Original Title: I Survive
Author: Tony D. Igacalinos
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Exactly two years ago, April 15, I took the vow of a married life, a vow far from the previous vocation I was contemplating on--priesthood. But how far apart they are, or, are they really far apart?

Maybe yes, because priesthood, for all its purported "sacredness," is devoid not only of sex; more profoundly, it is devoid of real life struggles (that are sometimes bloody), pains, frustrations, and depressions that almost always characterize married life in innumerable instances. Okay, priests took part in mobbish activities being parlayed as citizens actions but these hardly qualify as real life struggles. This solidarity kuno with the masang Pilipino is pure bull@#$$!

Let's move on. First, sex is mentioned not because priests don't know anything about it. On the contrary, many priests are very good at it, whether they do it with a male or with a female partner. Probably four in 10 Filipino Catholics, at least those who know some priests, could tell you about a priest who is having sexual affairs, again, either with a male or female partner.

In the institution where I once belonged, sex among and between males, i.e. priest-to-priest, priest-to-male student, was more prevalent than sex between opposite sexes. A story was even told about these two priests caught offhand kissing one steamy Saturday night, right in the living room of the storied Father's House. The witness, or the one who caught them, was the student council president. He had gone to the Father's House to show the VCD titles to be shown that night for their (the priests') approval. The fathers were the MTRCB of that institution, so they had to approve for viewing movies that we students with raging hormones wanted to view. Unfortunately for them, the council president did not knock first before entering. So unbiblical was he, I would tease him later, about his "revelation." But he could have a different version or understanding of that biblical knocking: knock and you shall be opened, open and you shall be knocked out! It was a knock out, indeed!

But there was an aberration to the usual male-on-male sex in that institution as another priest was rumored to have trysts with one of the lavanderas there. It turned out the rumor was true! One early morning around 4 AM, the kusinero was surprised to see the priest emerging from the washroom in such unholy hour. He did not pay much attention and the priest casually told him he was trying to fix some leaking pipes. Good gracious, padre tubero, you can have it fixed by someone later in the day, right? A couple of minutes later, the subject laundrywoman emerged from the same washroom and hurriedly made her way to the exit without a word. The kusinero was baffled, to say the least. He thought the leak was a major one it required two people to fix it pronto! That incident earned the leaking, este, the plumbing priest the infamous monicker—tuberong walang gamit. I contested the description by arguing that he has with him a lethal plumbing tool built right in between his legs. I was right; a few months later, poor lavandera was “dismissed” for the better. Come December, one of my classmates who had gone home for vacation and who happened to be kababaryo of tuberong walang gamit saw the poor lavandera in their barrio with her tummy bloating. Bad plumbing!

I can fill all the allowable space within this post with stories of male-to-male sex in that place we, former wards, now call it The Hill, but I'd rather go for the deserve-the-best-for-last route. If you can wait any further, I am collaborating on a book that we hope to publish sometime this year. The book, of course, will contain stories of struggles and strangles of you-know-what. Seriously, we are trying to tell our stories, a no-holds-barred telling of the story of everything we know about The Hill from an insider's point of view, stories that will guarantee to arouse and enrage the reader, depending of course of his/her preferences, sexual or otherwise.

So much for the plug, the bottom line here as far as priests and sex go: priests, like any average male, craves for sex. There is nothing abnormal and disturbing about this, only that some of them lack discretion (when performing it, especially with their male partners.)

Priests sire babies, save for those who lacked the numbers (sperm count), and mostly support them and their mothers later on, even sending the kids to Catholic schools where female students were exhorted to keep their hymen intact until the first night after their wedding. In the diocese where I came from, an acquaintance once told me that 80% of our priests were carrying out affairs, mostly with women (thank God!). I'm not sure as of this writing what's the percentage like these days. But I know several of them who have sired children who were forced to spend their formative years with their mothers, away from their "fathers."

Lest I be accused of bastardizing the “sanctity” of the priestly vocation (one priest friend once told me the ‘sanc’ is now gone’ only ‘tity’ remains), I would like to make it clear that I still have respect left for some well-meaning priests who are trying to make a difference in their chosen vocations in the context of the oppressively antiquated and equally pretentious hierarchical church. I believe that priestly institution sorely needs an updating for it to be able to respond effectively and efficiently to the current realities and challenges that shape and influence our world today and the future.

Unlike priesthood, marriage is more attuned to reality if we go by how people who profess this vocation deal and respond with the daily realities and challenges of poverty, homelessness, joblessness brought about by severely contracting economies worldwide, and helplessness in the face of inhumanity. A multitude of those who profess this vocation worry about their existence on a daily basis. To them, salvation is rice on the table, minus the ulam and dessert. Shelter and clothing are options, not standard features. Of course, they could opt but that would cost more.

Marriage is not just about sex; it is also about sharing the bills and equal responsibility of raising responsible children to become responsible citizens later on. Marriage has its own perks and rewards, but it also has its fair share of “punishments.”

Just think of your personal exemptions when paying your taxes to the BIR; but remember to be home by 12 PM. Otherwise . . .

Unlike marriage, priestly vocation comes loaded with features not found or not available in marriage. When Padre Dominic or Ignacio moralize about poverty and hunger and the need to do more to lessen these evils, they are speaking from a position of comfort. Let me simplify: they are telling you to follow what they preach, and not what they do! So unchristian that Gandhi once declared “I love you Christ, but I hate you Christians.”

You may ask why I chose a featureless vocation. My answer: I’m a realist and while I live in the NOW, I nurture a simple vision of an egalitarian future although I’m aware this is next to impossible. I could stand the indifference and I choose to be as human as possible, minus the pretentions of sanctity. I find more colors and hues in marriage; I only saw black and white before, and got close to becoming blind. And though it came late, I realized that the convento or any of its social extentions is such a small place to party and play. I don’t believe in ecclesiastical power, much more bask in its glory, although it is very much in play in the land of Gaudencio and Gloria and their gang of zealous

Next post, I will be writing on sex and tax. Interesting? Share your thoughts.

Originally posted at: http://bukidnonhome.blogspot.com

Date: April 16, 2009

First, I would like to apologize for not posting for awhile. I was so busy with my works and I seldom found time updating some of my blogs. Sorry folks.

I knew, I've lost some of you, but please bear with me until new year. Rest assured, I will be posting more often.

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This is not related to my experiences inside the seminary but what I am going to say today was my perennial experience eversince I learned to hear masses, may it be on Sundays or ordinary days.

For sure, you will see more of this during this advent season, people tripping around the altar, acting holier than the Holy.

I will say my apology in advance for those people who will be hit with this. Have you ever seen laity toing and froing around the altar during masses? If yes, what can you say about him/her?

It is annoying to note that though some of these laity people helped a lot in the administration of some churches activities, some are going overboard or overdoing it. And it is disgusting.

So, there must be clear lines to be drawn between the role of the laity and the role of the priest. I know, there should be. But, sometimes, these (the lines) are becoming dimmer as days go by.

I’ve noticed that laities were and are fond of going to Mass, if they can get to a church before nightfall and the church has not been padlocked to the faithful) and to receive sacraments (Oh, I mean, giving the Holy Communion to those churchgoers who stuck their tongue like licking those dicks) and afterwhich genuflecting and making the signs of the cross several times, which were and obviously are unnecessary, during masses.

As I’ve noticed, these laities are happy to help with practical matters in the church administration such as, but not limited to, going through accounts and listings of people who haven’t gave their monthly tithes, answering phones and sometime managing diaries (?).

They loved to be around the priest and loved to be at his disposal all the time and to even making themselves available looking after the holy grounds of the church.

Whew! I do appreciate their help but they are not really comfortable to be with while tripping around on the altar and getting in the way of the Mass. And of course, some are taking on busy-body roles that waste the Church’s money and these pseudo-roles, mostly or usually, end in disasters as bad as their pseudo advices. What the hell?

I’ve seen these pseudo holies as the most mean-spirited people in the parish and come to think of it, they are the ones who most likely to stand with their arms folded as they line up for Communion.

