NIGHT WRITING
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

We are supposed to be grovelling by now, frozen and cold and wintry under a summer heat.  Never mind the clash of this weather forecasting. Instead, I am facing the computer monitor to experiment with blogging at night which I have not done as a matter of habit.

For me, the perfect moment to write is not quantified by a time frame.  The best time to grab the pen and notebook by their necks are upon hitting a phenomenon, eyeball to eyeball, that makes my spine innocuously alert to the textures of different creative senses.

Yala is situated in the southernmost part of Thailand populated by Buddhists and Muslims alike. Today, the Muslims are celebrating Rayu (Eidl Feit'r) which is their equivalent of a New Year celebration.  Firecrackers waft in this rather serene time of religious rites.  I did not venture out but instead gather my thoughts on a variety of thematic meanderings, none of which had spined my productive sensibilities.

You remember a place within the melody of an aural context. Firecrackers I usually equate with the wake of my departed mother who passed away during the Christmas season. Within this intersection of grief and celebration, you remember the smell, sound, voices and critters of small insects ruminating the very fiber of your extrinsic awareness, those little gaps of,  personally, historical people who had curiously flipped through your life in cemented patios, dining tables, sofas, comfort rooms and beds, creeping into the pages of your unwritten biography, scribbled by a person who might not have known that you have ceased to catapult the black color into your wardrobe's first choice.

I remember the warmth of my nieces and nephew's foray into I-pod music and their seemingly unimpressed look with all the lights and colors mixing up in the air. With our hood sweats, we had embraced and hushed our familial pain and left it without screaming freakingly at the loud world outside with their obese barbecues, flayed salads, roasted cods and senseless taunts.  We hated the flatulence of unsymmetrical banners proclaiming fiestas and had instead pointed at blinking stars and had decided to pick them through our fingers.

This is when these children had learnt to dream about mini cities, hopping in trains with Elliott as that New York ditty reins in and when they talked, for the first time, in twangs reminiscent of Oliver Twist and the Wizard of Oz.

We had survived that because we are pioneers at surviving.  My late father had written voraciously during night time too, with his elegant penmanship scratching the papers in late hours, producing proposals to build another classroom in a hinterland I shall never know. This is a family who had known letters and how to change the world through words and mentoring. Our skeletons are free to be devoured but we had left volumes of papers for these communities to partake on in creative molds. Most especially on teaching.

We had survived it sans elaborate hidings into the woods without reappearing after nor were they accompanied by hysterical dramatics.  That is who we are and shall ever be.

I wonder if there is an owl circling his eyes outside, looking at my shoulder for me to crow early in the morning.  Thus far, evenings enable you to retrace the footprints of your past and as survivors endure, I had discovered the most magical expression of all:

We had been transformed by the natural bounty of Thailand: its people, its culture, its humanity, its embrace of the universal.

This is night writing and to my surprise, this piece does not read like a sleepy manuscript.

That Cute Press can multiply this.

THE ROAD NOW MORE TRAVELLED
By: Iris P. Concepcion

If it is any indication,  I have thought that Alex Garland had migrated to Nepal to befriend his coterie of manicurists, just to improve his take on the book Tesseract that is loosely based in the Philippines.

He is not a tourist; he is a traveller.

Imagine if a scriptwriter would find himself a subject of  any of his novels.  I do picture this perfect tourist guide to be sullen and ugly. He shall never drink Chang beer with or without the can and shall be in perfect shod: crystallized boots with pink laces and starry emblems.

He shall be perfectly bright and wide-eyed, aware of his ferocious, literary gorgeousness.  He shall be highly universal in thinking, intelligent to a fault and will never stray from senseless conversation.  I would even name him Bull to add a delectable tone to his filled arsenal of novelistic story lines.

I think, he shall point to the perspiring writers, new to the dinghy coach at the bottom,  a field of forests where the greenery erupts everywhere and where small thinking never thrives. We shall both shriek to the sight of rivers, cleaned and wild and wide.

Sleepy, we shall yawn together in perfect cadence to the beauty of bags and low talk. Of course, we dread how superior our tourist conversation exchanges are: naming the canals, poles and animals that never showed themselves up.

He shall seek payment for his Visa entries through transcendental meditation and collude with the gods of language that he does not like France.

He shall never praise a "crazy" girl and dumb corn writer by saying he likes what had already been written.

Of course, I would just tell him: God smiles upon those who fully trust in Him and His just ways.

It is fiction and it keeps on crawling back to reality.  It is always superior and counts no one as its peer.

And thus the travel continued:

The dawn is about to exit from its daily cycle.  Crows are never found here.  Yala is still sleeping, lit only by bulbs beautifully arched along its streets.

The train leaves at 6:30 a.m.  I am returning to Kota Bharu, Malaysia to have my Visa extended.  It is granted readily by the very courteous immigration officer to whom I had transacted my Visa the first time around.  I am at peace traversing the railway as I have already clocked in a sizable time using this means of transportation in my explorations of Thailand.

A solitary coach is at a standstill, welcoming my feet on its foot rail.  I climb and is expecting the emergence of a fog on the first station stop.  It is humid though at this hour.

The train chugs and as children, men and women alike choose their seats,  I gazed outside the door to take a look at the gaping horizon, endless and without edges.

The coach I had hopped in has engaging women who talk about pictures.  They merrily exchange notes on the  taken shots.  One is teary-eyed.  I had only a glimpse of  it, a woman posing for a camera.

