My Public Street Bath I

Woot Woot!

Ok. Here is another story of my high school madness. This is now my senior year, so I make effort in making remembrances by putting my experiences as blog entries.

Kareejil is present after one week of having fever. Of course, I missed her. Her laughs, her voice, her hugs and her very unique way of talking to her “friends”. (Guess what the quote is for). Nine students had been absent today on our section – all because of fever. Everyone is talking about A(H1N1), and some have already been making jingles about it. Many say that the probable cause of so many students being absent at once is the swine flu virus. So far, the Philippines is the top 10 country with the most cases of A(H1N1), and of course, we are alarmed. Our capital is already under low-level community outbreak, as worded by the DOH.

Back to the story. Last two weeks, our class has been divided in two groups for the biggest project yet in my high school history. We are going to make a play in English about the Greek tragedy that we have discussed in the class. The title is Antigone, which is about the title character who fought a king, buried his brother’s corpse, gets imprisoned in a cave in doing it, and committing suicide moments before her supposed freedom.

We are all looking forward in finishing the movie, but the big question is, can we? We have the acting guts, and we have the writing hands. All is perfect, that is, for a classroom role-play, but what we have here is a movie. What we need to have is: a) money and b) setting. Money is a major concern, but as children born to middle class families, we have already learned how to minimize the costs of normally extravagant plays.

Now, to the setting. We need Greece within a two mile radius from the city of Angeles. Where in the world is Greece? Some 5,000 miles from here, halfway around the globe. That is the big problem. Where can we find Greece here? And where can we find an ancient one? 85% of the play is set inside or outside an ancient Greek castle, 10% inside and outside a cave and the other 5% is on a barren field.

We have the barren field. But we do not have the other 95%. After dozens of meetings and two weekend workshops, somebody has thought of this place. The place she named was Grand Palazzo Real, and she said that it was a really grandioso place to have a play in. The interior design contains majorly of classical Greek art, and the whole rooms are decorated lavishly. She minimally described it, and I can only imagine it as a simple room with some fading cement sculptures.

This Tuesday, July 07, 2009, we decided to visit Grand Palazzo Real. (For typing convenience, I’ll call it GPR.) Kareejil asked me to go with her, and I hesitated. I asked them if they would pay my fare, and she, with Geraldyn, have agreed to treat me. They asked me four times, and I said no. But in the end, they have successfully urged me to join them.

I have no idea where we are going or what dangers am I entering. All I know is that we are going to a small function room with a big great name. We rode the first jeepney, in which I am very common with – C-point Holy Hi-way. The jeepney ride is like any other ordinary ride --the same scene, the same classmates and the same laughs.

Inside the jeepney are Kacielyn, Claudine, Jefran, Kareejil, Geraldyn and Chica – all my junior classmates.

Then, after a few minutes, we unboarded the jeepney and went to the next one. There are so many people in the streets – the normal urban scene. People are blocking roads as they walk in big groups, causing traffic jams on the cars. I did not notice any pedestrian lane, for I assumed that every inch of the road is the pedestrian lane. If jaywalking is really illegal, 99% of Angelenos will be imprisoned.

Kareejil, the oh so great tour guide who assures that she knows where to go and what to do, does not know where the terminal have gone. Did it walk? Did it hide? Or was it abducted by a giant UFO? Good thing, her husband-out-of-the-law is here, Jefran. Jefran is also our tour guide, though he rarely shares information about places we see.

As we walk more, there was a long line of students, professionals and casual people. The line is a hundred meters long by my reckoning. It is a line in a terminal where jeepneys rarely come. The route is Angeles-Manibaug, a route that I have never ridden before. I feel pity to thos students who have to suffer that kind of long line every day, because their patience is tested every time they go home.

Kareejil said that we are going to ride an orange jeepney. I have seen many before, but that was months ago. Upon hearing the word “orange jeepney”, I began thinking of yummy and tasty things. The color just stimulates my taste buds.

And yes! There is the terminal of the orange jeepneys. The route is Sunset, and I already forgot the words after the dash. We are going to the end of the world, where the sun is setting.

The barker told us that we could all sit comfortably inside the jeepney. Of course, with our foolish belief on the barker, and with time not on our hands, we boarded the jeep and realized that we have made a mistake. One cannot sit. We are like elementary students trying to fit ourselves inside the jeepney service. We are screaming and laughing at the same time, and I do not know how we are able to face people without shame. I guess that is what natural to us.