And the worst was this, this pseudo who was helping to prepare couples for marriage. He took his anointment as excuse to seduce a future bride.

How was that? I mean, this post?

While reading a newspaper today, I was like a person who lost his mind, insane, that's it.

It seems that people are lingering on the hardships of people who suffered and still suffering from the onslaughts of typhoons Ondoy and Pepeng. Filipino politicians are mudslinging, blaming one after the other. It is insane to hear or read that Local Executives are given deadlines to clean, repair and put order on their own turfs by no other than the President of the Republic. (Sigh)

Some also are mulling on filing civil and criminal charges on these executives. So be it. File the cases if there are cases to be filed. Don't tell it to the marines and media people. Just do it. Act first before you talk. If these executives could not execute, then they should not be there sitting at their office after all. They don't deserve to be there.

Do No Harm!

As I continuously browsing the paper of its nonsense contents, I came across 1/16th of space bannering the title: Do No Harm. Its is a letter of the Chairman of Alyansa ng Maralitang Pilipino. If you missed it, here's the letter:

"The lack of planning in urban development is a major contention which caused the massive flooding. Part of this urban planning is the need of decent shelter for the poor. But since the government fails to recognize the value of the poor in urban development, we have no option but to live in danger areas.

We were never anti-development as this elite government projects. We believe that we have the right for a decent shelter instead of forcible relocation in some area without employment or access to livelihood. Decent shelter is a basic policy of the government that Secretary of Defense Gilberto Teodoro Jr. should have known as he aspires to head the state.

The Filipino unity is inspiring, we know that we are not facing the tragedy of tropical storm Ondoy alone. But then, since we are from the danger zone, the government should not put us in harm by putting us in the death zone." (The Philippine Star, 07 October 2009, pp. 19)

Well said. From the letter above, we could discern that people are massing to urban areas to look for jobs, employments that could give them foods on the table, to achieve their aspirations in life and to have a decent-memorable means of living. Do them a favor, give them enough opportunities to live and continue dreaming good lives. Give them employment.

Yes, give them employment. Decentralize the capital, spread the opportunities, put factories, offices, colleges outside the capital. People will follow where opportunities are. That is the simple solution. Instead of blaming one after the other, we shall dig the root causes of these adversities. People want decent means of living, that's it.

Do us no harm anymore. Implement REAL LAND REFORM NOW!

As the water brought by Ondoy can't sink in yet, so as the emotions, griefs, helplessness as well as blames and pinpointing.

I heard these lines, many times: IT'S GOD'S WRATH. IT'S AN ACT OF GOD. Whoa! My Holy Golly!

Do you really believe that God forsakes His people? Can you not spare your God and give Him rest?

I share the griefs and losses of my fellow citizens of this forsaken republic. And I,too, admire how Filipinos acted as one to save and to console those badly affected by this typhoon that brought gallons of rain unparalleled for over 40 years. That was the true people power that can't be usurped by anybody. Ooops!

Err, it was usurped by some, I think, by blatantly announcing their charitable acts specifically embodied through this equally inept host of a mundane noontime TV show who made poor people as laughing stocks.

Moreover, at the height of this trying times, some people took advantages of this devastating event for their selfish agenda. One Filipino saintly ex-pat posted at Facebook wall (the account was closed immediately, see print screen here): You deserved this, you sinners! One Korean ugly ducking also tweeted (see print screen here also): I wish the rain continues and kill those Filipino monkeys. Well, this is the problem of baptizing or christianizing our poverty: blessed are the poor and blessed are those who wept for they will inherit a kingdom. Preach and act. Tax your church and give them away to the poor.

Whew! When you are devastated, then you are a sinner? What a lie?!

And... at least, here in the Philippines, monkeys knew how to watch korean telenovelas, films with cinematographies that insult the art of creating motion pictures.

These unsolicited and ill-advised shout outs drew numerous reactions, equally nonsense, time-consuming diatribes, thus, creating apathy instead of sympathy. What a heck?!

Heck again! I should not be writing this nonsense article.

What I would like to put in here is this: Ondoy showcases our inefficiencies! That's all.

This is not God's wrath. Period!

Who do you think you are to blame your God? It is your fault to live in an inefficient system of government who can't even have a good urban planning and who have no will power to decongest thickly populated areas. This is also the fault of those people who preach salvations in hardship! WTF!

The Christian God commanded man to be guardian of the world, not ruler of the world. Man is the custodian of nature, not destroyer of nature.

Another thing, if you have brain, your God commanded you to build your house on top of a rock, not on top of a creek! Damn!

Well, I will turn this rant to those equally inefficient lawmakers, planners, administrators, etc. If you have brain, again, why can you not decentralize Manila? Why can you not put national central offices at Pangasinan, Cebu, Cagayan de Oro? Why can you not limit numbers of factories in Manila and let those businessmen put their factories outside Manila?

If government is decentralized, people could be spread and that will decongest the Capital. People could find opportunities at their own regions. Every region could invite businessmen to put their factories, offices, call centers, colleges and universities outside the Capital. When there are equal opportunities among regions, people will not troop to Manila and will not build their house on top of creeks, rivers and waterways. My golly, leave those water tributaries alone!

And give those golf courses, too, to poor and let them build their homes there. Playing golf could lead to corruption. Can you not remember Abalos anymore?

Put opportunities outside Manila and people will desert that hellish capital and let those crocs near the famous Pasig river stink.

Lastly, those of you who are not Taga-ilog, leave those Taga-Ilog alone there.

Enough for now.

PS. My next post will banged on the systematic inculturation that also causes flooding. Padaananyo!

This is long overdue. I should be ashamed of not recognizing it immediately.

Have you ever noticed the logo up above and some of the 125X125 banners at my sidebars? If yes, do you like it?

Whether you like it or hate it, I would be thanking the person who made those logo and banners flying here at my site.

Ka Eli, I fondly called him this name, as some people also call me Ka Loren.

The 'Ka' derives from 'Kakang', an Ilocano word for older siblings or word usually used to honor somebody older than you; or 'Kasama' means comrade, may it be in arms, social, political, spiritual or in cultural struggles. Whatever 'Ka' means to you, I don't care but I loved the 'Ka' before my name and I loved calling people's names with this prefix.

Ka Eli is a painter, a digital artist, a 'laro ng lahi' advocate, a radical who loves to paint traditional Filipino games and traditional Filipino farming tools. You may know him more in this article "Lost Youth on Canvas" published at Manila Times penned by Ms. Sherma Benosa of BilingualPen.com.

Ka Eli maintains a site called Blographics. Visit him and know more about his work.

Thank you Ka Eli.

Thom Rainer, President of LifeWay Christian Resources revealed last month, in his article, some of his lessons learned from his 20 years of consultations and dealing to and with more than 500 churches. He revealed four recurring themes why churches are struggling:

Leadership

He revealed that though church leaders were well trained theologically and biblically, they were still in trouble because of poor leadership skills and poor interpersonal skills. These leaders were not trained enough to lead an organization or deal with people, he asserted.

Evangelism

It is not that the congregations are doing poor but it is that the evangelistic works failed.

Eyes of an Outsider

Thom Rainer noted that church leaders were often shocked of first-time-guest/s’ observations. They seemed short of objective eyes.

Listening Ear

Church leaders are hurting and they need a listening ear and a promise of prayer.

Now, let us examine the church to which we belonged and observe if these recurring themes are true to our respective church leaders.

I would be glad if you could drop some opinions below regarding this matter.

Thank you.

For you to understand the typical life at The Hill, I will post here the schedules of the semens. This is for you to appreciate and understand the untold stories here.

