See you in 2013?

I mean, yanno… you never know.

I look forward to the supernova, though.

 

Twitter predicts stock market trends*

A recent study in Indiana University-Bloomington found out that “large-scale Twitter feeds are correlated to the value of the Dow Jones Industrial Average over time.”

What else can Twitter predict? The weather? Earthquakes? Volcanic eruptions? Oil price hikes? The end of the world (which got postponed)?

Exciting.

–

* drafted a loooong time ago and forgotten.

@upjourndigital

The Twitter account of my undergraduate department — the supercool UP Department of Journalism — never fails to amuse me.

“Faculty members start streaming in.” Look at how industrious our teachers are!

“Dept office opens today at 8:55am.” Punctual!

“Dep’t office closed today at 6:00pm.” And they don’t shrug off work — up to the last minute!

The account is supposed (among other things, I suppose) to generate nostalgia among us, supercool Department of Journalism alumni.

Oh, thanks for that. (But I guess I’m lucky coz I still go to CMC for my Comm Res MA classes, and “Journdept” — as we fondly call it — is just 27 steps away, so I go there almost every time. Scanning Journdept’s ceiling-to-floor bulletin board is such joy: like a Picasso done after five bottles of beer, with all its trademark notices about student protests (“WALKOUT!’), checked papers that need retrieval from teachers’ pigeonholes, award-winning students and faculty, stuff for sale, org application periods, etc.)

Whatever @upjourndigital may accomplish — such as having a random alumnus raving about it on his blog — I hope it’s for the best. The Twitter account, written in such a way, has its unique charm; at least, I’ve never seen anything like it. I can only imagine somebody at the counter (maybe our beloved Ate Raqs?), observing people coming in and out of the office and comparing those streams of faculty against the department’s schedule — and then tweeting about the event, prosaic as it may be. And then that somebody breathes in satisfaction at the great good done.

“Prof. Tessa Jazmines finished teaching the Public Information & Public Relations class for the day.” – I miss this class!

Zen Desktop

There’s poetry in an almost-empty ‘top.

Thanks to @acebonita for directing me to SimpleDesktops and Kurt to ObjectDock.

Thanks to faithful Catholics

The heated debate that was initially focused on the Reproductive Health bill has now become a conflagration of religious intolerance. “Your beliefs are medieval; your priests are predators; your pope is a lax leader; celibacy leads to sex abuse; you are bigots.” Such messages have become all too familiar, being inscribed or echoed again and again in the media, in online forums, and in other public venues.

Yet, despite all that, faithful Catholics — priests, religious, and laypeople alike — are enduring such persecution like martyrs trusting themselves to Divine Providence. Most noteworthy among them, I believe, are the bishops who often get the most flak, the pro-life leaders who dare themselves be maligned publicly, and the many ordinary Catholics who — in the course of defending their Holy Mother the Church — risk losing friendship with those who strongly support the RH bill.

As a Catholic, I would like to thank these faithful ones for strengthening my faith and love for the Church. They prove that the sign of contradiction continues, and the words of Jesus Christ rings ever louder: “If you find that the world hates you, know it has hated me before you.” And, yeah, those words about the gates of hell not prevailing against the Church also resound well.

–

I submitted this to the Inquirer. Let’s see if they publish it. Should I keep my hopes up?

I’m Sic

What better way is there to “subtly” point out the grammatical mistakes of others than putting the word “(sic)” after the alleged error?

A feisty lawyer-journalist-professor is fond of doing it on her blog, where she publishes her students’ comments on current media practices, comments which she requires them to write. Her idea was for the students students to be more critical of the media. Any alleged unethical practice the students notice on TV, radio, or the papers should be commented upon. The students would then submit their work as comment to her blog’s About page. Then she would publish them complete with the “sics” and the “quote” and the morgue-ish labels (“Student #20″) on the blog’s main page.

I took her class last sem and found it stimulating. The grade she gave me was unexpectedly grrrrreat, considering her condition.

Just for fun, I visited her blog today, and wow, she has published our class’ works, including one of mine which got sic-ed.

She is in perfect health.

Proclamation No. 1

I finally have my proposal back, including a two-pointer note from the adviser. She wants a longer, more specific list of interviewees.

Okay, fine, wurver, I saw it coming anyway.

What is disturbing, however, is the seemingly untouched-by-human-fingers pages of the proposal. Did she really read it? Or did she just flip it and went straight to the methodologies part and scanned it as though it was toilet paper? I had wanted the proposal to bleed somewhat.

