Bottled ※ Brain

Kapok / duldol

March 17, 2025

I couldn't resist not taking pictures of the duldol (Ceiba pentandra) by the roadside near the Polomolok–General Santos border before local authorities decide to cut them them, like what they did to the towering, decades-old trees in General Santos City, Polomolok, and, more recently, Tupi towns, all because of road-widening. The trees are in bloom now. From afar, the leaves look like they are peppered with snow. Or dandruff.

On Katrina Tuvera's The Collaborators

March 15, 2025

I read Katrina Tuvera's 203-page novel, The Collaborators, simply one of the finest novels you'll lay your eyes on. It traces the intertwining lives of Carlos and Renata, their daughter Brynne, and Jacob, son of Carlos's friend. The story spans key points in Philippine history: from the Japanese occupation, Martial Law, to the end of the 20th century, with President Estrada's impeachment trial in the background. I ordered the novel, along with a few others, a month ago from the Ateneo Press website, without knowing much about her and her genius. Since I'd started reading it last night, I couldn't put it down.

Carlos Armando, 70 years old, will undergo surgery. He looks back at life, feeling the urge to pray. We get the sense that he must be an important man. But even important men must look at mortality at some point. And there he is in the first pages of the novel. He "gazes out the window at a darkening sky and feels the urge to pray. Not a religious act, this praying. Just the mind chanting phrases, altered at times to a slight degree and offered to no one in particular."

Tuvera's vision is panoramic and wise; she writes about her characters in deeply personal and intimate ways. She shows in this piece a keen understanding of the country's sorrows and travails: war, corruption, greed, loyalty, family, and ambition. But there's a love story there, between Carlos and Renata, and his sweet bond with the strong-willed Brynne, who adores him. I also enjoyed the stories of childhood friendships: boys by the stream, playing. Her craftsmanship with words and stories-within-stories, anchored in Philipine history, is a delight to experience. Her sentences are pregnant with nuances and perfect word choices. The dialogues, while in English, sound very Filipino; she writes so effortlessly.

My foray into literature written by Filipinos has been rewarding. I am still slowly reading Gregorio Brillantes's stories, reserving them for when I can enjoy them without distraction. I am a completist; I will likely read everything Katrina Tuvera has written.

Afternoons at home

March 13, 2025

Rare are the afternoons when I have idle time for myself. But yesterday was something else. There arrived an unexpected blessing—a pocket of sweet time when I had nothing to do.

As soon I parked the car, I greeted my mother in her room, interrupting her Netflix viewing. I headed out to the living room. The sun was glorious but not scathing. Photographers call the late tropical afternoons the golden hour. I went back to my desk to grab the camera, whose existence I only recall when I travel.

I jolted Paul from his nap. "Dali na!" I said. He yawned, stretched, and trailed me. After three years, we've figured out his body language. He was waiting for a treat, a belly rub, or some play time that involves an old tennis ball—or all of the above. "Hulat lang, Paul, ha?" I speak to him like I would to a three-year old.

Nanay's small garden is a place of tranquility. You'd hear birds chirping. You'd see nests on top of the tree. They must feel safe here. Vegetation surrounds our small plot of land. It takes a lot of effort to maintain, but the greenery keeps the Marbel heat at bay.

A vase and candles on top of shoe rack cast their sleepy shadows.

The vine, whose name I forget, delighted me with its shadow. But random beauty like this often gets unnoticed. I must remind myself to take a second look. First impressions are not everything.

The white bougainvillea needed trimming. Our neighbor Auntie Elsie told me she'd often see young people taking selfies with the lush white flowers in the background.

The hanging plants could care no less. But they thrive in sunny conditions and flourish when there are intermittent rains.

I could see Choco, the soon-to-be one year old puppy next door, looking at me, whimpering, waiting to be released.

No wonder why. There were the kids, laughing and talking, oblivious to the worries of this broken world.

Paul looked at them with envy.

I opened the gate, releasing Paul to the outside world. Choco managed to squeeze through the small gap beneath the blue gate (dogs are smart creatures, really), then crossed the quiet street and greeted Paul. I did not know how Paul would react. Would he get mad that someone encroached on his territory? But Paul welcomed the company and treated Choco like a little boy.

Choco was too adorable and playful.

After their customary sniffing and greeting, I could see that Paul was playing the part of the older mentor, teaching the young Choco where to go, directing their games, leading him to the grass or that tree. I might have read too much into that canine interaction, but I need to tell a story here — so indulge me.

Choco would not come near me because he was too distracted by what he smelled in the grass.

There was manong Paul, whose transmuted age in human years is around 30-40. I tell him, "Tigulang ka na gid gali, Paul?"

But it was getting dark and the moon was rising and the kids had gone home. Paul walked back to the house on his own, like the wise and mature dog he had become.

Artificial intelligence

March 08, 2025

I do not disallow students to use AI; I have some policies in place for the courses I handle, especially my two-unit Research Class.

My instructional design acknowledges that, whether I like it or not, my students are using ChatGPT or Claude or Gemini for their outputs. I may as well allow them to use it in situations where I can offer some supervision, albeit limited, making it clear that it can only be used for some instances, and should be cited, when applicable. That means I need to modify the teaching/learning strategies. The course design is a work in progress, but I'm glad to hear that my students are enjoying it. Students generally regard research courses as mere prerequisites, something they need to go through or pass before they complete their degree. To see them have fun--serious, meaningful fun--is my reward as a teacher.

I am inspired to write something about AI here after I read this poem by Joseph Fasano entitled For a Student Who Used AI to Write a Paper. It may or may not be related at all to what I'd just written above.

I know your days are precious

on this earth.

But what are you trying

to be free of?

The living? The miraculous

task of it?

Love is for the ones who love the work.