As usual, barkers are liars when it comes to passenger comfort. They make jeepneys a moving can of vacuum-sealed tightly packed sardines. Inside the Filipino jeepney, you’ll feel the heat, the exhaustion, the discomfort and the total bonding and happiness.

The ride is long. We passed through Carmenville, a community that I have never been inside before. Carmenville can be described as a silence inside a noisy city, a small gateway for some little meditation. The roads are wide and amazingly clean. The neighborhood is really quiet – showing the exceptional discipline of the people here. There are also many road humps, which I enjoy a lot.

Another amazing thing that I have noticed is that the jeepney is quieter and calmer than any jeep I have been before. Whenever a jeepney stops for a hump ahead, the vehicle’s engine is in total silence, unlike most jeepneys that continue their full-frictioned vibration when in standstill. The ride is also smooth. It does not feel like you are crossing a very rocky road when in fact, you are crossing smooth ice.

We are so amazed by the new scene – except for Jefran, who lectures us to hide the fact that we are newbies in this part of the city. Kareejil, our spokeswoman, asked the driver to bring us to GPR.

He did it, and he dropped us at the very gate of GPR. The gate looks old, and it seems like it has been subject to the weather’s fury for ages. Inside, there is a road, which I don’t know where it leads. There is a sign outside: Grand Palazzo Real.

We entered, without any permission from anyone. There is no guard outside. It seems like everyone is welcome inside. Quickly, we have seen many probable settings for different scenes. Chica’s mind is already overloading with ideas for the play, while I am looking for the famous scrolled pillars of Parthenon.

As we walk down the straight road, I can see that Greek art is very influential in the overall design of the venue. There are sculptures of men and women on their perfect forms, many half-naked. There are fountains with infant and female sculptures in it, but these fountains were not working when we came. It gave me a feeling that this place will be abandoned soon.

Geraldyn is telling us how she got here before. She told us of a marriage reception. She said that at night, the whole GPR is a sparkling gem when viewed from the sky. All the walkways are alight, and the fountains are abundant in water.

Led by her, we turned left to the sandy road. There is a church, and the gardening beside it is excellent. The leaves are of different colors, like on entrances of high class subdivisions.

There is a wide field following the turn, and from afar, I can see a café and some sculptures standing side by side as if they seemingly guard an entrance. We approached the entrance, following the trail of firmly stepped grass, but as soon as we drew near, the people inside the café looked at us, some even standing to recognize us...

The First Day of Classes II

Now, time to begin my new chapter, and surprisingly, it began just seconds after my freshman buddy closed her homeroom door. I heard someone calling me. I heard a familiar voice, and upon locating the source, I saw Patrick and Kevin smiling at me. Of course, I waved and smiled, but I did not scream, for I was still in the first year corridor. I do not want to be reproached by a teacher at this very early in the school year.

They are on the Steel Kubo, and I was about a dozen feet away from them. I decided not to go to them, for to approach them, I would have to cross like seven mountains, seven bridges and experience the ten plagues.

I am excited to see my new classroom. Last year, the classroom of all fourth year students are on the Administration Building’s second floor. Argh. I hate the place. Each room has no comfort room, an amenity that was provided on my first three years here. The only available comfort room is hellishly smelly, and if you’ll try to release nature there, it takes guts, a strong lungs, an appetite for exotic food, an aversion of good fragrance and a sturdy immune system for you to stay alive. I swear, it’s HELL.

I tried to use it when I was in third year, because our Drum and Lyre room is just two doors away from the comfort room. The atmosphere was very humid and unpleasant. The green tiles on the wall seems like moss and fungi to me. The toilet bowl even holds a dark secret beneath its murky waters, and I’m telling you, you do not want to know what is inside there! The only shield I have was colds, making my sense of smell inactive at that time.

Speaking of Drum and Lyre, on my way up, I saw Sarah and Sharmaine, two of my co-lyrists. Of course, another wave, and another smile. I asked them if they know where the rooms of fourth year students are, and she confirmed that the rooms are upstairs. I went up, but there was only a few outside, including Mrs. Alfonso.