Sungai Kolok is a border place between Malaysia and Thailand.  It is a transitory area.  I  breeze through the immigration hub and takes a bus for Kota Bharu. This ride takes longer than the taxi but is nonetheless smooth. I notice Caucasians going to Malaysia too. One must be very specific when asking the motorcycle driver getting you to the border to direct you to the Malaysian border.  I discover this when I am accosted to a river with a hut where one page, bond papers get stamped for entry. The Cambodian border.

Malaysian immigration does not know the word hustle; everything is easy.  As already written here, it has scanners and computerized biometrics confirmations for passports. I see that my companions in this border are whites. Travellers.

A hefty guy with a racing smile, and I must mention that he is with his wife (presumed) and glaringly white, is wrestling  a decision of a lifetime. He is very uncomfortable without his goofy amulet. Shall he take the bus or the taxi? Taxi drivers are egging me to ride in their vehicles. If it is Pattani-like Mercedez Benz, I would, I shortnoted in my mind.   I decline saying I am on an extremely tight budget, explaining the difference between five ringgit (bus) and 40 ringgit (taxi). I am not in a hurry, I interpolate, and could use my savings to eat a whole planet of chicken.

A sweaty guy, waiting for the bus like me, pushes his rolling bag.  He is actually a backpacker. His first attempt to be cosmopolitan savvy, with his wheeled bags, are very outer space. He asks his seatmate where he can have his tooth pulled out in Kota Bharu. I hope I did see the finer moments to this when I am conversing with the carabao author.

I do not know what thoughts go through the minds of tourists when they visit Asia.   I do know Garland's unexciting kind of thinking;  it is our common fascination to convert Asia into a European-kind of cultural destination. Having to sign up arrival and departure cards at every Asian entry is good for checking misfits. It is best though to show the people's common heritage here if Asians can visit each others' places via a trail connectivity and just declare : "Hey, I am Asian. Let us not do border limits."

I need not even get asked if I am from the Philippines. The people here already assume I am from the Philippines.

My Visa is given an extension at the Thai Consul-General Office. I returned to Parkson mall area where people are preparing for a night market bonanza. It is raining and I borrow a chair from vendors (suddenly sprouting overnight in an otherwise pristine area) who sell food in sticks. I notice that theirs is bigger (1 ringgit per stick). It is Rhamadan and most of the Western shops are closed to observe the fasting of the predominantly Muslim population.

There is a hotel in Kota Bharu that is entirely unique called New Pacific. It is a Barney-colored hotel. I miss its offer of 20/30 (P200-P300) ringgit per night stay with breakfast buffet; its room price hovers around 200 ringgit to 300 ringgit per night (P2,000-P3,000). I always close my eyes when passing by this hotel. I know I could not afford the atrocious rates and thus blink to stress my point. I did not see its discount signage walking from the Thai Consulate office. I grind my teeth in nasty chomp at this almost stupid, missed opportunity. Another tip: pay close attention to discount announcements, always. I stay at the poetic sounding Milton with fresher amenities. Ten people can stay inside my room at 35 ringgit/day.

The beauty of this quite normal rendition of a travelogue is my ride back to Yala. This is where the forests and trees appeared with Robert-Frost like winds that I momentarily swear, God is just within the train reach. Everything is hushed. I recall my bus ride to Phang-nga with this exact dimension of Thailand's outback.

If God can converse with me in this journey, He would say: "Take off at Mat-Yong station and buy Garland some slippers. Color them lavender-green."


I arrive at Yala and bought chicken strips and suds.

Also. My sister-in-law submitted herself for a regular check-up at one of Yala's hospitals.


It has a very impressive hospital named Sirroros. I saw its Suite Room and it is immaculate. It bears the pictures of the King and Queen and the nobility whose picture likewise graces the bus which I took in Phang-nga. With the M garland. This medical place is hotel-like with separate, luxurious rooms for visitors in its suite rooms. With big Plasma television sets.  Its ward rooms only occupy one person each. It is already air-conditioned with free provisions for the patient's oxygen requirements. No huge, oxygen tanks are seen here. It is blue all over and this is health care at its best. The room rates are affordable. Hospitals are the new hotels. Splendid, you need not even need butlers here. You shall be bathed, fed, taken cared of by nurses as opposed to paid spa in hotels. Lowering your cholesterol and blood pressure are the added, extra bonuses.  Do not ask me the rates; you shall drop your jaws by their affordability vis-a-vis the lush, medical amenities. Its medical kits even look like cosmetics bags. With white and pink towels (labakara), shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, comb and baby talc. It has flowers all over it.

Do not say, "I'll check-in." Say this instead: "I'll have myself medically checked."  You would never believe your luck.

My sister-in-law bought me beef steak and chicken burgers with wasabi sauce, a Hotshots fare back in the Philippines after she was cleared off from her sickness. Priced low, they taste like the best, universal kitchen situated in a city/municipality area. One cannot go wrong with this.

Yummy, at 150 baht per huge plate, with french fries.

And thrive

Emergence of glowing rainbow

Cast as bridge

In front of  Coliseum lights

Yala

Where lakes

Skip slotted machines

With noxious acoustics

To befriend

God's minions

Underneath the quiet and solemn

Pleasures of 

One's

Higher

Belonging.

BY:  IRIS P. CONCEPCION

8/22/2011, Yala, Thailand

MICHAEL J. SANDEL

Harvard professor and the author of “Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do?”

I would lead a campaign against the skyboxification of American life. Not long ago, the ballpark was a place where C.E.O.’s and mailroom clerks sat side by side, and everyone got wet when it rained. Today, most stadiums have corporate skyboxes, which cosset the privileged in air-conditioned suites, far removed from the crowd below. Something similar has happened throughout our society. The affluent retreat from public schools, the military, and other public institutions, leaving fewer and fewer class-mixing places. Rich and poor increasingly live separate lives.