Anyway, now that my adviser has given me her blessing, I’m officially on thesis mode now.

I Have Two Hands: The Left and the Write

My writing needs some workout. I’m tired noticing my tired, convoluted sentences that taste like unripe bananas. I reckon Mr. Clark can help.

I had copied-and-pasted Roy Peter Clark’s Writer’s Toolbox series a long time ago. He’s part of the Poynter Insitute where they help journalists improve their craft. So far, he has written some 50-plus writing techniques in column format (with a suggested workshop at the end) to help journalists – or any writer – write better prose. I’ve been through them a long time ago, and I think it’d be worthwhile to review them in a more in-depth manner. Mr. Clark writes gems.

I will start going through all those “tools” again, taking one of them each day. I think you can, too. Vale la pena.

Bad

Badminton is the one sport in which I am competent enough. By “competent” I mean “able to do what seem like smashes and what actually are occasional accidental drop shots that kiss the edge of the net.” It’s the sport that saw me grow up. Thanks are largely due my father who coached the local high school team and had me and my siblings as his prized protégés. We failed him, but like all other best dads (because everyone claim to have the “best dad in the world”), he doesn’t mind.

I can still remember that termite-infested book circa 1980s, where I first read about the goose feather-busting sport (I bet you didn’t know they’re goose feathers, ha!). It was an introductory book to various sports, ranging from archery to zwimming. At 10 years old with thick kinky hair, I found it interesting and even really read about those different sports.

Sure, I read much about badminton, but archery also hit me – bulls eye – and even had me create bow and arrows made of bamboo sticks and thick nylon ropes. I was Robin Hood for some time, until, I think (I can’t really remember), the bow snapped into two and one of the arrows almost hit me (it probably did and caused me mild amnesia, that’s why I can’t remember now). The Archery-Daryl fling folded up faster than it came. It was badminton – just there, always ready to excite me when all is lousy and sluggish and wet – which endured the test of time and circumstance. It was true lurve.

So when I played badminton with Jayson yesterday, I was like a pig released from the sty – except that the pig can’t hold a racket and smash the shuttlecock to smithereens. Okay, bad analogy, but you get the vague idea.

It had been more than three months since the last time I played badminton. I gulped a glass of Extra Joss (because it was a lazy Sunday afternoon), fueled myself with lots of optimism, then I lost to Jayson – 15-11, 9-15, 11-15. What a way to boost my self-steam and trample on my pride. I had a difficult time feigning a grin. Just kidding.

But I had fun. And I realized that like in any other sport, exercise is a must before challenging your friend not to cry too loudly when you’ve finished defeating him at the court in straight sets. I forgot badminton is an endurance sport; I got tired after the second set. After a couple of well-placed shots, Jayson lorded the court and won. (Actually, I let him win. Just kidding.)

Anyway, there’s a sort of sports fest coming up in two weeks and I’m competing there. Might as well exercise now and eat well and get enough sleep. Dreaming again, Daryl, dreaming again…

Storming Mt. Pulag

Last Tuesday, the Inquirer reported the death of seven people in the wake of the storm Kabayan which hit northern Luzon provinces. If, at dawn last Monday, my friends and I pursued to reach the summit of Mt. Pulag – the country’s second highest peak – that number could have been 15…

***

I woke up wrapped in three layers of clothes under a third of James’ large white mattress. Rain was lashing at the iron roof. It was 12:30 a.m., for crying out loud. And my cellphone was ringing the alarm. I killed it.

Suddenly, discouraging thoughts began flooding my mind. This makeshift bed is cozy… It’s freezing out there…Go back to sleep…

I shook them all off.

I must climb the mountain… I must climb the mountain… We’ve gone this far…

The day before, we had traveled from Baguio City for three hours to Ambangeg, Benguet (after losing ourselves to the Nueva Vizcaya side of the Cordilleras). From there, we rode a mountain jeepney (a metal monster that roars up muddy and rocky trails) for another hour to reach the ranger station at the mountain’s navel. 

My companions’ cellphones began ringing, too. I heard yawns, then limbs banging on wood. They were waking up.

Somebody rapped on the door. 

“Magandang gabi ho.” It was Mang Larry the ranger. “Sabi ho ni Ma’am Emerita [the Mt. Pulag National Park supervisor based in Ambangeg], may bagyo ho. Kabayan ang pangalan, signal number two.”