Mrs. Alfonso was our guardian back in RSPC (Regional Schools Press Conference). She is the most motherly of all the teachers I have seen in the school. She guided us for two years, RSPC 2007 and 2008. I’ll describe her as kind and very, very thoughtful. She doesn’t want any trouble, and safety is one of her main concerns. She always sees to it that everyone’s well-being is ensured. But, she is so so so strict.

I entered the classroom, expecting a hero’s welcome. I missed the first day of classes back when I was in second year. When I climbed up the stairs, everyone was hugging me and greeting me, as if I am Manny Pacquiao who won a million dollars in Vegas.

I knocked at the wooden door and pushed it calmly. The door did not open. It was stiff and it needs force to be opened. After an effortful push, the door let loose, revealing my forcing face to both my new and old classmates. Upon opening the door, a new world was revealed. The atmosphere was more professional, and the edges look more matured. The lights gave a sense of challenge, while the podium signified excellence. The words “IV-Ampere” in the wooden door told me that I am in the most prestigious section in the high school department. We are the most looked-up to, and we are the paragons of everyone.

Oh, and I had dreamt of this since I was in first year. Whenever I see those tall senior students passing by our side, there was a sense of amazement of how great they were. When they say that they are from IV-Ampere, I just stood in awe thinking of many more questions to ask them about the section. The people of IV-Ampere are the most famed, the most decorated and the most mentioned. They are the stars.

OK. And here I am, and I picked the chair on where to seat. I expected a hero’s welcome, but I was merely a wind who passed by. As I can recall, only two greeted me a “hi” on the moment they saw me, and the others just said it after some minutes. Some did not even greet me. The first person I noticed was Paul, for his crazy voice is infesting the silence of the room, as what he always does. He is telling barber shop stories again, and cracking some of his scripted humor to everyone.

I sat, and joined the chat by myself. Paul asked me to sit beside him, and for a while, the annoying noise I despised for some time, was suddenly cherished by my ears. Oh, I missed them.

The number of people continued to increase, and one by one, new faces enter and old faces rejoin my happy eyes. Every creak of the wooden door is pleasant music to me, for it is like a singing doorbell telling you that there is another visitor in your life. Though the hero’s welcome I expected didn’t come to see me, the experience is more than enough for me.

Ian was still joking, as what he always does last year. His jokes on the first day were much more obvious and funny, as the previous great jokers of the class have been displaced to the other sections, thus making the comical competition for him a piece of cake. He is setting the new standards of jokes in the classroom, but one of his jokes gave us our first fright.

Our new adviser, Mrs. Alfonso, came inside with an angry face. We are clueless as to what had caused that face to appear so prominently to her, and then, she angrily spoke these words: “Ayoko sa lahat ang ginagaya ako. (Of all people, what I don’t like are those who insultingly imitate me.)” After saying those fierce words in the classroom, she turned her back and slammed the door.

The noise was turned into sheer blankness, as if Silence has visited us all. The first one to break it was Vhinna, through her whisper, which always turns out to be heard by many. “Sino yun?” she said, asking on who was our new adviser reproaching.

Err. The flag ceremony is in minutes, and I am wondering why the teachers are not calling me. I finished first last year, and I expected a part in the first flag ceremony of the school year, or else, I’ll suspect that the March 25 tragedy have taken its toll. Our new adviser asked me to line the whole class up, as I was the president of the first section last year.

I calmly shouted that we all shall line up for the flag ceremony, and they all slowly followed me. I reached our place with only a few people present, and from that moment on, a series of images from the past flashed as if they are in a rolling filmstrip.

Exactly three years ago, well, not exact, but almost exact, I fell in line in this very place, touching the steel wires that fence us from the elementary. I was a “totoy” back then, no self-consciousness, for all I care about was seeing things, and not those people who see me. I have no high school friends then, and the real definition of friendship was still unclear to me. Happiness is still confined in watching TV and playing outside, and independence was still out of my vocabulary.

And everything was a living memory. The traditional flag ceremony resumed normally. The same old prayer, the same old national anthem, the same old oath, the same old school hymn, the same old mission and vision. Oh, how I missed this! But I was kinda sad. I thought I was going to lead in the flag ceremony but I was just a little too late. Sigh.

Anyways, it is the start of a new year. I’m now in fourth year level, 365 days away from my college life. It will be a new novel, but today, I’ll just focus on the last chapter of the happiest novel in my life so far.