I would invest in an infrastructure for civic renewal — not just roads and bridges, but schools, transit, playgrounds, parks, community centers, health clinics, libraries and national service. This would put people to work. And it would draw us out of our skyboxes and into the common spaces of democratic citizenship.

ON BEING TOM SAWYER WITHOUT CATCHING A FISH
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

I have never imagined bump cars gliding onto water like the colorful fleet I had posted above.

As patient readers of this blog can attest now, I am a toad when it comes to adventurous social forays. Back in the Philippines, I had climbed stairs made out of bamboo, out there in the sea, trekking in a tiny island to attend a barrio fiesta. The hanging bridge was loosely tied in plastic ropes. With no safety gear provided, I had preconditioned my mind that I am walking along two chopsticks and that a bowl of spicy noodles is waiting for me at the end of the hiking drill. I shall be choked by this writer's articulate "yo most" (read: better other) had he known I was made to enjoy the artistry of the countryside without being provided with safety, medical kits. It is not exactly a National Discovery material with shrubs around but that is as feisty as anyone can get then.

The boats above are safer.  Yala has well-thought of  public theme parks, emanating from its luxurious tree habitat that never seems to end. This area is built for academic concerns but any artist worth the page flip shall be lost wondrously in its bird-watching facilities, water-themed recreational outlets and affordable food. I was told by my sister-in-law that this place holds a contest for bird singing; the area looks like a canary field with windmills minus the rotating directions.

I rode in this orange-colored boat with number 18 painted on it.  The water drive was smooth sailing all throughout.  I would have wanted to drape over my shoulders a C. (George) Columbus get-up with fitting binoculars to view the heavenly scene but that would already be too fussy and irksome for my already engaging self as an everyday boatman.

I was asked how much I weigh when I rode in one of these beauties.  I was baffled. My companion told me that she needs to know so that in case I drowned, she shall exactly know how to rescue me. I had ditched my fabulous pink, frilly dress for jeans for this outing but that would have been perfect. I may look frail to you but I can outwalk and outboat you in any Olympic competition. In any given time, without paying for atrocious gym fees. I am the female version of Manny Pacquiao and my gloves are placed on my elbows.

We were laughing all throughout our ride, navigating the green, clear water as our feet worked on like we would the bicycles. Not only do you get exercise here; you get surprises never before propagandized.

My athletic diet consists of yoghurt, biscuits, fish, carrots, cabbages, beef,  pork (called muu here) and my all-time favorite ham sandwich with milk-filled omelet. It is not  food for a wake.  It is a snack for future football stars like myself.

I shall navigate the courses of water and make Thailand a landing pad for my extra millenium, athletic career.

On a lighter note, I had been browsing the book PRO English, NEXUS PMR (Sasbadi Sdn, Bhd, KL, Malaysia; pp.129) where a test item based on an article about ostriches is found.  I had discovered the profound comedy, along with the impromptu ones that stiffen my lip in silent guffaws, in describing animals and the varying reasons for their anatomical compositions.

The article states that ostriches are birds that could not fly.  They live in savannah of grassy and sandy portion near the water. They flap their wings to run and bury their heads on the ground when listening for enemies.  Their necks are featherless.

The examination thus revolved around questions that made me conjure alternative and gregarious answers.  Here:

1.  The ostritch does not have feathers on its
     a) tail
     b) neck
     c) back
    d) wings

My answer would be "foot."  I shall further explain that it remains confident of its fragrant feet that the ostritch removed the feathers on them as homage to their cherry smell.  As an aside, an ostritch is a curious combination of hilarity and elegance.  I did wonder why its neck (the correct answer here) is featherless.  I am reminded of a chicken about to be guillotined for dinner.

2.  An ostritch is unable to fly because
    a.)  it has long neck
    b) it prefers running to flying
   c) its wings are not big enough
   d) its legs have only two toes each.

I would love to answer letter d because it is severely cute (answer is c). I think, if ostriches can fly, people would no longer watch Danny de Vito's comic flicks.  Imagine if these huge birds fill up our skies.  They would look like balloons in Mardi Gras costumes.  With their wings attached to massive bodies, they might get caught off-balance competing with Lufthansa's airplanes. Sniggers.

I adore this exam formulation simply because it infuses humor (or humour, to the disciplined) that makes tests a little bearable to endure.

In fact, there is one exam question littering here that always makes my day bright.

A drawing of a robot is placed.

The query is: What is it?

a)  It is a robot.
b) It is a dog.
c) It is a monkey

The next question is: What can it do?
a) It can fly.
b) It can walk.
c) It is dreaming.

I shall always answer the last query with letter c. It can dream, but the robot is, truly, dreaming.

It has made our landscape for productivity livelier and happier.

Another interesting article I had browsed lately from the New York Times is a column on "What I Shall Do If I Become President".  Interesting answers, not from experts, but the pundits. They have saner answers, if I may be asked. The sharing connection deleted this from my Facebook account. I am copying it here, to propagate the most palatable views to me:


We've heard from the media and from experts — incessantly. What if we entered a pundit-free zone?

THERE’S a near-total disconnect between our real, large, urgent problems and the who’s-up-who’s-down cage match that is the daily bread of our pundit class. Unending wars, a bone-dry Southwest and flooded Midwest, the absence of a jobs program — these have been, at best, of anecdotal interest to the mouths that roar on television. Instead, media-friendly politicians and pundits have been obsessed with two contrived priorities: the debt ceiling and a presidential election that’s 15 months away. 

