emphasis on call centers, one of its more popular sub-set industries, the appeal of a fast buck among the new gen is perceptible, and as a result, it’s where most of them flock to.

The common finding is this: the perception of success is measurable by something one can wrap one’s fingers around.  As our economics teacher once mentioned, this includes “having money for things, a car, a large house… ”. And quickly, too.

Whether the study on the broad industry, which is the BPO, i.e., call centers, as common ground for the new generation(s) becomes refutable or not, it is still far from complete. It’s a mention of what success means to the young that is the only inclusive information being mentioned here.

Moving ahead, the stoic philosopher Epictetus, when once asked how to spot and define a rich man, said, “he who is content.”

This here is important, in the sense that anyone, most notably the younger generations, should try to break the mold of following the parade, and instead stop believing the grass is always greener on the neighbor’s side of the fence.

As we all know, Erma Bombeck, an American writer, had countered in her book, that’s it’s only true if it’s especially near the septic tank.

The pursuit of what success doesn’t come with a set of instructions. Fine-tune the search to a successful or worthwhile life instead, and just trust and follow your own lead.

Recalling another meme from long ago, when someone tries to talk you out of your dreams, just insist, bees do not waste time explaining to flies why honey is better than what it loves to eat.

But setting aside the subject of the number two, there’s a quote that comes to mind, and it’s a favorite.

The passage is culled from Walden, a collection of 18 essays by Henry David Thoreau. He writes, ‘If a man does not keep in step with his companions, it is maybe because he hears a different drummer. Let him listen to the music he hears, no matter how distant or far away.’

Lastly,  since it’s to appear like raining quotes and more quotes, a Tibetan proverb to end the downpour: the oxen may be slow, but the earth is patient.

FOR MUCH of our lives, my elder brother and I have never really talked, say, compared to the way close friends or besties would.

Of course, there were always the ordinarily trivial things we would, on occasions, small-talk about.

Even then, these casual conversations were often punctuated by mild to medium degrees of disagreement which, on second thought, we’re just silly, now that I recall some of them.

In all, that is already saying a lot right there. In contrast to the small-talk civility that mostly defined the relationship between us siblings, there was the air of not minding each other’s business, which, on the whole, was borne of perhaps a compromise of sorts, or a formality, or a matter of mutual choice.

One thing for sure, one reason for this was the age gap since five years separated us. If this were transposed into school years, there was simply no way we could ever be present in one school assembly at the same time. He was just simply from another, much-older, batch, distantly from another time entirely.

Of all nine of us siblings, he was the eldest, the top dog and thus the alpha. A wide gap separated us from him and my elder sister, who was four years ahead of me.

Thus further down the line, those younger were just simply alienated from their world and different in a way. Never mind that he was apart from us growing up, his (and my sister’s) social spheres were different. Growing up, we naturally didn’t mind that at all.

We were aloof to their world mainly because we had our own to enjoy. Through the years, each of us eventually went our own way to build our own nests and drifted apart in the further pursuit of our little lives.

Despite this, the bonds of the family remained, though now limited to weekend visits and special occasions.

With these hedges firmed up by time, we have become like a beehive, independent units of a bigger whole, with separate families breathing within each.

Despite these, the bond imprinted on all by our hardy parents, had stayed on. In this setting, I have thus watched from afar, how he had groomed his own young brood. And then much later, how he had doted on his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

At this, it had slowly dawned on me that however in the past he may have been detached from us, his younger brothers and sister, his caring side as both father and granddad during the later years, was the more weighty element of measure.

When he passed away, I just wished he could have heard all the tribute he has gotten from his beloved children and grandchildren.

At best, these were the perfect reflection of the love he had given them, manifested through nightly goodnight phone calls, occasional life lessons or even perfect attendance in school activities.

For this alpha at the end of his journey, he had definitely not missed out on our mum’s one special request, which was to be kind.

Despite everything between us, that makes all the difference.

Isn’t it wonderful to realize, it is only after one has gazed hard into the eyes of babies that it dawns on you the future has already arrived? Innocent as all infants are, their mere presence is enough to make it appear the future’s proverbial foot is already halfway inside this, our present’s door.

This is why I believe one of life’s most profound blessings is having to watch the parade of babies in one’s family. A close second is later witnessing how they slowly grow up and mature and be their own person through the years.

Me and my remaining siblings are witness to what my departed parents have seen and almost-childishly gawked at before. We share their happiness. Happily, all feel fortunate to be discovering this wondrous parade before us. In a magical way for me, it is as if I am reliving and witnessing it through my departed parents’ eyes.

Aside from its religious theme, last Easter Sunday’s celebration at our parents’ home a.k.a the mothership, was one that had me arrive at this very realization. Surely, it must have only been four or five years ago, when those once-tiny rug rats were yet comfortably-snug in the protective wings of their nanas and doting mums.

Now, with some of them already wildly-running about and others grown into more independent individuals, the speed by which time has gone has clearly become more evident and plain as day. While we, the adults, might have likewise grown and significantly-aged during these few years alongside them, it is quite ironic how our perspective of them has somehow remained frozen in time.

In our mind’s eye, we still perceive them as the babies they once were. The simple truth remains, while they forge ahead to meet their future and do whatever they make of it, every tiny step is one significant step away from us. When the time comes to have children of their own, I only wish they too would arrive at my earlier realization… perhaps they will likewise see that the future has come, like a foot in the door of their own present time. Only by then, the circle would have finally been complete and still remain unbroken.

I REMEMBER long ago, during one conversation over beers, an old friend had flatly branded me as a sentimentalist. At that time, I recall being slightly offended because I felt his statement seemed a bit derogatory and he was totally wrong in reading me.

 You see, back then, I always liked to think I was level-headed, in the sense that, poor as I was in math, I was quite calculating and technical when thinking things over.

During that awkward moment I had simply rebutted, “But aren’t we all?”

All the while, my mind had churned endlessly then, thinking to myself, no matter how they deny it, all people are hopeless romantics inside. I further believe the only difference is, they are just so good at pretending to be otherwise.

Now in the present, I’m suddenly feeling how I wish I could get back to that old friend again. To finally settle what we had been arguing about during that old time.

Incidentally, the argument had all started when I said I could still remember how old buildings looked, even as I stood before the modern ones that replaced them.

This gravitated into my remembering people who’ve passed and eventually led to the sentimental tag.

I have come to realize that the observation must have been too senti for him at that time, and sharing it with someone who was way too lively back then, was nerdy.

Now, I see it his way. Truly in youth, people tend to rush in all things, never really mindful of whatever’s in the way.

Young and restless, I think that was how parents described us. Why not? The world was a great unknown and it had opened up before us. And as the old saying went, we held it in the palms of our hands.

Then as we grew older, a little pause here and there, a hesitation perhaps or a realization or two, and one finally notices, hey, you’re slowing down kiddo.

You then awaken to the fact that during your wild rush and romping about, there had been people, relationships, plus a whole lot of other things that mattered. This, plus the numbing reality, during the whole time, the world has never really been about you.

So, you’re like a boat dead in the water, and you’re slowly trying to retrace your steps, desperate to recover and relive all you had missed.

There’s also the segment where one wishes to apologize to all you’ve wronged. All of the feelings and realizations above, how I wish I could share them with this old friend (who has gone ahead) to finally ask him, is that what you meant by being sentimental?