I could hear tree leaves rustling outside. 

“So hindi po kami pwedeng umakyat?”

“Hindi naman po. Pinapa-inform nya lang.” 

Tree leaves rustling outside.

“Eh yun naman pala. So akyat na tayo.” 

“S-sige po. Uh, gisingin ko lang po yung guide.”

It was to become my hike of many firsts: first night trek, first night trek under the rain, first night trek under the rain spawned by a signal-number-two storm. I knew we were up for an adventure of a lifetime. 

Then I began to coat myself with more clothes. The idea was to be warm and dry throughout the hike. I had sweaters on, then a shirt, then a jacket, then a thicker jacket, then a poncho-style raincoat. I also had jogging pants on top of cargo shorts. For my feet, I had two layers of socks plus plastic bags wrapping my feet, supposedly to keep them dry, since my shoes easily absorbed water.

The next half-hour passed by with none of us showing the faintest sign of fear of storming the highest peak in Luzon amid a storm. Mang Larry the ranger and Mang Bernard the guide observed us with amused looks. 

Duc in Noctis

At about 1:30 a.m. we launched out into the dark. I had never been more excited about hiking. I had my three-year-old Nokia 1100 at the ready, its built-in flashlight illuminating my steps. 

After a few minutes, our trail dramatically became muddier and steep. Rainwater was rushing through the trail, and it was hard to judge whether one’s next step would be on firm ground (many times I stepped on either ankle-deep muddles or quicksand-like ground, burying my whole foot). At first, I didn’t worry about my feet getting wet, thanks to the plastic bags I wrapped them with. But after an hour of vigorous walk, the plastic bags burst inside and in came the frigid water. All those effort and the ain’t-I-so-clever moment for nothing.

Soon I realized the trail was not that difficult at all. If it were not night and stormy – thus without small streams as trails – the hike would have really been “a walk at the park.” Even less difficult than Mt. Maculot in Cuenca, Batangas; indeed, Mt. Arayat is more difficult to climb. 

Of course, we did not behold breathtaking sights, either – because we couldn’t see anything at all! Our only clue of what surrounded us was our flashlights not being able to penetrate the dark: we were at the edge of a cliff most of the time. Three or four times we also crossed small waterfalls; one of them thundered so loudly, it gave me a confused feeling of fear and excitement.

The Typhoon’s Wrath 

After walking for almost three hours, interrupted by two five-minute breaks in campsites we passed by, the trees on our sides were slowly disappearing, replaced by shrubs and shin-high grasses. Finally, we reached the sloping grassland characteristic of Mt. Pulag. We were already approaching the peak! But with the trees’ foliage gone, Kabayan could now direct his wrath to us 100 percent.

It is said that on a normal cold day at Mt. Pulag, temperature can drop to five degrees Celsius. The temperature then must have been around that number. My feet were already getting numb, what with the icy water trapped in my shoes. My hands, too, were starting to hurt when I moved them. But I would rather have them hurting than to keep them still and be frostbitten. It. Was. So. Cooold. I was thankful I had several layers of clothes on underneath my raincoat (which was rather thin that strong winds eventually ripped it apart). At least my body was still dry and less cold. As for my companions, I didn’t exactly know. 

The further we climbed, the angrier the winds became. I even stopped singing “Go the Distance” and “Out There”, in fear of aggravating them by my wannabe-golden voice. I felt like walking across a retinue of giant industrial fans. Weirdly, though, I was enjoying it. Sure, it was cold and dark, with the not-so-distant probability of the wind blowing me away, what with my Fido Dido frame. But those were exactly the ingredients of an “adventure of a lifetime”! I wondered if my companions heard me screaming with delight every now and then.

Then things suddenly got serious. We were now less than four kilometers from the summit (so said a signboard). The landscape reminded me somewhat of the dead marshland where Frodo and Sam crossed to get to Mordor: wet, grassy, cold. Pulag then was worse, though; we were also climbing against the current of cold, murky floodwater. 

We were beginning to slip and fall every 22 seconds; sometimes every eight seconds. Jerico kept on telling me, “Grabeh!” and I could not make sure if he was saying it out of sincere excitement or not-so-sincere excitement or awe or fear.

I could hear Fr. Mike, our ‘sweeper’, yelling far behind me, “Go! Mooove!” Because poor Jerico would often slow down or stop walking, probably exhausted. 