“In moments of crisis, style dissolves into character,” says Warren Bennis, the scholar of leadership who has advised four presidents. And not just for our leaders — talking heads are also being tested. For all their eloquence, most have nothing to say that we haven’t heard them say before. Bored and frustrated, I found myself hoping for ideas that might challenge or inspire. Then I asked a range of Americans who don’t labor in politics or the media what they’d do if they were president.— JESSE KORNBLUTH, a writer and the editor of HeadButler.com

•

MICHAEL J. SANDEL

Harvard professor and the author of “Justice: What’s the Right Thing to Do?”

I would lead a campaign against the skyboxification of American life. Not long ago, the ballpark was a place where C.E.O.’s and mailroom clerks sat side by side, and everyone got wet when it rained. Today, most stadiums have corporate skyboxes, which cosset the privileged in air-conditioned suites, far removed from the crowd below. Something similar has happened throughout our society. The affluent retreat from public schools, the military, and other public institutions, leaving fewer and fewer class-mixing places. Rich and poor increasingly live separate lives.

I would invest in an infrastructure for civic renewal — not just roads and bridges, but schools, transit, playgrounds, parks, community centers, health clinics, libraries and national service. This would put people to work. And it would draw us out of our skyboxes and into the common spaces of democratic citizenship.

SHARON OLDS

Author of “Strike Sparks: Selected Poems 1980-2002”

I’d grant the very rich the boon of helping them help others, as a form of gratitude for their good fortune. I’d also connect every creative writing program with a hospital, a school, a library, a prison, a neighborhood center — workshops in the supermarkets! (“Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!”)

ANDREW WEIL

Founder of the Arizona Center for Integrative Medicine and author of “Why Our Health Matters”

I’d tell the nation that I was powerless to control the war machine, Wall Street, big oil and the other interests that run the country, and I would urge Americans to form a new political party not beholden to them.

DANNY MEYER

C.E.O. of Union Square Hospitality Group

Nearly every gut-ripping national debate asks who will get what sliver of a shrinking American pie. Where is there hope in division? Why can’t we bake a bigger, tastier pie — one from which we can all enjoy a slice? If I were president, I’d appoint a blue-ribbon committee of 14 accomplished citizens — one each representing these nonpolitical walks of American life: arts, science, sports, big business, entrepreneurs, tech, medicine, law, education, environment, defense, religion, farming and philanthropy — and charge them with imagining innovative industries that put Americans to work and add value to our world. I’d prioritize among the committee’s ideas, then advocate for a tax code rewarding sustainable job-rich industries, especially those that liberate us from imported oil. We need to create as well as we consume. If we abandon our appetite for American ingenuity, we’re cooked.

JAMES Q. WILSON

Pepperdine University professor and author of “American Politics, Then and Now”

With my staff, I would decide what my administration was for. Once I had clarified that, I would write several speeches on how to cope with a stagnant economy, how to deal with countries (such as Iran and Syria) that harass their own populations, and how the United States is committed to the survival of Israel. These speeches would not attack the other party or previous presidents but would describe the views I supported. On the economy: do I favor tax cuts or increases, expenditure reductions or increases? On terrorist regimes: what sanctions will I support? On Israel: under what circumstances would an attack on Israel be regarded as an attack on the United States? People would disagree with some of what I said, but they would know where I stand. After delivering the speeches, I would submit to Congress my specific proposals, on which I would ask them to vote.

JENNIFER EGAN

LAKE PLACID
By:  Iris P. Concepcion

It was mid-afternoon and I had wagered beforehand with Nature that the rains will not fall. The newly washed bed spread had been hanging from the clothesline for a long time now after meeting the Laundry Gadget Of The Hour, Haier, that needed to be folded. Briskly, the world succumbed to the forces of Nature.

Hence, I jumped like an awakened kangaroo upon a timely invitation to roam around Yala, yesterday, being a holiday. We hopped in a motorcycle to experience boating in a man-made lake.

I had been furtively advised by my nephew to try this after his months of immersion in this exact place. The boats are pretty. They looked like bump cars in the mall arcades, only, they are breezed atop the green shores. They are not motorized which explains for their environmental sanity. They are maneuvered like bicycles. All moves are done through footwork. I am not afraid of water, beaches being my natural best friends, even if I could not swim for the life of my evolving self. I am not in love with swimming pools though, except to admire their malleability to sculptural designs.

We paddled without the paddles. We paddled using our ten toes that are attached to our sturdy ankles. We paddled with our teeth shut. We paddled with our molars untouched. Clutch gears are provided similar to cars. There is no traffic here as my seatmate driver moved back and forth the imaginary clutch.

I silently noted to myself: Holy Mary, this is how a fish lives like.

If I were bringing a transistor radio with me for added drama, a Placido Domingo could be wailing as we approached a bridge reminiscent of Italian waterways and its gondolas. It is a writer's sentence ignition. The comas, hyphens, punctuations, similes, metaphors cymballed joyously, freaking my head in a gush of phrases, slapping my hair, pinching my waist, pulling my arms, twisting my elbows, fossilizing my fears.

We had been clicked in amateur photography, at this precise trance, but the words accompanying them would surpass a Pulitzer's.

Industrialized cities make me edgy with my short skirts and berserk hair; rustic heavens make me want to wear my empress-cut white dress forever. The luminous water, with its arrogant claim to beauty, provides a calming balm that converts the mind into an eye. Trees, bird catchers lined up magnificently, bridge-rainbows, gigantic tree barks, people trapped in 70s couture.