Monday to Friday

AM

6:00 - Rise

6:00-6:30 - Shower Time

6:30-7:30 - Mass with Lauds

7:30-8:00 - Breakfast

8:00-12:45 - Classes

PM

12:45-1:00 - Lunch

1:30-3:00 - Classes

3:00-3:30 - Manualia

3:30-5:00 - Recreation/Research/Study/Free

5:00-5:30 - Shower Time

5:30-5:45 - Free Time

5:45-6:15 - Evening Prayer with Vespers

6:15-7:30 - Study Time

7:30-8:00 - Dinner

8:15-8:30 - Night Prayer

8:30-9:30 - Study Time

9:30-10:00 - All should be at the dorm and preparing to rest

10:00 - Lights Off

- Sleeping Time

On Friday evenings, during the 15 minutes break between dinner time and night prayer, we were allowed to peep on a TV at our own amphitheater.

After the night prayer, those who like to play some balls (literally and figuratively) were at the seminary's sport complex that composes of one tennis court, one volleyball court, two basketball courts and a covered hall for indoor games like billiards, pools and other board games. Others used the time to further enhance their intellectual and testosteronic skills.

Saturdays:

The schedule was still the same except those hours allotted for classes. It was free time in the morning and on the afternoon, siesta was allowed until 5:00 o'clock.

Sundays:

6:00 - Rise and Shower Time

6:30 - Departure for Apostolate Activities

7:00-12:00 - Apostolate Activities

12:45 - Lunch

1:00-5:00 - Free Time (depending on the semens testosteronic level, they could ask permission to launch some attacks outside the enclave)

6:00-7:00 - Sunday Mass

7:30-8:00 - Dinner

8:15 - 8:30 - Night Prayer

8:30 - 9:30 - Study Time

10:00 - Lights Off

There you go. That was a typical week at The Hill.

Author: ADIgcalinos

That distaste for karatula led me to consider pursuing other options than becoming a titled one. But I never gave serious thought on becoming a priest, either. I was in my senior year when a brother came to our school to talk about priestly vocation and seminary life. The rest of his blah-blahs did not register, nor it left an impression about something very promising.

It did not help that we had this weirdo and socially withdrawn asshole for a parish priest who drove his faithful to Iglesia sa Dios and some society of nocturnal devotees who would rouse the whole town from sleep with their pasyon-cum-orasyon amplified on loud speakers at dawn, starting at 2:00 AM to be exact. This weirdo minister never cut his hair for the entire duration of his short-lived ministry in our town; he was recalled after he figured in shouting match with a resident who was furious over the asshole priest's refusal to allow the resident's husband's remains to be brought inside the church for that reason: the shouting match.

That asshole priest also invited vandals to his convent and there were nights when stones would rain on his roof as disgusted and disgruntled parishioners vented their ire over his asshole ways. He mostly refused to say mass in the barrios, and he locked the church doors most of the time. His Sunday sermons were downright dry and boring it made me wonder why such an asshole could become a priest, supposedly a good communicator, an excellent marketer of salvation. He was one of the worst preachers I have ever encountered in my life, though I must confess I stopped listening to sermons many years ago for fear of damnation caused unnecessarily by a bad preacher!

That asshole priest made me rethink my decision to enter the seminary. But I had a way of convincing and reassuring myself that I would not become like him. When I asked for a recommendation, the asshole priest readily gave me, although I never got to see what was written inside the sealed envelope. (The one I handed later on to the (e)rector of the seminary.)

Fast forward to December of the same year. Six of my schoolmates trooped to city to take the exam and joined with the rest of prospective seminarians in a two-day get-together. But I went there as an excuse to see my favorite city, no more, no less. Then two months later, I received a congratulatory letter, saying I qualified for the seminary. I was the only one who made it. Two of my classmates were dying to enter but were unlucky. In two weeks, a fraile came to see me and family, probably checking if they were in the position to send me to the seminary.

News of my qualifying spread quickly, and friends and neighbors came congratulating and wishing me success daw in the seminary! Mukhang napasubo na yata ako, a. There's no turning back. What about the girls? Well, I kept them of course! I even added one shortly before graduation. The more girlfriends the better to keep you inspired (no argument, please).

Everything went fine and in three months, I was ready to enter The Hills.

Orginally posted at Capricornian

Recommended Readings:

The Soul's Code: In Search of Character and Calling
Callings: Twenty Centuries Of Christian Wisdom On Vocation

Author: GPagulayan

15 years after my spiritual seed preferred to jump out onto this dry soil, people have finally stopped throwing me the many whys of leaving the enclaves of the chosen. I usually had readymade answers to all of them depending on who was asking. There was one for every kind. I would tell my friends that it was entirely their fault for not disclosing me the real thing, that sex (and the acronym) was more than yummy. Or I would say, “yokong magpari , gusto ko magpaari,” with some funny licks on my upper lip. I would also just tell people that I was not happy inside if I sensed they were to ask more follow ups. This worked so well with my grandmother whom I thought to be very sad but to my surprise, she was the first person to support my decision. When I was in UE, a lot more did not keep me away from their curiosity. Colleagues, students, girlfriends, everyone stabbed me with same whys. It was already part of my reflex to say something for the sake of explanation but honestly, I myself did not know why. I was not sure. I was not thinking. I was not aware of what was happening to me after. I just put finality into things and all I knew, I was already looking for a job just like a regular graduate.

I remember there was too much information inside. Some were about the missteps of our prefects and spiritual formators that I should have avoided knowing much about. Others were details pertaining to the inconsistencies of almost everything with everyone in the Church, in the Seminary, everywhere. I was very critical literally and psychologically that I became so vocal and loud, and restless, wanting to impact change inside the seminary, if not the Church, together with some friends who shared my agitation. It was still my 3rd year inside when I was already hearing from seniors of their plans to go out immediately after graduation. But I was not buying their ideas. I listened to their conversations but I was still firm about finishing up to priesthood.

I had not had any higher philosophical questions about the order of things not until Marxism, or Liberation Theology by the Boffs, or Postmodernism/poststructuralism, or Derrida, Lacan, Levi Strauss, Saussure, plus the stinky visit of three burnt friends outside our Seminary walls followed by the sneaky escape of a mentor friend from whom part of my nakem owed its maturity. The third storm was already stirring up, destructing within (from the Heidegger’s “destruksion” ) in order to put things into motion so as to displace/replace/redefine positions of origin of things that build the politics of relations into the status quo. I could not keep things within. They wanted me to burst out a narrative and blow an exit which was already becoming me.

I was seriously celibate until graduation. I had no girlfriend my whole life. I had not kissed anybody. I was a virgin, untouched, but only personally damaged by some artistic hand strokes. That is so funny, isn’t it. But true. I felt I was a shy thin dark and ugly fellow!

Not until I was given a teaching position in a medical school in Quezon City. I was like a bird on a first flight, spreading my wings wide in an open air. Woos woos! Imagine 50 to 60 young pretty nursing students in each 10 classrooms I handled, almost of my age at that time, amazed and listening, staring at your youth. Ah, what a moment to remember! It was then that Edmund Husserl’s Phainomenon became meaningful to me. So I began to bracket some presuppositions. I set aside some unnecessary prejudices in order to arrive at a clearer and more objective understanding of appearances. They came very clear to me. Back then, I behaved strictly as a scientist: to accept only the givens in their original form.

I knew that going back to the Seminary was still an option but it never visited me. The loyalty of materialism and earthliness were more compulsive in my life. Being an independent bachelor and earning more than enough in UE for 9 years as a Philosophy and logic teacher, I felt I was already living my dreams. I could buy what I wanted. I could go wherever I thought was fun until midnight without anyone reminding me of the right things. I switched into different relationships here and there behaving like a mad dog. However, there was one thing I did that I regretted so much. I extremely submitted into a long affair with a girl who was a kapatid in the Iglesia ni Cristo. I got baptized an INC. I don’t know though if that was valid up to now even if I willed for religious refreshment afterwards. I became a tiwalag. I loved her and I was sure about it. She also loved me and I was also sure about that. My baptism and our break up after 4.5 years were the only things I could not comprehend. Things became clear to me when I heard she married to an INC minister.