The First Day of Classes

Oh at last, after the long wait, which is about two grueling months, it is now the start of the school year at last! Boy, I was excited! I have prepared everything that is available, and I have practiced my English grammar this summer. I have been dreaming of my classmates, and my classmates-to-be, my adviser-to-be and my teachers-to-be.

The last night of the vacation came, and I have enjoyed the last longest sleep that I’ll have the night before. I have been planning of bringing the Hole in the Wall dance craze to our classroom, and to socialize quickly with the transferees. I have been wondering who our adviser will be. A rumor has it that it will be Mrs. Dungca, our second year adviser. I have also been thinking about the impression to us by our teachers, and I wonder if the March 25 tragedy will greatly affect their attitude on us.

The sunrise of June 15 arrived, and I was already fast awake. I have already eaten my breakfast, which makes me ask myself, am I too excited? My heart is always jumping a beat, for excitement really fills it up. I miss everyone in our III-Gold class, and I’m sure that the first day will be a reunion to all of us.

I’m a senior now, and I am expecting that we’ll win most of the contests in the school, including the long-coveted Intrams Overall Championship. I can’t also forget our defeat last English Week on our Speech Choir. Argh. Those seniors really are experts.

After taking my bath and brushing my teeth, I’m now into wearing our epic uniform. Woot! We are famous for this, the uniform, I just don’t know if that fame is positive or negative. I wore my very long socks, which reached some five inches above the ankle. I was disappointed upon seeing my polo shirt. What the hell is that red circle doing there? What is that “G”? Our year-level patches are now color-coded, and now comes on letters, not on Roman or Arabic numerals.

By 6:15, I was already set, 45 minutes in advance of our Flag Ceremony, (and take note that the Flag Ceremony still does not start at exactly 7:00, maybe at 7:05 or 7:10?). I was noted to service my mother’s friend’s daughter – in short, my “friend”. She is an incoming freshman in my school.

Waiting for the jeepney was such a pleasure. I enjoy seeing the morning sunshine and the bustle of the community in the morning. I miss seeing those full, greedy and smoke-belching jeepneys, and those enthusiastic student-commuters.

The first jeep that passed was full, so we waited for the second jeep. The second jeep was half-full all throughout the trip, as the first jeep had already sucked up the remaining commuters. And there, I said the lines that I missed so much… “bayad po!” I was happy on the jeepney, as I am happy anywhere. I saw the façade of the Mt. Arayat contrasting with the sunrise-tainted sky. I saw the distraught face of the driver upon seeing the hefty P100 bill. I saw the homeless around Main Gate sleeping on the grass. I heard the never-dying screams of the terminal barker, using his unclassified charisma in getting commuters. Oh, how I missed the urban scene.

Upon unboarding the jeep, I saw that traffic enforcer again. He is the exact traffic enforcer that we have played a Christmas carol on our caroling night at Windchime (our drum and lyre organization). As usual, his face looks like he has eaten twenty calamansis. He stands on the middle of the road, amidst all the turtle-paced jeepneys and DIY-looking bicycles, and his face is being blocked by the black smoke.

And towering the clouds is our new building, the IT (Information Technology) building. The glass windows, the blue theme, the revolving cube, the air-conditioned lobby – they are all said to be a part of it, but I only see a few of them. That building is five months delayed, and who knows, it might even be unfinished after this year’s third year batch have graduated. The rotating cube is still not rotating, and the logo is still on fabrication at the ground floor.

I noticed that there was a great crowd of students on the gate. As I drew nearer, holding the hand of my little female companion, I also saw the face of Mrs. Dungca, our adviser-to-be-in-rumors, standing and seemingly observing the whole student mass as they cross the pedestrian lane. What does she have to do with it? Is she waiting for someone? Err, I decided to just move on.

And what the hell was this again? A long line on the very first day? As I can remember, this was also the scene last year, when the swiping and swiping of IDs were still available. Some transferees maybe are not used to the swiping that’s why they made the line long, not to mention the clumsy elementary students and the some fatuous high school students.