A suit shall not be misplaced here. It only needs a song to be sung, wafting up in the air, whistling like kettles at the freest animals on Earth.

Humankind does not deserve this if it only defaces its surface. Plenty of structures await for people in transit but they shall never be prepared enough when God's artistry superimposes Itself into this lustruous ground.

As an aside, I have been following the art furor that is happening in the Philippines, particularly CCP's choices of artworks.

The Philippines has a superfluous supply of these natural magnets.  While preferring to capture hemlines and peddling gossip on a routinary basis as a matter of shaping our cultural destiny, art and culture is slowly creeping its way onto the headlines.  Reality bites, however, as I am ever conscious that the picture above (taken by myself using my sister-in-law's digital camera) shall always be tossed away in favor of the salacious, splitsville arms of a separating, famous couple on the front pages.  I assume we have the most prolific editors who could choose patiently the visual superiority of shots even in political stories.

I lament over the fact that I could not write pensively like my Thailand sojourns in railways and Nature back in the Philippines when its riches are clearly abundant. I know the reason now.  We tend to ignore our natural reserves by making them unpalatable to the eyes. We prefer to ignore our innately effervescent and cascading  waters by making them unkempt.  Here, a silent hand guides the storm through its eye and makes this radiance bloom in the forefront.  Even an amateur clicker like me can take pictures like these without using expensive lenses.

Even in music, I had often wondered where the golden pipes had gone. My present pre-occupation is listening to Vic Damone, he of the bygone but enduring era. His voice is impeccable and almost faultless. I had re-discovered him via You Tube as I was waiting for my clothes to dry.  Hear his renditions of Begin the Beguine and As Time Goes By (with very touching still videos of drawn dolls)  then shift to Taylor Swift's You Belong To Me. I need not even go to boybands with skinny jeans mouthing off foreign words.  If you feel a numbing, almost senseless downgrade in auditory ride, I shall not blame you. Damone can eat Taylor alive in terms of musical range and perfomance. Hear Damone's elocution of the word fundamental in ATGB. It becomes "fandamental". Sheer mastery, eloquent brilliance.

Art, as it gains a new way onto our national consciousness, need not be literally  highbrow. I am a nobody but I could write about this wonderful lake and its immaculate nuance to my own self-discoveries. William Blake had written about these visages himself and everyone had praised him as a literary giant.  It is my favorite subject simply because it is an arena where I could make my choices very clearly.  Evidently, I grab my fists and open them to art alms, to be swayed up high, as my assent to Heavenly Art.  Here, no hesitation is possible.

Clear as the blue skies, this is proper condescension to, as Imelda Marcos had phrased it, "the true, the good and the beautiful."

ON EXCHANGING VIEWS
By: Iris P. Concepcion

My hosts, my brother and sister-in-law, had introduced me to an environment of academic books in this abode. I wake up sometimes to requests that had sharpened my sense of reasoning and memory.

Recently, my brother requested me to help him devise some points in winning a debate. I readily assented since I might be prolonging my love affair with the Haier washing machine that had never failed me and could wash the clothes of people from Georgia to St. Tropez. It pays to use my mind sometimes over my working hands.

Here is the product of our collaboration which he had delivered to his own ministered children, our way of showing the world how dissents may be diffused in the face of apathy where words are our only ammunition to sensibility.

WINNING A DEBATE


The best way to expound on the query of “How To Win a Debate” is asking the reverse question, “How Not To Win a Debate.”

            You do not win a debate by falsely assuming the weaknesses of your opponent.  You do not win a debate by speaking slowly.  You do not win a debate by a haphazard litany of facts for or against your arguments.  You do not win a debate if your persuasive power is low.  You do not win a debate by being unprepared. You do not win a debate without getting your facts straight.

            Lastly, you do not win a debate by being ignorant. Evidentiary arguments always win versus the best-constructed ones that are nonetheless based on false assumptions.

Debates in ancient histories were used as forums for shaping public opinion that affect the progress and/or digression of political, religious, economic and social matters.  Aristotle, Plato and Socrates are among the philosophical figures that are often cited in oral discourses due to their unique convincing powers in critiquing the state of their respective societies.

Their arguments do not hinge on other people’s observations; they had used and maximized their personal tools of first hand observation to prove their theses on a plethora of intellectual matters. They could parry the contrary views by articulating the “lived through” points of their arguments. Hence, you could never read in their papers citations of other works to make their stand stronger.

More than the strategy of refining a debater’s best points, it is prudent and it is always the rule of thumb, to respect the capabilities of your opponents in a verbal argument. Aggressiveness or bombastic speaking calisthenics whimper in the end when unaccompanied by tactful and factual substance.

I shall divide my lecture on two points: the substantive aspect of a debate and secondly, its technical aspect involving actual delivery.

The first thing to do in winning an argument is to believe honestly on the cause you are arguing for or against with. If you are not impassioned about your cause, most likely, the falsity shall peek through in the passages of your thoughts. It weakens your argument and could not be sustained for the long haul. Half-baked presentations always lose the flavor of  their persuasive content in the long run.

Secondly, it is always a plus factor to have the debater cull the facts of his debate theme personally rather than entrusting the gathering of information from other sources. Familiarity with the topic based on one’s own personal comprehension and experience of the subject matter is an edge during verbal expositions. This way, no matter what types of questions are thrown at the debater which are not pre-prepared, he can readily rebut instantaneously by his own method of reasoning.