To date, the option is closed unless Batman insists and makes tweaks in my life. I may have gone too far away from the seminary walls but its curse continues to haunt me, still putting spiritual walls around this luxury of distance and freedom of exilic life. It bends my character and actions to the ground and liquefies my spirit so as to prefer only the bottom or lowly corners of the world. It has become my cool breeze under the burning heat of California sun, my cozy coat in the snows, more importantly, keeping my sanity on the sea level despite this huge spatial gap that I’ve built between me and the people I treasure the most.

I don’t know if I am thankful for being SEXed, for being transformed into this one personification of a big paradox of life and living. I chose to self exile yet I am continuously gathering myself to do U-turns that never stops until I am stuck on the infinity of aloneness time and time again. Sometimes, I ask of the classic question, why, and I find myself staring at empty spaces where music and muses grab me off to solitude, or I say, ‘dreamitude.’ Then I scribble some notes of all kinds.

Recommended Books:

Heidegger's Being and Time
Edmund Husserl's Experience and Judgment (SPEP)
James H. Cone's God of the Oppressed

Author: ADIgcalinos

Before recounting and recollecting all those fond memories of The Hill, I thought it is good to share and recollect, among other memories, how the fancy for the sutana ever started.

My religious (in)sensibilities developed late. Though I grew up a Lola's Boy, and by extension a Catholic, I find my mother's Lutheran faith more attractive for both selfish and selfless reasons. I loved and hated Sundays when I was very young. That would mean I had to be dragged to the Sunday service that would take a good four hours. Sunday playtimes were short, and humid chapel and boring speakers were the order of the day. But by 11 AM, my mood would automatically shift from gloom to joy. It's Sunday school. Did I love the lessons? Of course not! I would only light up because there I would get to see my crush then, Ms. L, the minister's daughter. Just seeing her would make my day! For that little joy of a child, I became the object of envy among my friends because I found out they had a big crush on her! But they were not Lutherans, fortunately! Bigotry was strong as far as I could recall so they had no way of getting closer to her unless they abandon their grandmother's vow to Rome. What a pity!

Fast forward to few years. Now, for that attraction to sutana. In high school, I had the (mis)fortune of having X-Men as friends, both priests and seminarians, who early on understood the mysteries and miseries of their faith and left the convent in disgust. It is to them that I drew much inspiration (and desperation) from their inspiring and equally despising/despairing stories of their quest for the holy grail, er, the sutana.

The sutana projects power to the one who wears it, regardless whether he is a she deep inside and in disguise. Power is a magnet, especially for those weak creatures who need to mask themselves with the trappings, in this case, of divinely blessed and immaculately white vestments. This concepts I wanted to validate.

Sutanas aside, I could find fulfillment and ecstacy higher in degree than say manu strupatio (your indulgence please) or plain great sex in the stories of struggles that my X-Men friends shared, including those life and death situations they found themselves in during the dark days of Mang Ferdie's kleptocracy which went on for so long due in part to the silence of the apostles of Sin. (I should stop here, now.)

I was amazed, with the feeling very much like that of awe-and-sh0ck effect Dubya had promised the Taliban when he bombed out Afghanistan. Their stories were so engrossing, engaging, inviting, and at times, titillating. Before I realized it, I wanted to be like one of them for the reasons I just stated--the many irresistible -ings.

I knew back then that having a piece of karatula bearing your name and title hanging in front of your house was and is still something, especially in a place bereft of titled men and women, some honorable and some never mind. But I began to suspect that I did not like hanging my name and my title in front of our house. This began my infatuation towards something more profound, something beyond the daily and ordinary course of living, whatever than meant I didn't care before.

Whew! Break muna.

Image: Courtesy of www.anglija.lt

Recommended Readings:

James H. Cone's My Soul Looks Back
Michael S. Rose's Goodbye, Good Men: How Liberals Brought Corruption Into the Catholic Church

Today, I am posting one untold story of a friend who is not an ex-seminarian but an ex-con, meaning - - he was able to endure the rigorous and equally religious purgation of seminary formation in and outside The Hill - - a priest who at one day after singing the lauds and genuflecting infront of the constantly grimacing and suffering Jesus Christ in His Cross, received a miraculous ping inside his faculty and his constantly troubled heart, bolted his congregation whose sit of power is the now newly renovated and totally revered Fathers’ Palace at the eastern side of The Hill.

Here it goes...

Everytime I saw those CPs or DigiCams flashing, I could feel something is jerking inside me. I am being taunted by a ghost of a stolen photo shot while I was pissing on the floor and at the same time feeding some imaginary ducks at the seminary dorm hallway. Holy Goose, if those pictures will surface today, I will be laughing my way to hell.

Did you ever see those pictures?

Nope. I was grinning.

The Hill and to hell, I was caught patrolling the hallway with my Nescafe Shake in hand doing some kungfu dances and with hik, hik and hik as lyric of my too late for the night vespers.

And so…

That Nescafe Shake was full of booze concocted to the hilt, to the strongest combination of Gilbey’s Gin and a cola, by our fourth year senior named Rico.

This is how it happened. You knew so well that our dormitory rooms were spacious enough for 8 seminarians. We could even play short tennis in between the two rows of those beds and lockers.

One night, after our ten o’clock lights-off – when those memorable blue-dim lights were on in lieu of those power-eating 40 watts fluorescents and when everybody were expected to be pretending falling into wet dreams- - we, eight of us in the room and I was then the youngest, waited for the Prefect, Padre Amore, for his routine check up. We pretended to be sleeping, of course.

And then, what?

After Padre Amore’s soles silenced, Rico slipped his hand below his bed and, viola, a pint of Nescafe Shake glinted on the dim light. He sipped the booze and crawled towards the next bed. I could not remember now who was the second but I was the third one who did the same thing. Hands slipped below the bed, we sipped and we crawled, backed to the bed, lied and pretended to be sleeping with complete props of blanket covering our bodies. We did that routine of ingenuity continuously until we downed one bottle of Gilbey’s Gin.

After one more bottle and countless hands slipping below the bed, sipping, crawling, lying and pretending to be asleep, the heck of neophyte of me triggered the urge of feeding the imaginary ducks. I scrambled for the latrine.

And there, there at the hallway, I eased myself. Sucks!

And then, out of nowhere, flashes of camera caught my eyes.

I’ve seen those pictures later on and I laughed at my stupidity.

Guilty? No way! But, the offense was getting a juvenile drunk with a 16 years old boy pretending to be a man and striving to become a priest.

I was that boy (LOL).

Attending a seminary where some gross misconducts were done does not impute any guilt or guilt at all. However, it could be worth noting that some men who are now leading the church undergone through a system in which standards of behavior were less rigorous than some outsiders’ expectations.

One more glaring and de facto effect of this brotherhood of the cloaks is seeing how these men - - who formed and nurtured their brotherhood through clandestine and juvenile nights of drunkenness and occasionally, depending on their testosteronic level, stole time from their outreach programs to watch ST flicks - - being so patient with and oftentimes protective of their brothers who later go astray.

And I vaulted the congregation to be free, again.

And I laughed and laughed my way to RR.

Those ghostly pictures were neatly stacked inside my seminary albums and I am the undertaker who has the power to unleash the ghost. But, I will never do that to my friend. I could be patient with and protective of him.

I was the one who was at the second bed (laugh).

I snapped those pictures twenty years ago when we were both freshmen.

'Whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit has NO FORGIVENESS FOREVER, but is guilty of everlasting sin."
     -Mark 3:29

'The Christian resolve to find the world evil and ugly has made the world evil and ugly.'
                                                                                                               -Friedrich Nietzsche

Warning: This piece is not for all especially those who are faint-hearted, devotees and conservatives.

As I was brainstorming for keywords for this site so that I could give quality contents as well as keyword rich pieces for this site to rank higher in some search engines and I was using my own access to Search It! Tool, I came across a site leveled with three stars, meaning, the site is among the best sites with keywords 'ex seminarians'.

One of the site's posts is shockingly satiric titled "A Pope's Confession". This article tackles about the church's sex abuses.

This is not about our experiences inside the seminary as seminarians, though.

