Four Brothers...

This is a story about four young men, John, Frederic, Jose and Michel. These four, though not related by blood, are as close as if they were blood brothers.

They have been friends for the longest time. Some of them new each other since prep, nursery even in a little school in San Juan called Xavier. Through the years they drifted apart, though as if by chance...these four were again reunited one summer in 2002. All four of them enlisted in a summer teaching program called PKK (Para Kay Kiko). The school year after that, they became good friends yet again. Hanging out from time to time, visiting each other in their respective classrooms (mostly 4-E because it was right in-between 4-D and 4-F) and talking about God knows what, from guitars to the newest games. From the crappy long test they just had to how hot the new substitute English teacher was.

At one point, some if not all of them mentioned going into the life of the cloth, following an unexpected death of a priest and a visit to the Holy Spirit Novitiate in Nova Liches for the said priest's burial. But due to other plans and the rise of necessity, each of them had to choose other paths.

Come March 2003 these four friends would again find themselves disbanded. 1 of the four went on to take up Nursing in Trinity College, while the other 3 went to Ateneo De Manila University, however though going to the same school, each of them went to different schools as well. Frederic went into the School of Management, John went into the School of Social Sciences while Michel went into the School of Humanities.

During the start of College, 3 of the 4 still met on a regular basis due to a tradition in Xavier called Days with the Lord because the 3 of them were part of the choir, the "Music Crew". And 3 of them also saw each other from time to time since they went to the same University. However, they haven't met as a whole for the longest time.

Years past and the gap between friends became wider and wider. Some of them didn't see the others for the longest time, yet may get glimpses of them as they walk around school, or random visits to their High School. But, things would always be different among them. Different crowds, different courses, different lives basically.

Come March 2007 marks another chapter in each of their lives. College life for them is over and done with. Basically, school life shall be nothing but a woken dream for them. But, where are these four now? It's been more than a decade since these four friends met. Some of them knew each other more than half of their lives. But, due to the no communication, due to the drifting away farther and farther each year these four have little to no contact with each other.

The funny thing is...the reason why these four were initially reunited on that hot summer day in 2002 could be the main factor in their lives today. That reason is a sense of social involvement. Basically, doing whatever he can do to help out, no matter how little the help is.

Four friends, four brothers. All living totally different lives, going in totally different directions, still keeping some old values close to heart. Four friends, four brothers...Doing what they can, wherever they can.

John is now a Guidance Councilor for Grade 6 at Xavier School. He spends most of his time online, and still keeps in contact with Michel from time to time because of Yahoo Messenger.

Frederic is now a Jesuit Volunteer teaching in Palawan. His only means of communication is through text. He'll be stationed in Palawan for 10 months. Michel wonders from time to time how he's doing and finally got the urge to text him after how many weeks.

Jose is is a Nurse, just chillin waiting to make his next move.

Michel works in an advertising agency, though things seem fine at times, there are times he wants nothing more but to just hang out, chill and bond with the other 3.

Four Friends, Four Brothers, Four Directions, Four Lives.

*This entry is dedicated to Tung Yu, Lippy the Hippie, and Jolo.

Stranger than fiction…

Narrator: “This is a story about a man named Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Harold Crick was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and remarkably few words. And his wristwatch said even less. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot instead of the double, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat, but said nothing.

Every weekday, for nine years, Harold would run at a rate of nearly 57 steps per block for 6 blocks, nearly missing the 8:17 Faraday Bus. His wristwatch would delight in the feeling of the crisp wind rushing over its face. And every weekday, for nine years, Harold would complete 7.134 tax files as a senior auditor for the Internal Revenue Service…only taking 45.7 minute lunch break and a 4.3 minute coffee break. Timed precisely by his wristwatch.

Beyond that, Harold lived a life of solitude. Harold would walk home alone…He would eat alone…And at precisely 11:13 every night, Harold would go to bed alone, placing his wristwatch to rest on the nightstand beside him…That was of course before Wednesday….On Wednesday, Harold’s wristwatch changed everything.”