This year, the scene was different. The swiping stations were absent, and it is not us that swipes, we are now the ones being swiped at. The A(H1N1) really scared the cats out of the schools, and here we are, being injected with some weird looking temperature measuring devices in our ear opening. I was thinking if they are just transmitting the virus, this time, ear-to-ear transmission. I can’t imagine a yellow mass of mucus from a stranger to be inserted into my ears. Thinking of it, I asked my freshman buddy to be in front of me, applying the rule of “Ladies First” opportunistically. At least, if I got H1N1, I know where it came from. (oh, evil!). I really forgot to clean my ears that day, unlucky for the woman behind me.

Here I go again, walking the same pavement that I walked three years ago. Back then I was a freshman, but today, I am a senior. I have changed a lot, from being an uncivilized shame bag, to a *no comment*. It is like watching the evolution of man in years. Wow. This insititution has changed me in all aspects of my life. :D

I was surprised to see our new “Kubo”. Actually, it was kubo (hut) before, but today, it stands on steel and is roofed on steel. Even the kubo got its technological makeover. The stalls are different, and it looks more organized and cleaner than what was in the past years. I wonder what the new treats are.

I asked my “friend” on what was her top when she graduated elementary. She said he graduated with honors, and I said she should be on Access, the star section in the first year level. I went directly to Access, as what I did when I was in first year. Back on first year, I graduated a valedictorian, and upon coming to school, I expected that my section will be Computer (the first section on that day), and my expectations were right.

I looked at the list of the students on the first year level. I did not see her name. I checked her ID card to verify her name and reviewed the list again. Confirmed. She was not in the first section. That would be heart-breaking for me, I don’t know if she felt the way I felt for her. Looking at Byte’s list was another disappointment. She was not also there.

I assumed that if not Byte, she should be in Cobol, a section named after a programming language. I checked her name, browsing to the letter M of the girls’ names. She was not really there. I jokingly said that they forgot to type her name and she should just go home and wait until they have typed her name.

Err. Of course, after searching the first three sections, I’ll go down to the last four section. And there I saw the window with a sticked bond paper, “I-Desktop”. Scanning through the names, I quickly saw her name, and I said that this is her room and she could enter. She did not said a word. I don’t know if she was disappointed by her section or not. Not a word. She just entered a new chapter in her life – her high school life. Joy was to me for being a part of her first day in her life’s new chapter.

Now, time to begin my new chapter,

Scream to the South Wind

The seven seas roared upon me;

The seven lands shook abruptly;

The silver clouds flooded my heart,

Wondering why are we apart.

The seven kings banished me out;

The seven roads headed me south;

The bright North Star is not in sight,

In tears I tuck to sleep tonight.

The seven towns threatened my life;

The seven knights fought me a-knife;

My blood was spilled, and I was caged,

My love, I’ll die at sunset’s stage.

The seven hours passed, the sun is red.

The guns are coming; my life’s a thread.

The seven shots banged, my soul was pinned.

Three words I scream to the south wind.

Scream to the South Wind is a story of a medieval man finding her lost love. He went far and wide and even encountered danger on different kingdoms. Alone, he was helpless against the danger, and was imprisoned for trespassing on their territory. His journey ended up in death, without even seeing his lady. His last three words are, of course, I LOVE YOU. enjoy.

We Need Music to Survive

Boston – One of my parents' deepest fears, I suspect, is that society would not value me as a musician. I remember my mother's reaction when I announced my decision to study music instead of medicine: "You're wasting your SAT scores!" My parents love music, but at the time they were unclear about its value.

The confusion is understandable: We put music in the "arts and entertainment" section of the newspaper. But music often has little to do with entertainment. Quite the opposite.

The ancient Greeks had a fascinating way of articulating how music works. In their quadrivium – geometry, arithmetic, astronomy, and music – astronomy and music are two sides of the same coin. Astronomy describes relationships between observable, external, permanent objects.

Music illuminates relationships between invisible, internal, transient objects. I imagine us having internal planets, constellations of complicated thoughts and feelings. Music finds the invisible pieces inside our hearts and souls and helps describe the position of things inside us, like a telescope that looks in rather than out.

In June 1940, French composer Olivier Messiaen was captured by the Germans and sent to a prisoner-of-war camp. There, he finished a quartet for piano, cello, violin, and clarinet, and performed it, with three other imprisoned musicians, for the inmates and guards of that camp. The piece ("Quartet for the End of Time") is arguably one of the greatest successes in the history of music.