Here are the first few lines of that article:

"On March 12, 2000 my predecessor Pope John Paul II apologized for 2000 years of "sins" committed by the church. This was a good start, but he did not go far enough.

In my name and in the name of illustrious predecessors all way back to Simon Peter, I apologize for the evil the Church has inflicted upon the world..."

If you want to read the whole of this article, please read at your own risks, click this link to the full version of "A Pope's Confession" and after which you come here and express your thoughts.

Oh, I see. You're back.

Don't say bull on me. I forewarned you.

But, if you haven't seen the other link to more shocking and totally devastating pieces, and if you are not yet fainting and cursing, you need to read more about the "1000 Years of Carnage and Barbarity in the name of Christ".

I am not apologetic but TODAY, I apologize.

Author: ADIgcalinos

The then newly-opened Robinson's Galleria was so tempting to be explored for a barrio (but not barriotic) boy who only had sari-sari and at times sira-sira (had to close for stacks of debts) stores back home in the boondocks of Mindanao as hang-outs.

But the most inviting part of that mall along Edsa and Ortigas was its cinema that was showing what was to be a seminarian's dream flick-ST films, which were very much in fashion at that time. Not that I, nor were they deprived of skin flicks because back in the province, we had seen films hundred times racier and hotter than those offered in some Cubao theaters or elsewhere.

But it must be different when you were on a restriction: the stakes are higher and the thrill simply unimaginable. This thought I shared with three of my fellow X-Men, who agreed to avail of our Sunday liberty and partake of the skin flick on the big screen. But we were plain curious about how much that starrer could arouse our sensualities as boys of the cloth. We were young boys, yes, but our young testicles were oozing with advanced testosterone levels, mind you.

I could still remember the three ladies who made me perspire despite the ultra-cold AC and my heart beat faster: Cristina, Greta, and Rita. The three X-Men had the same trouble, only that they made more frequent trips to the RR where they must have poured out their 'sama ng loob,' with the lone flourescent lamp hanging overhead as their only witness .

After two hours, we left the place grinning, recounting the most titillating parts that mostly left stains on our undies, we found out later.

That's how we enjoyed and not just fantasized and looked at sexual freedom in the context of sexual repression. Some X-Men brought their sensualities to the next level, but I restrained myself for fear of ST + D. Hitching should not have been a problem but my fear prevailed. My conscience was not sick, and I had and still have a clear sense of what is good or bad for me. I chose to be safe. Besides, I fully trusted and made use of my creative imagination with little help from the ever reliable Ms. Palmy.

Guilty? Not a hint. We were being truthful. The recklessness of youth in us resolved to introduce ourselves in advance to the world of sensuality before age or death catches on us, leaving us desiring and despairing to do things we could not possibly do anymore, things that we could not do within the walled confines of The Hill, of things forbidden by Padre Pio because he was the only one licensed to do it with the blessing of his padre de amore. Mama mia!

I wished I could bring the tres marias to meet the tres padres, but I knew they knew better than importing flesh traders to The Hill. Amen.

First published at CAPRICORN...not for the faint-hearted

And I entered the seminary.

After seven hours ride (a bumpy, a sweaty and a tiring ride) of an ordinary-- a categorized ordinary bus as if air-conditioned buses were extraordinary and I never knew, then, that there were air-conditioned buses --PANTRANCO bus and after so much pride of seeing many towns as we passed by, and in between, appreciating the green fields and oneing with the hardships of those peoples toiling in the mud, arching their backs to heaven to plant their future in the middle of June-- the future of having enough rice on their tables or hoping to harvest at least, yes, they hoped, 100 sacks of palay -- but not a hundred full palay sacks because I knew that almost always farmers brought home the sacks sans the palay but the receipts of paid loans, for farmers mortgaged their harvests before the planting season started-- as promised by the good agriculture technicians who studied under the auspices and funding of good fertilizer companies-- I arrived, culture-shocked to the eminence of the great-towering buildings of what we idolized Manila. In fact, it was Quezon City.

I was a kaibulos, a neophyte to the city or we called, at that time, as tangaw-tangaw idiay Pozorrubio-- an aphorism we got when our school's baseball team (they were called then as little leaguers) participated in IRAA and they lost all their games because they did not know what they were doing and that our teacher-coach was drunk of Ginebra San Miguel Gin during games and they always ate spoiled meals in Pozorrubio, Pangasinan, (he he he, at least, we were just kids then)--awe-struck for the second time I stepped in Manila.

The first time I visited what we called Manila, to which I learned then as a province during my Araling Panlipunan days, was when I attended the seminary get-together--a two day celebration of good life showcasing the future good days of seminary lives—one breezy, merry December before my initiation to the seminary life.

Baggage in tow, a not so big knapsack with just enough pairs of clothes, old clothes and remnants of my peasant life and a briefcase of advices from my parents, I boarded a jitney bound for Marikina.

Riding a jitney in Manila, I thought, was like attending a baile-- a box-social dance to where they sold a juicy fruit gum in the sum of two thousand pesos—because of the loud, heavy metal music playing from the amplified jitney stereo. NU 107 FM was then a fad radio station. I was amazed by the penchant of the Manila drivers with music. Err, noises? I did not even know how to pull the line, a rope, to stop the jeep. I shouted ‘PARA’, after glancing my sketches at hand, to the consternation of my fellow commuters.

The jitney stopped five meters passed the marked place.

Heaven, here I am. (I supposed I said that.) Disgusting.

I afforded myself a tricycle, a white colored tricycle with a red logo of heart with letters ‘I love Marikina’ but not a cozy, beautiful and comfortable ride after all. A rugged and not so paved road, full of potholes—uhmm…potholes will not be enough adjective to describe the road, craters, yes, full of volcano craters—laid ahead of me. I dumped all my things inside and hoping and wishing for the bests to come.

But, before I hopped inside the sidecar, I looked around, looking for the sun, to ascertain my directions. You know, oftentimes, for neophytes like me, the sense of directions is lost in Manila. The sun was nowhere to be found. And I glanced at my watch. Huh, astonished, it was 7:30 pm. But, the surrounding was so bright.

Yes, it was so bright but, not for long and not for eternity, of course.

“Where?”

“The Hill. Number 17.” I drum-beated an imaginary drum on my lap just to calm myself. If I could only whistle, then I did it. I remember it now how stupid I was, and why I did not do it then? Hay…

And, I was shook by the first pothole. Then, slowly, darkness crept like robbers. Nervousness bathed me and my eyes became sharp, watching every corner, every tree, every gate hoping to catch the comforting 17 and the green gate. My eyes were busy looking on every side like eyes of cornered criminal. Jitter of a first timer got me in. I felt like vomiting. (Remember, there was no cell phone, then but even there was any, I could not afford one, either.)

There was a deafening silence. It seemed I did not hear anything. But, of course, there was the motorcycle revving and the noises of the area as we passed by. In shock and in nervousness, one could only hear nothing. And that had happened to me.

The road to redemption was full of ironies --- like the ironies of promised paradise after those purges – because along the way, shanties were everywhere in between patches of lands with tall grasses and there I was trekking my own salvation from poverty-land. So, that was I thought.

Alas, the gate - - the green, yes of course, green gate - - was standing infront of me. Err, I was standing before the green and grinning gate of The Hill.

Here I am, O, lord(s) of The Hill. I mumbled.

Caution: The Tales of The Hill has just begun.

Here are some possible titles for my next tales:

1. Green Gate of The Hill

2. Mystery Bites

3. Trapped Rubbers

4. Plumber Priest

5. First Lesson

6. Nescafe Shake

7. Kiss Me Father for I Have Sinned

8. Brotherly Hug

9. Cantatae Domini

10. Free Show

Stay tuned.

Bawal maglipat ng channel (grin…!).