What would you do if all of a sudden, you could hear a voice narrating your life? Only you can hear the voice, and the voice can’t hear you. The voice going on and on; not letting you concentrate, do everyday tasks without that awkward feeling at the back of your head, making you feel like you’ve gone insane? What if one day, the voice slips? One day the voice said something about your imminent death in the near future? What would you do? Would you simply dismiss the voice as a mere figment of your imagination? Or…would you try and do everything in your power to figure out what the hell is going on?

This is what happened to Harold. On that faithful Wednesday morning, he awoke to a voice narrating his life. But on one afternoon, the voice said that he would then follow fate to his imminent demise. Being a human being, given reason and freedom…Harold did what every normal person being ensnared in a cage of helplessness would do given that same predicament. Figure out a way to stop it. Though after much hard work and perseverance, Harold realized that there was nothing he could do. Fate was no longer within his hands.

Knowing that you would die pretty soon, what would you do? Much like the question if you knew you were going to die in 24 hours, what would you do kind of thing. What Harold did…was live. Letting go of his obsessive compulsive behaviors, jumping out of the box and basically “living” Harold had the best days of his life.

Narrator: “122 guitars. 732 strings. 257 pickups. 189 volume knobs. Here Harold stood, face to face with his oldest desire…and stand is almost all Harold did. It wasn’t just about finding a guitar…it was about finding guitar that said something about Harold. (Harold picks up a black Les Paul guitar with a rose emblazoned on its body). Unfortunately this guitar said “When I get back to Georgia, that woman gonna feel my pain.” (Harold puts it back. He touches a Flying V shaped Peavy painted silver). This one said something along the lines of, “Why yes, these pants are lycra.” (Harold walks a few steps and stops at an acoustic guitar.) “I’m very sensitive, very caring and I have absolutely no idea how to play the guitar.” (Harold eyes a totally tricked out Double Neck Gibson SG with a pickup toggle, various knobs, a whammy bar and a picture of a dragon airbrushed on its façade.) “I’m compensating for something. Guess what.” (Slightly exasperated , he turns away from the wall and suddenly stops short. Across the room, under the sign that reads, “USED, SLASHED PRICES, AS IS” is a beat up old Fender Stratocaster with a chunk missing out of the top of the body. Harold smiles). And then Harold saw it: a damaged and terribly mistreated Fender staring back at him. Despite its obvious maladies, the guitar spoke with conviction and swagger. In fact, it looked Harold straight in the eye, and plainly stated, “I rock.”

With every awkward strum, despite his approaching demise, Harold felt a little more at peace. Harold no longer ate alone…He no longer counted brush strokes…He no longer worried about the time it took to put on his tie...He no longer counted his steps to the bus stop…Instead, Harold did that which had terrified him before. That which eluded him Monday thru Friday for so many years…That which the unrelenting lyrics of those numerous punk rock songs told him to do…Harold Crick lived his life. And with every strum, he became stronger in who he was, what he wanted, and why he was alive. But despite resuscitating his life, reviving his hope and developing a few wicked calluses, Harold’s journey was still incomplete. And Harold’s wristwatch wasn’t about to let him miss another opportunity…

Harold finds love…something he never really looked for. However, he knew in the end, the relationship wouldn’t last. He knew that sooner or later he’d have to leave his love not out of choice, but of necessity. However, after the numerous lovely nights, he knew he had to stay alive. And soon after, he realized he was being written as a character in a book.

He knew he had to find the author. He knew he had to convince the author that he should live. He knew he had to do it…because it was his only chance. Though after a lot of arguments, a lot of tears, a lot of reading…Harold realized that he had to die…for the story to continue.

So on the faithful day of his death…Harold got up. He brushed his teeth. He tied his tie. And Harold walked to the bus stop.

Professor Hilbert: Why?

Kay: I’m sorry?

Professor Hilbert: Why did you change it?

Kay: (pause) Lots of reasons. But…I realized I couldn’t do it.