Thirdly, a strategic and understandable presentation of one’s facts must always be geared for the kill; meaning, each point must clearly lead to the main point of argument rather than heehawing on the details. The philosophical processes of both induction and deduction in arguments are useful when all the loopholes for contrary views are plugged out.

Fourthly, a debater must think like how a lawyer does in a cross-examination. Anticipate that the opponent could be as impassioned, savvy, well-researched and is erudite as you are. It is the fear of every lawyer to question an honest witness. A debater must think along this line too.  He must be prepared for an opponent who is just as honestly passionate and diligent in winning the argument. A cocky behavior often leads to splattered responses.  It never helps to strengthen an argument.  Never assume superiority.

Fifth, and the most important of all, assume the possibilities of defeat even when you are winning. A good public debater never crosses out the possibility of failure. He is thus better conditioned to maintain his superior level of verbal persuasion in a consistently high gear.  It prevents the debater from being lethargic with his argument approaches.

The thrust of the debate, simply, is proving that you have the better point of argument.  Once the main substance is fastened and secured, the technicality of delivery follows.

The technical part of winning a debate is a pure act of disciplined theatrics.  One could not afford to stall nor stammer in the middle of a coherently-crafted sentence.  One could not speak slowly nor overdo elaborate bodily movements. One could not be insignificantly verbose nor be too curt.  One could not likewise be staid that could bore even the most patient of opponents. Debates are not oratorical nor declamation contests. The focus should be on winning an idea to your favor.

A debater must never show fright nor project doubt when speaking.  Prolonged silence never proves a point in oral arguments unless it is a visual debate you are entering in.

Proper syntax and grammar done within a conversational structure are always prime, handy clutches that could never be faulted in a debate environment. They are the built-in amulets of any oral debater.  They are the first gauges to a debater’s mental preparedness and composition.

A charismatic, good voice helps a lot in winning an argument.  Duffy Duck’s vocal chords may be a little underhanded when pitted against Shrek’s modulated tonal pipes. Shrills and improper shrieks are always out of the equation in oral debates as they diminish the seriousness of the debate topic.

Proper phrasings and choice of words are likewise paramount. Sentences must be brief and simple. They are valued in a good debater.  There is a difference between textbook argument and a verbal argument done with a time limitation.

The debater must also look presentable.  Good posture generates confidence to the refinery of word deliveries.

These being laid, I conclude my piece with this.

Winning a debate can only be achieved if the debater is prepared on these aspects: substantial arguments and an excellent grasp of proper delivery. In debate form, these require honed eloquence and a little bit of coached theatrics. Debate, after all, is a form of  spoken art and it must be treated that way accordingly.

COMEDY HOUR
By: Iris P. Concepcion

Of course, the carpet had been laid long way before Dave Guerrero, who I am name dropping here to project that I am familiar with the Red Hot Chili Pepper rock group, had set the pace for the Pamela Anderson face-off.

It started centuries ago, in front of  abundant coyotes and wildlife. A picture was taken out from a print newspaper and this is calumny at its best as I juxtapose fact and fiction, bannered for us to comment on.

The models did not look like models. They wore bikinis in front of  swampy mangroves in stilettos. A bystander was asked if  it is fitting. Bomber Moran or someone who looks like him, was sniggering nearby. He is a political bigwig in a Sampaloc barangay. One never misses his area. A lot of religious sculptures adorn his territory.

The bystander spewed off : "Why is her boob peeking out?"

I replied that the brassiere may be too small for the model.

Kibitzers who know Henry Longfellow, Nick Joaquin and Quentin Tarantino are sprouting by millions along the coasts of popular culture discussing about bracelets, blood donation and the wonders of fish ponds. While a lot will argue for the higher sphere of culture, it is benumbing to discover  that the lower caste life  forms are generating more and more quality critique for and or against the Universe without minding their underlined words. I had begun my postulation long way before the Mactan Island was discovered that people of genius create the most vibrant atmosphere for this variety of interactions. Writers are the best comedians on Earth, bar none. They shall feign and feign and feign.

Thus, it is with much pride that I had been rebuked by fellows thirty years younger than me. When words fail me, they deliver their chopped rhymes. I know for a fact the wide reach of their imagination: graspable and colloquial. It may seem odd to see them loitering the pages of popular opinion but they do their homework without being bound by a rough stick. Even the experts are baffled by this phenomenon, akin to the happy side of the Apocalypse. Even their parental styles clash. It may be disorganized but at dawn, before the chicken crow and footsteps sidled, their area gets squeaky clean. Upclose, it is similar to the germination of a possible US sitcom. Others brood; this class broods, but with goofy giraffe slippers on.

Case in point:

A buffet was laid for hungry earthlings. The participants knew very well that the previous servings, prepared by the kimono clique, tasted better. Coming out from the food garage, the lead actress bought a lot of Big Sheet seaweed and it proved to be the best tasting fare in the entire gastronomic tour. We had snubbed shrimps, crabs, barbecues, steaks, gelatos, golden lamps, for this.

I do wish for a lecturer to investigate on this phenomenon and how it may affect the shaping of  popular culture in the future. Our destiny hinges only on one fact: "Is happiness economically viable?" Get one hundred respondent samplings and form your conclusion with percentage highlights. Mind your indentions.

Thailand has taught me a lot of practical things, foremost of which is to laugh at yourself despite being barraged by a conservative environment. Its popular mediums are never bereft of engaging visuals and catchy lines. It taught me how to tile the floors, how to cook food with some of the ingredients lacking. It also taught me where to get good merchandise at the lowest possible price.