Given what we have since learned about life under Nazi occupation, why would anyone write music there? If you're just trying to stay alive, why bother with music? And yet – even from concentration camps themselves, we have surviving evidence of poetry, music, and visual art – many people made art. Why?

Art must be, somehow, essential for life. In fact, art is part of survival; art is part of the human spirit, an unquenchable expression of who we are; art is one of the ways in which we say, "I am alive, and my life has meaning."

On Sept. 11, 2001, I was a resident of Manhattan. Later that day I reached a new understanding of my art. Given the day's events, the idea of playing the piano seemed absurd, disrespectful, and pointless. Amid ambulances, firefighters, and fighter jets, I heard an inner voice ask: "Why am I here? What place has a musician in this moment?"

Then I saw how we survived. The first group activity in my neighborhood that night was singing. People sang. They sang around firehouses; they sang "We Shall Overcome," "America the Beautiful," "The Star-Spangled Banner"; they sang songs learned in elementary school, which some hadn't sung since then.

Within days, we gathered at Lincoln Center for the Brahms Requiem. Along with firefighters and fighter jets, artists were "first responders" in this disaster, too. The military secured our airspace, but musicians led the recovery. In measuring the revival of New York, the return of Broadway – another art form – was as significant a milestone as the reopening of the stock markets.

I now understand that music is not part of "arts and entertainment." It's not a luxury, something we fund from budget leftovers. Music is a basic need of human survival. Music is one of the ways we make sense of things, a way to express feelings when we have no words, a way to understand things with our hearts when we cannot grasp them with our minds. Music is the language we choose when we are speechless.

Imagine a graduation with absolutely no music – or a wedding, a presidential inauguration, or a service celebrating the life and death of a close friend – imagine these with no music whatsoever. What's missing – entertainment? Hardly.

What's missing is the capacity to meaningfully experience these events, as though eating great food without tasting it. Music functions as a container for experience – it augments capacity to grasp complex things. Without music, the events of our lives slip like water through cupped hands. Music increases our capacity to hold life experiences, to celebrate them, to survive them.

The performance I think of as my most important concert took place in a nursing home in a small Midwestern town. I was playing with a dear friend of mine, a violinist. We began with Aaron Copland's "Sonata," which was written during World War II and dedicated to a young pilot who was shot down during the war.

Midway through the piece, an elderly man seated in a wheelchair near the front of the concert hall began to weep. After we finished, we mentioned that the piece was dedicated to a downed pilot. The man became so disturbed he had to leave the auditorium, but showed up backstage afterward, tears and all, to explain himself.

He told us that during World War II, as a pilot, he was in an aerial combat situation where one of his team's planes was hit. He watched his friend bail out and his parachute open. But the Japanese planes returned and machine-gunned across the parachute chords, separating the parachute from the pilot. He then watched his friend drop away into the ocean, lost. He said he had not thought about that for years, but during that first piece of music we played, this memory returned to him so vividly that it was as though he was reliving it.

How did Copland manage to capture that picture of internal planets so clearly?

People walk into concert halls as they walk into emergency rooms, in need of healing. They may bring a broken body to a hospital, but they often bring with them to the concert a mind that is confused, a heart that is overwhelmed, a soul that is weary. Whether they go out whole again depends partly on how well musicians do their craft.

A musician is more of a paramedic than an entertainer. I'm not interested in entertaining you; I'm interested in keeping you alive. Fully alive. We're a lot like cardiac surgeons; we hold people's hearts in our hands every day. We just use different instruments.

What should we expect from young people who choose a future in music? Frankly, I expect them to save the planet.

If there is a future wave of wellness, of harmony, of peace, an end to war, mutual understanding, equality, fairness, I don't expect it to come from a government, a military force, or a corporation.

If there is a future of peace for humankind, if we are to have an understanding of how these invisible, internal things should fit together, I expect it will come from the artists, because that's what we do.

As we did in the Nazi camps and on the evening of 9/11, the artists are the ones who might be able to help us with our internal, invisible lives.

Karl Paulnack is a pianist and director of the music division at the Boston Conservatory. This essay is adapted from a welcome speech he gave to incoming freshman.

Full Credits goes to

Karl Paulnack

the Christian Science Monitor

Yahoo! News

http://news.yahoo.com/s/csm/20090604/cm_csm/ypaulnackweb