I thought I heard a buzz. "Jojo, Roland, is that my cell phone ringing?" Where was the tone coming from? Digging from under a pile of bond papers with checks, crosses, arrows, adhesive tape, Pentel pen, yellow marks, asterisks, erasures… ahhh, I found it! But just when I picked it up, the ringing stopped! Relax. Read again.
"Learn to love the world, and no longer compare it with some kind of desired imaginary world, some imaginary vision of perfection, but to leave it as it is, to love it and be glad to belong to it. These, Govinda...." What lofty thoughts.... Ring! This was one of the few times I cursed my cell phone. It was my partner Amy Gonzales, who’s in charge of the household department of the Baguio Country Club. No, I take it back. I love the BCC staff.
"Amy, how are you? Are your feet painful? They should be."
"I have a stiff neck and shoulders. We moved too much furniture around."
"What? From morning to evening? Three shifts? Danny will laugh at us."
Cell phones distract me. They get me off-track, off-target. When I am in a meeting or in an animated conversation (never mind the boring ones – I’d welcome a ringing cell phone), I’d excuse myself to answer my cell, and I’d forget what we’re discussing before.
When I’m translating documents from Spanish to English (Las islas Samales hasta Basilan viven los Samales que no tienen nobleza ninguna...La palabra Samal significa bebedor de agua del mar), the nagging ring makes me lose my train of thought. Oops… now I must call. "Aling Becky, I’m doing my column. You’ll have it on time. I’m just translating."
"The Samals live in the Samales Island up to Basilan..." The word "Samal...." Ring! Aye, Col. Mar Lipana (the PNP provincial director of Zamboanga del Norte who was once Tarlac’s provincial director).
"Hi. Thanks for returning my call. I have to go to Olutanga."
"Ma’am you’re so unpredictable. Well you’ll be able to adjust anyway."
Continuing my translation... "Signifies a person who almost drinks seawater." Ring! Ay naku.... It’s more irritating now, since the number doesn’t register on my phone. Can I do that to my phone, too?
Take a break I decide. Better to dye my hair and then read Siddhartha again.... "And yet it also pleases me and seems right that what is of value and wisdom to one man seems nonsense to another..." Ring! I was in a quandary. Should I answer it and stain my phone? Yes. I was willing to stain my phone. I couldn’t pass up this call from Erlie Duduaco, my provincial information officer since 1992.
"What Erlie? Peping became a millionaire when he married me? What? Before that he was a billionaire. Ay Erlie I’m studying. Some other time na lang. Actually we’re thousandnaires."
I told Tony to please take the phone away from me. But afterwards I found out I had to make another call. There was a phone about five meters away but I was too lazy to raise my butt off the chair, so I asked for my cell again. I would stand if I wasn’t lethargic but I was a willing subscriber forking out maybe P200 blindly to stay put, winding up with a monthly bill of P6,000. No, I’ll text instead.
"Dear Sulay, please tell me, is Kabingaan in Sulu or Tawi-Tawi?"
"Yes Ma’am, it is beside Siasi," answered Sulay Halipa.
"Please help me Sulay. Is it nearer Jolo or Tawi-Tawi?"
"Yes Ma’am, it is nearer," said Sulay. (Better use the map than call Sulay again in Tawi-Tawi.)
"Tnx got it, Sulay," I texted with a smile.
Many people don’t understand my texts that they end up calling me. So I’ll just write here that Sulay couldn’t understand my shortcut sentences. He’s one of the more progressive Muslim leaders who regressed I guess because of me.
"Hello Jowell. (Jowell Matito is a commercial artist and does caricatures for children’s books.) Oh, you’re leaving for Kuwait. You’ll miss me because we won’t have taho in the kanto anymore?"
"I’ll miss you, too. Ang mahal ng gas mask? A $100 for a 1991 vintage Gulf War gas mask? Wow! Oh that’s why you came home last minute before the Iraqi War."
How do you put my phone on mute? It takes my farsighted secretary Tony Avelino to put on his eyeglasses and teach me. By that time, I’m by my driveway and I still haven’t learned. I’m actually scared to press the buttons.
I remember I attended a formal meeting and my cell phone shook in my bag. It reminded me of my daughter Liaa nudging me when she wanted candy. I ignored that nudge that tickled my waist the way I ignored her to save her teeth from cavities.
One time, I went to the ladies room and surely that little phone rang. "Wait, wait, not just now." I can’t! I said to myself. If I attempted to answer I’d need four hands and four arms to pick up my petticoats. Besides, who was in the next cubicle? Were they listening? On my way out of the ladies room, I checked my phone. Three missed calls and five messages had piled up. Compelled to answer each message and two missed calls, I rejoined my group.
"I’m sorry, I took 20 minutes. Thank you for waiting." I was talking to Toteng Tanglao, a young newspaperman I met in the ’90s, who called to say he remembered me last Valentine’s Day. But it was April already. His calendar runs backwards. We laughed on our cell phones at the memories of ‘97 when practically everyone had deserted the capitol to celebrate Valentine’s Day, except for a handful that stayed behind. After our paperwork, he said how lousy lovers my staff had become because we were still working at post-office hours. I laughed at the sense of truth in that. He said I opened a bottle of wine that was brought by friends. After hours of inane conversation he remembered I pulled out some cash from my wallet and told them all to get themselves real dates and buy a bouquet for the girls. I guess Toteng learned to work hard and to play hard. That cell call brought me happy memories.
While shopping I browse at my 3310. I read "Pass it on to 10 people..." Delete! Easy-going people with so much time to spare or are they conscientious people in their jobs? After all it’s P1-a-text and it pays for their salary. Next – I get a gossipy message. I text back, "Mind your own business." My phone rings and someone on the line says, "Ang sungit mo naman."
"Oh, it was you who sent the message, sorry."
I’ve sent messages to wrong people too. "It’s Sunday hello again. What did you write about?" It was a message for Robina Gokongwei-Pe, which was inadvertently sent to Ruth Cervantes-Casiño who returns the message.
There it goes again. I dash for my cellular knowing it’s a message. What! I ran all the way just to see it’s from 23__: "Be our lucky subscriber. Join our contest...or whatever it was."
I should be… a) Angry? b) Very Angry? c) Violently Angry?
Anyway, Dr. Mandy Castañeda, philosophy professor at the Philippine Military Academy, says I changed the meaning of textmate.
I had called him in Baguio on his cell phone saying, "I’m defending my dissertation proposal this morning. Explain to me the philosophy of Vico." He actually did at 7 a.m. According to him I answered, "Yes, yeah, ok, uh huh, ok." Then after his long clarification I asked, "Come again Doc." He said he chuckled and he winced feeling my anxiety as though it was a matter of life and death for me. He texted me: "Vico believed that man should be understood in his own time, in the context of his situation, studying the..." He sent it. I texted back, "So what then Doc?" He answered, "...etymological source of words to give meaning to it within his experience and not outside of it and therefore..." He sent it. I saved it again. I texted back, "Ok, ano pa Doc?" "...studying language is important to historical understanding, to include the myths, which seems to be metaphors in our day and age but may be more than myths but communicating some "truths" of their experiences." "So what about language?" I texted back. He replied, "What is true of language applies equally to other manifestations of human life and consciousness. The study of myths may be a source of some ‘truths’ of man’s life and experience be it poetry, fable, legends." End of text. "Got it, Doc," and pressed send.
I kept that in my mind all the way to UST. "Good luck," he texted back adding, "You have just given the term textmate a whole new meaning."
Another message had just come in. "Can I be your text pal?" Me! Ahh me. Crazy fool. Besides, no one can take Dr. Mandy’s place.