I thank God for being hauled off here. The finest political drama and comedy of all times converged here.

BUILDING A SCHOOL FOR A VIABLE CURRICULUM
By: Iris P. Concepcion

A good friend of mine had advised me to write about the efforts of our high school batchmates in building a school in Mindanao.

It started with an idea which culminated into fruition sans the elaborate trimmings of corporate plannings. What they possessed are good intention and a sense of community to build a concrete project that could benefit school children on a long term basis. It was initiated by Congressman Angelo Palmones (Agham Partylist) and the Notre Dame of Kidapawan Batch 83 class.

I had often communicated with these people. Aside from the usual merry making gatherings, they usually discuss about how to give faster medical assistance to people in rural areas. Another friend had been gleefully spearheading the Oplan Tuli (free circumcision)  for years now as a barangay head and while it often draws hilarious side stories, the purpose of the free ritual had been successful. Medical vaccinations for children in the area are, moreover, systematized. The batch had likewise undertaken a bloodletting activity which drew  sizable recipients this year. They are not transported parachutists who can ably discuss policies in the powerpoint level but are quite shortened when it comes to actual, deliverable, social ameliorations on the field.

Again, these people are not organized. The idea was built around  fortyish people who had thought of giving back something to the community. No, they are not actors either with stash of cash funneled to their foundations. Does good intention translate to something visible? These bunch of guys showed that it can be done, with comedic fun on the side.  I have seen their initial efforts in pictures as they placed the cement and hollow blocks themselves. I am here in Thailand and could not join the noble act of these classmates. As an aside though, I already know how to put tiles on floors. I saw how it is done in Takuapa. The curious people perhaps thought I was gallivanting with no verifiable "concepts"  filling my brain and with food only in my mind. It was informative.

I do have my sling bag on but I always notice the pavements and posts and gardens. Part of my nomadic education.

I asked how much the batch had spent in building the school. My friend told me that the buzz started off through Congressman Palmones' influence in persuading the moneyed to pour some of their profits to the project. He did not wait for his Congressional Development Fund (CDF) allocation to have this materialized. He is a respected radio broadcaster and is affiliated with radio DZMM. The point being, one need not attend a Build-A-School project symposium as patterned in other countries to make this thing work. The opening ceremony was not done in a lasvicious pageantry. The batch chipped-in food for its inauguration  and the more affluent donated roasted pig.

The building had been set and this did not stop the group from doing other worthwhile causes. Through Internet chatting, I was asked if I could pinch in inputs to have a science-based curriculum, what with the burst of materials that may be readily sourced from the web and the availability of several books on these. I said, build a credible library first. I am quite excited over the fact that an Albert Einstein descendant could teach kids in remote areas how to fly a plane. Dreams do start from the outrageousness of thoughts sometimes.

I did propound that the additional years required by the government for high school are meant to equip the students with technical knowledge, similar to those adopted in Japan and other first-world countries. Practical things such as driving, plumbing, carpentry, manufacture of radios and television sets could be taught. This is how Sony, the Japanese appliance  icon, had jumpstarted it using Japan's tecnologically-advanced workforce. I have seen the curriculum of TESDA-based trainings and was impressed by the shortened but useful subjects they had incorporated in it. Aside from medical trainings, enrollees are likewise taught foreign languages to prepare their communication skills for potential places of deployment. I think it has foresight. The preparation is based on actual groundwork and exact places of working environment, ever sensitive to the nuances of different cultures when working abroad. Even as a personal knowledge, it is impressive to hear someone from Mindanao speak Mangyan, Bisaya, Tagalog and French.

We, Filipinos, do have deepened concepts and precepts about development. With big ideas bumping everyone into creative consciousness. It takes guts to start the ball rolling though. Congressman Palmones silently worked to have this rolling even with the absence of organized funding. What use is a perfectly-managed organization, established to improve drainages, when we still see clogged canals in a far-flung barrio? It does not make sense to me. I had often wondered why the opulence of corporate brainstorming could not be translated into actual, visible public structures. We do not have a lasting brand of gadgets when we could readily imprint our Pinoy-ness in our own raw materials. We have a lot of spaces but they remain idle. We see unused drums but we do not see them as viable playgound materials for parks. We are still stuck with our bahay kubo and nipa hut concepts of ethnicity when they could be transformed to effervescent, worldclass originality. Where are our artists hiding? What is their problem? Are they given enough money to genuinely improve the visual look of our country? Are they outpriced by highly evolved technocrats? I ask again: What is the problem?


This Notre Dame batch saw the problem. It did not pass the buck to institutionalized planners. A school needs a building. How can we help? is their immediate query. How much money do we need? was the follow-up question. What is the time frame for the project to be finished? These are not consultants being bombarded by graphs and maps. They are comprised of doctors, nurses, medical technologists, housewives and entrepreneurs. They did it though, without fanfare. Their access to popularity? Only Facebook.


It can be done. Think of the possibilities if these people have access to international funding sources. Imagine what they can do to the country.


My contribution here is to provide a title to the program. I wrote:

Inauguration Of  School Building For Inclusive Education. I do not know if they used it.


It is puny. And I pride myself as an influence peddler. But for inspiration? It is tops.

As an aside:

I did ask who Christopher Lao is at the Internet. He is a good looking chap I suppose who owns messages coming out of television  five to six years ago. Official Statement from Christopher Lao:

4 August 2011

The past few days have been very disheartening for me and my family. As you know I have been a subject of a viral video that showed my helplessness during a trying moment. As it stands right now, I have several hate pages in Facebook and Twitter with hurtful and derogatory messages attacking my person. The reputation that I built the past years has been besmirched. A bad day has now turned into wounded feelings and sleepless nights for me and my family.