Worth Viewing:

Deliver Us from Evil

A devastating investigation into the pedophilia scandals tearing apart the Catholic Church, Deliver Us From Evil begins by looking into one priest, Father Oliver O'Grady, who agreed to be interviewed by journalist/filmmaker Amy Berg. O'Grady's genial calm is at first ingratiating, until he begins to describe his crimes with an unsettling sociopathic detachment. But O'Grady's blithe interview is only half of the story, as the documentary also unveils how church superiors covered up O'Grady's crimes and shuffled him from diocese to diocese in northern California, finally placing him in an unsupervised position of authority in a small town, where he sexually assaulted dozens of children; the video deposition of Los Angeles Cardinal Roger Mahoney is a grotesque portrait in brittle denial. What makes Deliver Us From Evil crucial viewing, however, are the remarkable interviews with a few of the victims (now adults) and their parents, whose stories are wrenching and riveting. With the support of a priest seeking to reform the church, two of the victims actually go to the Pope, seeking some form of help in addressing O'Grady's crimes. This stunningly potent documentary combines raw feeling with lucid and persuasive discussions of the reasons for--and disturbing breadth of--this crisis within the Church. --Bret Fetzer (Amazon.com Review)

Author: ADIgcalinos

So the public may know, a classmate- friend in the Visayas was telling me about SEX. SEX is actually an abbreviation for Society of Ex-Cams. I was floored! What a brilliant idea! Of course, I insisted on being enlisted as a founding member.

See, sex and seminary and seminarians and their masters are inseparable. They are mutually dependent and therefore, a necessity. Which brought my favorite (e)rector and dean into some kind of oral intimacy, as intimated to us by a fellow who had witnessed that passionate lip-locking moment where else but in the blissful quarters of the frailes at The Hill.

Sex and the various attempts to do it in whatever form and position or relation is not uncommon in an abnormally cloistered confines like the seminary/semenary. Trust the seminarians' creative imagination. This is about the only thing that requires no Call Slip or Out of Campus Slip that should bear the signature of Padre Pio. Everybody has a license to it and only the felines waive their licenses to do it themselves, but not giving up/given up on someone else doing it on them. Oh, that mystery byte, I remember. Or, that padre plumber digging holes at dawn. Or that confessor (bless his soul) licking the hand of the confessee, name it and you have it. Or, of used rubbers sticking out of the windows in that infamous infirmary whose wards had most of the time firmed themselves with little help from madonna reincarnates. We can go on and on but it's too premature to spill the beans here.

I shall have more of the above in the succeeding posts.

Originally posted at: http://bukidnonhome.blogspot.com

Admin Note:

ADIgcalinos is an ex-seminarian. Expect him to ocassionally drop some booming thoughts about his life as a seminarian. For me, he is Dalisay in the making. Subscribe to us, NOW.

Worth Viewing:

The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys

A refreshing and honest portrayal of adolescent Catholic boys. The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys follows Tim (Kieran Culkin) and Francis (Emile Hirsch) as they engage in aimless vandalism and mockery--not from malice but boredom. Sadly, the theft of a religious icon and a plan to kidnap a cougar result in far more serious consequences than either boy intends. The authenticity of the characters and dialogue make the movie work; both script and performances are genuine and consistently surprising. Jena Malone, as a troubled girl who gets involved with Francis, is particularly good, but the whole cast (which includes Jodie Foster and Vincent D'Onofrio) does excellent work. In capturing both the harm and the good that teenagers can do, The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys transcends the usual rebellious-kids storyline. The movie features animated segments that depict Francis's fantasy life, created by Todd McFarlane (Spawn). --Bret Fetzer (Amazon.com Review)

When I was young, dreaming was free.

And dreaming to become a priest was the grandest dream for us children of the soil, yes, for us who seldom given the chance to genuflect in front of the holy saints, for us who found solace from the joys of kissing the holy hands of the one we called Apo Padi, from the one who gave us the blessing that God loves us so much. During my childhood days, I could count on my fingers the times I attended–without paying attention, though– the holy mass.

Nevertheless, I could not blame my parents for not hearing masses because we were so far from the center of civilization. We lived at the outback–if I could steal the word from the American wild Wild West novels. I found solace only, and satisfied myself, on top of an aroo tree perched on a top of promontory–the hill we called Signay– the highest part of our land or even, maybe, the highest part of our barrio, looking down to where the town was, imagining the bustling street and even envying the good life down there. The pealing of the church’s bells could not even reach the place I belonged. All I could hear were the sounds of VICTORY or PANTRANCO revving while negotiating the uphill at Bobonot.

Today, still, I could feel the sounds of solace of those gritting engines, third only to the songs of birds and whistles of aroo trees which lulled me oftentimes toward numerous and wonderful summer dreams. O, I forgot to mention the amazing emmak of our cows and the powerful garraigi of our horses. See, the outback, eh?

And the dream began, awakened. A comforting dream, after all. This dream, I thought, was my only way to emancipation.

I did not dream to becoming a doctor because I hated the syringe. The needle was dreadful, then. I never dreamed of becoming a lawyer because I did not know what was a lawyer until later when my oldest uncle, from my mother’s side, become lawyer. I still hate the strictness of a lawyer as owner of the law.

I never dreamed of becoming a farmer and own vast lands and numbers of cattle. What a folly, I was, eh! I hated the bite of the sun on my skin, my brownish-black skin that never dreamed of becoming white, huh. I hated wiping the sweats that wells from my face while riding my horse galloping and racing against some of our welwel cows towards some burubor, an oasis of greenish, mossy water, we seldom saw in between rangkis. Ha! That was my childhood’s farmer life. Now, I regretted why I hated those good, old lives.

I had one other dream. I wanted to become a Veterinary Doctor. At least, the needle was for the cows, I thought. My late Apong Lakay had a herd of cattle numbering to almost a hundred heads under his auspices. Apong Lakay owned some but mostly was owned by some wealthy families in town. Until one day, when they put some cows in the cuadra, and they did the artificial insemination, we called that sumpit. I was there and I saw what they did. The veterinarian put his arm inside the cow and when the arm was out, I saw the dung over it. I squirmed, ew. I will never be that doctor. Never.

I never realized that he used gloves at that time, he he he.

The one remaining dream–to become a priest–was a comfortable one. I could have cars, a comfortable house and I could collect money everytime I said mass. People will call me, Apo.

Oh, I just remember this thing now, I should have been with some beautiful women. Oh, that I eyebrows! Some priests do have beautiful women at their convents, don’t they? These women are doing services for the good of their community–Green!—accompanying their father so he will not be lonely.

I clung with this dream amidst the anxiety I read from my Auntie Simpling’s Malaya magazine to where I stared the black and white pictures of children–skinny, bony, bighead, hungry and starving children of Negros. I clung with this dream even the good old man they called Ninoy lying lifeless at the tarmac with spread arms and white attire like a fallen dove from the unforgiving wanton children’s slings, smacked unceremoniously in front of its home, just before the door of its nest, it may called home.

I know the dream was burning. But, I never budged to shout the slogan: Tama Na! Sobra Na! Palitan Na! It stayed there in me even until I started painting walls–first on our high school’s walls–of ‘Katarungan Para kay Betty!”–words of bloody and painfully red calls for justice.

Of course, like any other vain, uneasy teens, I also dreamed of having a good love life, he he. I contented myself reading the Pilipino, Wakasan, Love life, Kenkoy Comics because good, beautiful and alluring young ladies belonged to the town’s affluent families and so, that was, I thought. I learned life from Kenkoy, from Bosyo and Tekya and a good science from Planet op de Eps.

Of course, my life and my dream were never complete if I did not read the beloved Bannawag–the beloved Bannawag from which I learned my first ABC–before I learned anything else from the ABAKADA and Tiririt. I widened my limited life’s horizon by reading the Rangtay ti Bullalayaw, Mutya, Mr. MVP and Ineng, and the great Macario and Muyac of Simbaluca of Kapitan Romul in Fighting Pogi Series.

Radio dramas also helped nurtured my dream. I liked the bests of Uncle Pete, the old Edilberta and the mid-morning drama of Kimat ti Amianan. These drama and stories kept my dream burning like wild fires.