Professor Hilbert: Because he’s real?

Kay: No. Because….(pause) It’s a book about a man who doesn’t know he’s about to die…then dies. But if a man does know he’s going to die, and dies anyway…dies willingly, knowing he could stop it…you tell me…(pause) Isn’t that the type of man you want to keep alive?

As Harold took a bite of Bavarian sugar cookie, he finally felt as if everything was going to be ok. Sometimes, when we lose ourselves in fear and despair, in routine and constancy, in hopelessness and tragedy, we can thank God for Bavarian sugar cookies. And, fortunately, when there aren't any cookies, we can still find reassurance in a familiar hand on our skin, or a kind and loving gesture, or subtle encouragement, or a loving embrace, or an offer of comfort, not to mention hospital gurneys and nose plugs, an uneaten Danish, soft-spoken secrets, and Fender Stratocasters, and maybe the occasional piece of fiction. And we must remember that all these things, the nuances, the anomalies, the subtleties, which we assume only accessorize our days, are effective for a much larger and nobler cause. They are here to save our lives. I know the idea seems strange, but I also know that it just so happens to be true. And, so it was, a wristwatch saved Harold Crick.

Face your moral fear...

I've been reading Daredevil Comics...(v2) and I came upon an interesting story. In issues 16-19 of Daredevil V2, the story didn't focus on Daredevil, but on Ben Ulrich, an investigative reporter for the Daily Bugle and a little boy named Timmy.

Timmy is the son of an obscure super villain named Leap Frog. After a traumatic experience, Timmy showed signs of Split Personality Disorder, and had a fixation on the Daredevil. After weeks of investigating, Ben Ulrich found out that Timmy was physically abused by his father, Leap Frog. Turns out, one day he caught Leap Frog fighting Daredevil on the roof of their apartment building. Leap Frog screamed at him "Get out of here, or you're next!" as he was beating up Daredevil (I know, seemed unlikely but Daredevil was distracted by Timmy showing up on the roof). So Timmy took a cut electrical wire and electrocuted his father, Leap Frog.

And Ben Ulrich writes an article about it:

This is just a story of a boy. Adults get the opportunity, eventually, to choose who they are. Children do not. Children come into this world with no say in the matter. No one asks you what kind of parents you want. No one asks you what environment you think you would do best in. You just wake up one day -- and you’re in the world. You wake up and look around you…and you see the hand that’s been dealt you. What the world has in store for you…

Contrary to popular belief, we do not live in a world of equals. Anyone who says otherwise is lying to make themselves feel superior or perhaps even inferior. Some of us have ethnic diversity. Some of us have sexual diversity. And some of us -- some of us can even fly. Some of us are Peter Pan.

In my travels as a reporter for this paper -- sometimes it feels like I have met every kind of person there is. Every kind of human diversity. But I haven’t. Every once in a while the world surprises even the most jaded -- of which I must include myself -- with someone like Timmy. Timmy was born into this world just like the rest of us…and like many of us, he has spent every single conscious moment of it trying, as best as he can, to tune it all out. Because just like the rest of us, no one asked Timmy who he would like for parents. No one asked Timmy what kind of environment he would like to live in. Certainly, no one told Timmy that sometimes life just isn’t fair. That sometimes people can be mean for no good reason. That people say they love you, can treat you badly. But most importantly, no one bothered to tell Timmy that these things are not his fault.

Many people have said to me: who cares about a guy named leap frog? And I say: certainly not I. In my moral dictionary, that man lost his membership rights to the human race a long time ago. They can leave him where they eventually found him. I care about a remarkable little boy named Timmy. And what makes him so remarkable to me? When faced with no other choice, Timmy rose up and faced his moral fear head on. He did this and he came out the other side to tell about it. And though I’ve met a lot of different types in my time, I can honestly say I don’t know a lot of people who can claim such a task. But I wish I did. I wish I was like Timmy. …and I just wanted to tell you this story.

- Ben Ulrich
The Daily Bugle