I have been silent the past few days as I want this to go away soon but not before saying sorry and thank you to people who matter.

I would like to apologize for my behavior that was seen on nationwide television and now on the internet. It was unfortunate that I was caught on camera immediately after an overwhelmingly stressful mishap.

I would like to again sincerely thank those who braved the flood to help a distraught stranger like me. Their selfless act reminded me of how dependable Filipinos are in times of crisis.

Lastly, I would like to thank my family, friends and all of those who showed empathy, consideration and support throughout these trying times. You have given me strength and courage to rise above and be a better person.

Sincerely yours,
Christopher Lao

IN LOVE WITH THE HAIER WASHING MACHINE AND DRYER
By: Iris P. Concepcion

I sought thee, bubbles and water/ Caressing in lilacs and jasmines/ Twigging in thy clothesline.--Myself

The insolubility of detergents, much as Thailand offers selections that are catchy, eye-popping and artful, has caught my attention since I planed in this country.

Washing detergents here are treated like pricey make-up brands. They do not look drab; they bear pretty women on their containers wearing sexy dresses and they come in different colors. I had bought one in Phang-nga that is colored pink, in powdered crystals. Even Thailand's clothing conditioners come in different sizes, upstaging each other with their catchy pictures. What is more ridiculous for a consumer who is used to see tags of these varieties at three to four times steeper back in the Philippines, Thailand's own are priced extra low. For ten baht, one can already buy a pack of a very fat detergent powder.

As a detergent partner, Haier washing machine and dryer is not smouldering hot. It does not carry cute anime pictures. It is not painted in pastel hues. Its tub is big and that is the only adjective that should do justice to it. My brother had purchased the grey color, a wise move since this is not an ornament for the living room. At first glance, it does not look promising. Once it clears the dirt off from clothes though, that is when it gets rotatingly sexy. Giselle Bundchett in square tin. It hums like a machine grinder, but softly. It is designed for industrial use and I am happy it found its way to this house. It carries the serial number 1-800-888-888 and that is only about the poppish item you can find in it.

Its spinning capabilities, with spinning timer, move like perfect robots. It gyrates at first like R2D2 projecting  his fright look. After which it sounds off like a taking-off airplane. It is a cloudy washing journey. It ends its job with a sound of a plane touching down the tarmac.

Whoever invented this washing baby should have an award for Best Functionability In A Foamy Role. I would not mind washing the clothes of Samoans, Afrikaans, Americans, British, Somalians, Japanese, Koreans, Mongolians and Chinese if I have this revolving gadget. I am a Filipino and I know how to use Haier that is purely made in Thailand.

For the topmost feature: it does not carry one, nor two, nor three, nor four but FIVE! ( exclamation point for a Jackson Pollack touch)  years of warranty service. A woman like me could find security with this add-on even with an ingrone sprouting on her right foot.

One can buy a five baht Big Sheet snacketeer at the convenience store while waiting for the clothes to dry.

A personal note to the potpourri of writers who had found me exceedingly rude:

I have read the sincerest lines of confessions and being a poor reader that I am, I connect with them through an emotional level. I am heartened to know you had spoken with the better other and found him charming. He is actually a dour fellow with a short span attention. He eats his pizza thin and does not fancy shoes. One is enough for him. You can get his coins but only if you are buying a band-aid for wound. I have likewise read that you had been bonding with the circus and had found their irksome ways worthy to be raved. Pardon their sloth and state of decadence sometimes but they had been with little, future Fulbright  fellows who need to be taught drama and poetry and good manners  minus the elaborate buffets, kayakking and candlelight dinners. I am sorry if they could not feed you prime Angus steak, they had alloted their money for pencils and notebooks. They had been bitten by mosquitoes, swarmed with hecklers and berated. If they speak ruffian-like with some of their sessions, this writer's apologies too. Knowing these people upclose, I only have one postulation to make: Would we have behaved differently if we were treated, at the onset, with tact and insight to our motives? We open our houses to everyone and expect the appliances and sofa to be the same when we get back. I presume we were not born rude. We sometimes mimick our hecklers and that could be the source of our "hood" language. We never involve our mothers in our chosen battles, they have work to attend to. We have our shortcomings, in fact, a lot of them, but never expect us to blow our own horns in our over 20, 30 or 40 years of living in this planet. We have experienced desolation and abandonment, starvation and grief on our own but they never become the sources of our own anger at the world nor our neighbors.

We likewise say sorry if we had been insensitive and disrespectful. We did not do it out of spite, that I can vouch. The triggering points are costly and they need to be spelled out right now. Sorry is as sorry does and I take it in a more valuable manner  that you have discovered my people on your own terms. I told you they could be handy at times. What you shall never lack out of these encounters is the absorption of their transformative gifts. I am a learner like you are.

And no, they are not "kuripot." They only  handle their income wisely and do not see living as a license to eat voraciously on a daily basis. A forefather told me this: "You can eat dried fish but at the end of the road, you shall likewise be given scallops." They are givers but not in an elaborate way. A reminder when you talk to the better other: He does not drink alcohol as a routine so do not offer him brandy or beer. He is not gay if he refuses the malt. He drinks Coke in can like just the President, and he does not consume the entire content. Do not expect him to swear. Unlike me, he had been bred with patience.

My sincerest apologies too if I had unruffled you. As they say, let bygones be bygones. For the country and the world: Cheers.