I hated dreaming the hard but comfortable rich life. I did not want to be like Flordeluna who was maltreated by powerful rich people whom she called her family. I like Annaliza but poor people die young, I thought. At the outback, we owned the second TV in our barrio–the old reliable, black and white, cabinet-type Hitachi. Today, my mother used it as cabinet. I was useful, after all.

While clinging with my dream, I become a sacristan–but only during high school days because I have no money and time to attend masses during Sundays—in between leading my fellow high schoolers cut classes and joined the rallyists. And, of course, of becoming extras to movies being shoot in location at our beloved Dasol to earn extra allowance for our discreet Tanduay session during preparation of leaflets.

And the great part was this. When the time came of securing my good moral character certificate—I hate this because how could anybody give certificate of good moral character to anybody—my high school administrator could not be swayed to give me the certificate I needed to enter the seminary.

They said: Komunista, agseminarista? So be it.

And I entered the seminary sans the old and demanded “good moral character”. See.

My next post will be “Road to Perdition, err, Redemption”.

Recommended Readings:

James H. Cone's A Dream or a Nightmare

Burning.

Murder.

Stenches of charred bodies.

Burned souls.

Called souls were many but few were chosen to partake with sumptuous meals.

Flames laughed. And smokes challenged all saints in heavens. Flames danced and swayed with the wind - - and the ledda all around but not with the heights of priestly walls - - and smokes darted their might to the place of thy kingdom come bringing all along the screams of burned souls to heavens or hells, nobody ever knew.

And beyond the heights and mights of that priestly walls, the drapes stood still, and faithful enough, guarding the called who call themselves semens and also the owners of holy cloaks who called themselves Prefects, all of them were preoccupied of their dreams in limbo or somewhere else, dreaming of the good promised days of redemption of happy life, some or all of them never knew what was hell like, the dreams of doing something holier than the ordinary, of becoming guardians of the infirms, the poor and the sick. And just beyond the walls, one soul cringed, cried, burned and charcoaled out of reach.

I was one of the semens - - I hate to remember it now. And I dreamed that night about sex.

Then, just before the roosters crowed for the third time, screams betrayed the silences of The Hill. One body lost its soul. Rather, the soul was purged from the body.

And when the lights shone on the dreamy faces of the walled-wanton lives, the truth was revealed, blackened beyond recognition, charred truth. Awed by the scene and by the sudden revelation, one priest run for the merciful water.

The bottled water in hand–we call that water, holy–he held the bottle with his index finger and the thumb, looked at the body with sacramental thoughts, more of condolences than of venerations, he sighed and closed his eyes as if summoning all his strengths and transferred those to the body, and in depth breath of repentance, he raised his sight and called the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit and drenched the charred body to salvation. Unknown to the called, the soul was towed by the smoke to heavens or hells, no one ever knew. The absolution was too late.

Shouldered dropped, drooped, and heavied by the lost of one soul, the semens and the Prefects winked and said goodbyes to the body of a soul sentenced by burning flames, a soul of blackened flesh beyond recognition and in cognito, gone to different places at the same time, left by the muses of poetics and wonders of languages. Gone and alas, incommunicado from the grasps of all known-living worlds. And exiled to the worlds only the believers knew. They asked for repentance and prayed to God that He may receive the creature to His fold and give it an unending happy life.

It was hard to say ‘you damn fool, be thankful. The worst is over, isn’t it?’

But, on second thought, the end of its kind was not as expected, far from what was imagined and nothing to what was conceived as holier which was supposed to be, and far from what the mind could grasped. Having poetics today was inimical and philosophizing was out of places, moreso to the meaning of sermon to be heard or to the existence of gospel being preached. Nothingness should be the call of the day.

Or, maybe, it was better to miss the scheduled holy mass, for nothing was holier than to contemplate to what had happened, to what was happening to the joyful days of the living, now dead unceremoniously, mercilessly burned and displayed beyond recognition, as offering to the new day. God may forgive His called ones missing the words of wisdom at this day. But, not today. Not with this seminary.

But, what was the used of lingering to one’s charred body of an unknown person to a semen dreaming of holy days with the sickly and poor and not with the dead? God will left all souls to heavens, anyway.

Or, maybe, it was easier to linger on one’s pain than to imagine oneself experiencing the agony the charred body had gone through this early hours. Sympathy was a virtue but turning your back to the causes of sufferings, the sufferings that the semens professed and confessed to ease upon all who carries the burdens of their crosses, that is, carrying all crosses to himself all crosses of the burdened, was apathy.

And the holy bell could be more comfortable and it sounds more comforting. Indifferences to peoples’ pains were palatable while kneeling, genuflecting and astutely preaching the comforting words of the Gospels, mum to the noises of discomfort of the worlds outside the walled sanctuary, numbing all pains that already creeping up to the ends of all arteries and veins, may it be full of cholesterol or not, that this eerie scene brought so early in the morning.

The sounds of solace, indeed, were needed in these trying times.

The bell rang the third time and it was time for the daily, routinely chanting of lauds and the giving of halleluiah to heaven with the intention to include the lost life in the petitions.

I was there. As a decoration of the circumstances, I did not know. And I hate that!

The ironies for that day were vividly stated by Padre Pio (not his real name, of course), who we fondly called kalbo, in his sermon. He said: ‘After that experience we just encountered this early morning, of seeing the charred body of one lost soul, after savouring the stenches of death, the dead, not anymore the dying, the sickly and the poor, and better still, after feeling the sharpness of burned flesh for those who had the innards of touching the body, with the greatest intentions of comforting the dumped corpse, may these be touches full of contritions, venerations and/or condolences, God showed us the true world, the world of pains and sufferings we were called for to serve. I saw your dreamy faces turned pale and blue, full of shocks and angsts, of despairs and admonitions.

‘I asked you now. To whom we direct our admonitions? To whom do we blame for the circumstances that just ended a good and youthful life, I presumed, who, like you, hours before he found himself in flamed, was full of dreams and aspirations? Is it not disturbing that just few steps from our doorsteps and few meters from our headboards, there he was and died without help? Indeed, there was a discomforting revelation that evil worked its best while many were fast asleep and dreaming, out of guard. Enemies strike when it is less expected. So, be on guard. Or, we, may put it this way, always be prepared for any eventuality.’

Padre Pio paused and let his words flowed–plowed their dreams with viciousness–among the seminarians who at that time fighting the sleepiness and sloppiness they always brought inside the chapel and with complete disregard of the needed wakefulness to hear the gist–even the jest–of the sermon. Some were at attention but with glassy eyes, with tears of controlled yawns, and pretending to be awaked. Some shifted the weights of their bodies and swaggered their uneasiness to the truth in the sermon like bitter pills being put to their mouths. The silences of the faithful and the hoarse voice of the priest haunted the saints who were present at the altar. And, bounced back to the pews occupied by the called.

The semens hoped that the father should end his long speech and his rhetorics in dissecting the scene they all knew a while ago, and looked forward to the sumptuous breakfast being prepared at the refectory, a meal of fried dried fish we called tuyo and sautéed pechay which we hated so much as unpalatable menu. The meal was hopefully sumptuous because it was only the menu being served, and thus, we got no choice.

But, the father had no inkling to end his sermon and he continued: “It all happened under my nose, just beyond the seminary walls, just beyond the comfort we called holy lives, just as we philosophized the meaning of existence, quidity, and social justice. And just beyond our stupidity.”

Okay, that was stupidity all along. Listening to his rhetorics of salvations could not shoo away guilts that were slowly creeping and eating my thoughts of redemptions.

And still…

The sight burned its images in the abyss of my memories. And, it is still burning. The stenches of death were still stacked in the bridge of my nose and I could still smell it until today. The scene was still living in the back of my eyeballs so that I could still see it when I blinked against tears. The laughters of burning orange flames licking the priestly walls and engulfing at the same time the charred body that was crying in pain, in agony, and waiting for forgiveness of whatever sins it had. These imaginations are pulling me back to The Hill. Gadammit!