“Lez go, Jerico,” I said, “we can do this!”

“Grabeh!” 

Now we could see the summit. There it was, the gloomy silhouette of a treeless area far above us. The sight gave me both relief and doubt. Relief at how near we already were. But could we really reach the peak? From where we were, it was already extremely cold, and water had already seeped into inner clothes. Strong winds had fanned the rain through our raincoats and into our jackets. Many times, the wind blew so hard that the biggest of us (I won’t say who) even lost balance and was almost thrown to one side. I don’t know how my thinness managed to keep still amid the strong winds.

Game Over 

We were getting weak. Thoughts of letting the storm pass us entered my mind. Why not spend the next few minutes under the tussocks? We can rest there and be energized to conquer Pulag when daylight comes.

It was good we didn’t do that – or we could have rested in peace forever. Symptoms of hypothermia were already beginning to show in some of my colleagues. Carlo would soon tell me he felt drunk. John said he was already worrying about how Mang Bernard would drag his corpse down. If we stopped, we would have slept to death. 

We suddenly halted when we reached a clearing. Mang Bernard spoke with Carlo, then with Fr. Mike and John.

“WE’RE GOING DOWN, EVERYBODY!” somebody yelled. I could hardly recognize the voice amid the frenetic wind and rain. “MOOOVE! GO!” Then I knew who it was. 

I was disappointed. We were already near the peak! I obeyed reluctantly.

But after a few seconds analyzing our situation, I saw the wisdom of our retreat: we would rather climb down, forget the mountain, and trample on our egos than let the storm turn us into frozen meat. 

So we descended, and one by one our flashlights died. Only three of us were left with flashlights still alive, and that’s because two of us had small-but-terrible Nokia 1100s, haha.

Meanwhile, Mang Bernard (whose light had already been extinguished) did not have much difficulty grappling in the darkness. He must have memorized the path already, besides being ideally clothed for the hike: he was wearing two yellow raincoats (not poncho-style) on top of some clothes and a black hijacker-type bonnet; he also had knee-high boots on. It must have been cozy and warm wearing those. And I bet my mangy dog’s life, Mang Bernard didn’t get wet inside. 

Down, down, down we went – passing by the same forlorn grassy landscape. Now our goal is the shelter in the wooded area of the mountain. There wind would be filtered, the cold suppressed. There we could warm ourselves.

An hour later, we reached a campsite. Mang Bernard told us there was a shelter nearby. We went for it. My heart leapt when I saw the shelter and the trees and shrubs around it. Finally here was refuge. 

Conquerors

The sun was starting to rise when we reached the wooden shelter. We began measuring the damage: Jigs had been to Antarctica, I had never seen a paler face; John dived into his bag to get his Marlboro Lights to warm his, um, innards; Fr. Mike took off his raincoat and started screaming and jumping (I joined him); James just became silent – shivering – and stood at a corner, smoking with John (I joined him for my first cigarette; yes, it was that cold, I wanted to heat my innards, too); Jerico was munching chips; while Carlo and Juanchie took turns taking swigs of the wine we brought. I realized there are many ways to heat oneself. 

In between shivers, puffs of smoke, and gulps of wine, we discussed whether to climb the peak now that the sun was up. We decided not to anymore; we were too tired, too cold…

The final descent turned out to be uneventful, except for our discovery that we had been treading dangerous cliff-side trails on our way up and didn’t realize it because of the dark. 

However, the mountain’s woodland beauty still did not escape my eyes. Plants of different colors, sizes, textures, and shapes – both on the ground or attached to trees – greeted us. But the thought of the warmth of the ranger station where we had slept was more powerful. We doubled our pace.

*** 

Sometimes I would wonder why on earth would I want to tire myself out and risk my life climbing mountains when the reward is but a few minutes of awe at the summit and then it’d be time to tire myself and risk my life again climbing down!

Um, let me answer that. I guess it’s not just about “appreciating the beauty of nature,” or clichés to that effect. Much less is it about “conquering ‘new’ lands.” Rather, it is about conquering myself – overcoming my fears and destroying my hot-air-balloon of an ego by reaching out to others. It is about reminding myself of what life and love are: a journey, a pilgrimage, marked by perseverance and hope. That, for me, is the magic of mountain climbing. That magic had been most palpable in my Mt. Pulag trek.

Now I thank God for teaching me yet again to be humble: I did not reach the summit of Mt. Pulag. But come summer of 2008, I will. God willing.