If only the occupants of the priestly sala felt the heat, the absolution was given as it falls due. And there were no other burned souls whose screams cracked dawns. But, nobody listened to the agony.

Now, they are coming back as Tales of The Hill.

One cannot go forward without looking back at the past, as many would say, may these be happy ones or sad ones. Pasts are always parts of the continuum of what we call life cycles, er, lifelines.

Life is circular because we have the abilities, tendencies to go back where we were, at least in our memories, tracing back the lines like counting past years in our faces, as we look ourselves staring at us in the mirror. It is like picking up the truths, meanings, of our once texted life experiences. But, the hardest of it all, in going back at life lanes, is the prejudice of separating the good ones from the best ones.

Life is also linear. No one could ever turn the time around. We will always end up counting the days, weeks, months and years–forget the hour–of our past lives, at least for now. At least for now, waiting the science fiction of time machine becomes a reality. Not in my lifetime, though, I am sure. All we could do is to trace the events and owned it as now–as lines tangled in a web of events, as pastels if we put pictures on it and as coded dots and numbers if we put these events entrenched at the virtual memories.

It never dawned on me that a nostalgic piece of mine which I dug from my file — heavy files that burdened me for so long, not coded and not saved on flash drives or disks, thus, heavy literally — which I blogged, tickled someone’s memories and caused words flowing in the cyber world - - virtual as it is no bound - - greater than a river. I fondly called this someone, Maestro. These files are, indeed, heavy literally. Files of folders, books, notes that I scooped and bundled in a box when I said goodbyes to now I called walled-wanton life in the seminary. The bus conductor robbed me a person’s fare when I brought them home, which I could not afford at that time. It caused my mother’s time of budgeting their hard earned money. At least that what cost me when I could not left behind my baggage of life.

And these are metaphorically and poetically heavy, too. The heavy files that I tagged along as I drifted to the then unknown future, now the present, were parts of the best old days. And these files will be added one more piece soon or maybe discarded soon, when this piece ended. At least, this one could be saved at the virtual world and I will not carry all along with me as I continue counting lines on my face.

Going back to the intended tale that I planned to put it here. The dream, or is it the prodding?

Do I dream of putting the cloak of holiness to become holier than the other? Or, do I dreamed of putting the cloak because I was conditioned by the dream of my family to become holier than the other family?

And so let the public may know.

And so the public may not judge.

And so God may forgive.

And so the frailes may jerk.

I could remember the beginning of it all, now.

It all begun when dreaming was still free, at least for us very young then who could reenact all that mind could grasp, grappled and conceived, freely without pretensions and inhibitions.

On every Tuesday or Friday, whenever my mother had money or my father gave my mother his salary — a mere seventy pesos every 15th day and 30th day of the month, a laborer’s pay — my mother was obliged or obligated to go to market and later brought home a bag full of supplies worth five pesos, we were towed to our neighbors, when neighbors were a kilometer away from our nipa hut in the middle of banana plantations - - we called this home, because nobody would tend for us while she was away. We were happy then, together with my younger sisters and a brother, to see few children’s faces to whom we knew as our second cousins. As soon as we set foot on their backyard, we began dreaming what we would like to be. We were soldiers killing the unlucky cousins who portrait the villains, may it be a Japanese or a criminal from the stories we heard from our grandfathers who never faltered to say stories of whoever people during dusks whenever he was with us. We were, oftentimes, all get killed. Nobody won until one of my cousins brought about the idea of anting-anting, the amulet of immortality. Of course, we aired our protests but he defended his antics to – aha, this was my grandfather told me, when the Japs came along killing whoever they want to kill, he just slept wearing the anting-anting and they left him unhurt. And so be it. He was not killed during our small war games. The sticks we used as guns will no longer do us good.

Until one Tuesday, we confronted the grandfather who taught his grandchild of cheating us. He told us that an anting-anting is not effective when it is Friday and when it is not wore by the owner. He even told us that some anting-anting were the devil’s work and become useless when sprinkled with holy water. Aha! Happy of the knowledge, we devised a plan to win the war next game day.

It was Friday and we did the same routine of war games. Before we started the game, we stole the anting-anting, robbed, I should say, from the child owner during one of our ritual of gabbo, wrestling. I assumed the role of a priest who owned the holy water. I ran towards the caramba, an earthen jar full of water, and scooped a buyuboy full of what we called holy water and ran back again and drenched the anting-anting amidst the strong protestations of our cousins as if we were losing a true amulet. The anting-anting now has no power. We took our sticks and bratatatat and alas, we won today.

I learned the trick of portraying a priest from my older cousins. We stole the newly washed and hanged blanket of my auntie and I wrapped around my body like sinuman. They cut my hair and left a peso wide, the big Philippine Peso during martial law, cleaned part on top of my head. We called that ‘orden’ like ‘ordenan a lawalawa’. The power of a priest was then bestowed to me. The priest won the war.

My becoming a priest won us the war but I was not a winner for that day. I was spanked by my auntie and boxed by my cousin to whom we robbed the anting-anting and who lost the power of his kalasag. I went home with a black eye and a darkened thigh and a peso wide orden. We never did the trick again.

One of my girl cousins also portrayed as a Mother Superior, mimicking the antics of the then Franciscan Sister who taught us religion once a week at our elementary school as if religion was our salvation and belief was the memorization of prayers we repeat every now and then. We called her Mother Immaculata.

She – my cousin as Mother Superior– taught our younger girl cousins how to bake bread by using the soil as dough and our urine as water. We urinated on the soil and slowly, using our fingers, circling the dough, the hardened soil, and scooped it with our hands. We partake, in imagination, on the bread broken into pieces by the Mother Superior. Some of us become children of the family and one of us as Padre de Familia. And before, we ate the bread, I remembered that we need to pray, and I said: Alaenyo daytoy ket kanenyo a pakalaglagipanyo kaniak – take this and eat it in memory of me, complete of actions and slanged Ilokano. I remembered the words from the priest, a foreign priest with slanged Ilokano, who officiated our first communion.

And one summer had gone.

And rains come as we expected.

And suddenly, the rains never come. It stopped coming and we were happy with the long dried summer. We chanted: rain, rain go away and come again another day. The waiting become longer and rains never come another day.

Our grandfathers were worried. We were in for a drought. No one could plant rice. The bamboo flowered and my grandfather told me that gawat was coming.

And our grandmother, my mother and our aunts began to pray the rosary. We were again so happy. Praying rosary, we called that palualo, meant kankanen, linubian and pancit to us. And it meant, we could again play together during the one hour recitations of whatever petitions my grandmother were saying in between mysteries. All I could remember were the torre ni David, torre a balitok and the palpallatok ti bigbigat. Whoever this David was and wherever this torre a balitok was, I did not know. I learnt later that this palpallatok ti bigbigat was the morning star.

As soon as the praying ended with the magic word Amen and the ritual of ‘bless’, the kissing of the right hand or touching my forehead to the back of the right palm of all elders and elderly present, we satisfied ourselves with the presence of kankanen, linubian and pancit. After which, we kowtowed with the elders, in single file, praying again of many petitions in procession traversing all farm lots of the host family. Procession times, oftentimes, were during dusks. Maybe, to let the candle lights shine. All I know all along was that the candle lights showed our way because what was the use of lighted candles if it was not dark, after all. At least, that was I understood, then.

And one afternoon, when our family was the host, I was assigned to lead the procession holding in front of me the image of San Isidro de Labrador. And after the procession, I heard that someone said: Agbalin koma met a padi daytoy anakmo, Paring - - I wish that your son will become a priest, Paring. And among the men, who now begun also their ritual of giving due respect to Samiguel, I heard: Huh, kayatmo balong ket no kaponenda ti padi. Kitam ket awan asawana - - Do you like it son? Priest will be castrated. See, priest has no wife. That was they know at that time. Some priests have wives, don’t they?

And on the next day, rain came pouring in, ending the summer games and starting the season of toiling under the pounding rains.

And the dream began.