Recycle the Cycle

FIVE summers ago, as I sat by a curb on Mission Viejo in San Francisco on a coverage assignment, the sight of a middle-aged man laboriously dragging a pile of trash – or recyclable trash – mostly plastic soda bottles, empty aluminum canisters, and beer cans meticulously stacked on three grocery carts caught my fancy. I reckoned, he earns dinner money and probably, his rent (assuming he wasn’t homeless) by translating his garbage bounty into cash.

     This enterprising gig is made handy via The Dream Machine, a reverse vending machine manufactured by GreenOps that provides access to on-the-go recycling. Consumers can drop off recyclables and receive points redeemable at either the host venue or Greenopolis.com, an interactive community provided by Waste Management that promotes recycling and rewards recyclers.

     Interesting.

     Back in the islands, when I was a kid, I remember a man who visited households on Friday afternoons to trade rice cakes for emptied bottles of all sorts of condiments, spices, and stuff. He then transported these “reusable” vessels to the open market and sold them to vendors—who, in turn, refilled them with homemade and cultured soy sauce, cooking oil, rice vinegar, and what not. The man also collected old newspapers and magazines that were refurbished as bags for rice, salt, beans, veggies, fruits, and sugar.

     Such an ingenious way to recycle, isn’t it? These “consumed” materials didn’t actually go to complex recycling machines—they were simply passed on to the next user, and so on and so forth. Used softdrink (soda) and beer bottles were returned to the store—to be handed back to delivery trucks… I assumed, they’d wash those bottles again and filled them up.

     Imagine how much will the government save if such “recycling cycle” is practiced in America? For example, New York City alone spends something around $55 million per year in recycling efforts, based on 2002 data. As early as 2003, Fort Worth in Texas was making $1 million from their recycling program. But the question is – who earns that dough? Most of these recyclables go to privately-owned MRFs (Materials Recycling Facility). Let’s do the math—billions of dollars go to private companies that recycle our trash… Americans dump an average of 4.6 pounds of trash per person per day, the most in the world. That’d be 1.5 pounds of recycled materials per person per day in the US. Translated, that would be 251 million tons of trash per year.

     Lots of money.

     So is it possible that what I saw when I was a kid in my island days could be done here? I don’t think so… How could that be when we are so scared of catching colds and all sorts of skin infections in case we reuse these used vessels, boxes and cans? Besides, how do we tax these people who collect trash for money? That’s the reason why our carefully sifted recyclable trash are collected separately. These are “golden” commodities—big money to government and huge profit to business…

     Times have changed, indeed.

     A long time ago, hog feeds and dog food were rehashed leftovers. We didn’t use aluminum foils for grilling; banana leaves were a lot better and easy to obtain. There no Goodwills or thrift stores even—people randomly traded clothes and shoes in the same way we traded chicken pork adobo with chicken noodle soup.

     Transactions were easy, uncomplicated. I learned meditation and tai-chi from a 72-year old rice farmer, in exchange for work in his farm. My family’s laundrywoman was the village herbalist and massage therapist and got paid with a dozen eggs or few kilos of rice. Cost of commodities and foodstuff at the open market were not fixed and food staples were mostly negotiated right there. What was called daily interaction is now called business transaction; spontaneous sharing is now “upgraded” as professional consultancy…

     Oh well, oh well—I digress.

     Meantime, I can’t help smile whenever I think about that middle-aged dude in Mission Viejo dragging a pile of recyclable trash. Imagine how many small entrepreneurs in open markets or farmers tailgates would be so happy to buy his merchandise. And how many kids will be so glad to welcome him—and surrender those emptied bottles of Coke and canola oils—for a bag of blueberry muffins…

[From, "The Indie of Asheville," Nov 2011, Asheville, North Carolina]

Barbershop Community

by Pasckie Pascua
[column article, The Indie of Asheville. Oct 2011 issue, print version]

HOW many of us suspect that the “creepy” guy, a loner with a weird goatee, who just moved in a block away, could be a pedophile, an Al Qaeda cell recruiter, or a fugitive running away from a whatever crime in South Dakota? Who knows…

Or how many times have we typed in a precautionary post to the neighborhood yahoogroups mail list about a strange-looking, dark-haired man who frequents Mr Smith’s front yard. Maybe he’s a lookout for some Mexican gang, casing the gated village for house to burglarize?

We don’t know.

We don’t know who our neighbors are anymore. We are all busy googling what could be the profile of a prospective terrorist or thief or rapist or drug dealer. We don’t have time to drop by our new neighbor’s house and offer a chicken lasagna because we need to drive to our 3^rd job after we just logged in 10 hours on our 2^nd job for the day, or maybe—google has all these figured out, anyway.

Or maybe it’s more convenient to just check out the `hood and the world online or via tweets sent out by some paranoid divorcee or Facebook post by a transplant from California who had too much to drink last night and forgot her pills.

There was a time when we hanged out in the corner barbershop or coffeehouse for hours and bantered and chatted about the new girl on #46 Washington Drive or what’s up with the President’s State of the Nation address? We all played checkers or chess and made fun of Mike’s funny moustache or Jennifer’s new boyfriend from Kentucky—and nobody castigated us, like: “Hey, you’ve been sitting here for 5 hours and all you bought is a $1 green tea. Haven’t you got anything to do?”

That’s it.

Maybe, sometimes we need to do “nothing.” Nothing but hang out and get to know our neighbors and laugh and play checkers or make fun of Michele Bachman or Chad Ochocinco. Or, maybe we could all watch the Super Bowl in Mrs Jones’ backyard?

Who knows, maybe the “creepy” guy who just moved in a block away is actually a cool guy who cooks kickass mung beans soup and an expert in bedbugs? We’ll never know—unless we stride into the barbershop this afternoon.

A WRITER’s daily routine seems easy and effortless. Just like what ordinary people do, probably? Not really…

Although my long journalism so-called career – that stretches several decades, from age 14, onto three huge cities (Manila, New York City, Los Angeles) and the internet universe – was punctuated by “do it or die” deadline kick, I find myself struggling to keep a certain semblance of routine these days. My deadline mindset is shot. I am in so dire need of nagging… The superhomey koolcat, Cyd, has been watching me 24 hours on rotation, staring at me like a wolf, seemingly saying: “Dude, quit fiddling on your laptop, quit the freakin’ Food Network crap, quit the procrastinations, quit shuttlin’ from a dozen or so writing projects to a dozen more unfinished masterpieces. JUST WRITE and GET IT DONE!”

Three days ago, I nailed down 4,327 words in two days, then—I am stuck again…

Anyhow, why the hell would I be obsessed with “routines,” anyway? Everybody hates routines. All my life, I have been kept playing hide-and-seek with spontaneity versus system, radicalism against conformity?

I was born and grew up Roman Catholic—you know, Sunday church and rosary rituals and grace-before/after-meals, twelve years of rigid pre-college “boot camp-styled” tour of duty, and “appropriate” behaviors in the house and neighborhood and stuff. Then, I was trained by a fiery editor who literally spewed flames like a paranoid dragon on newsroom crunch time, from 5:15pm to 7:45pm day in and day out—on my birthing years as newspaper reporter. I needed to conform with SOPs and workman’s dogma because that’s what things were supposed to be like.

Indeed, I had a blast protesting such a rigid, uptight regimen, but then—come to think of it, did I really? Did I ever, actually, fully explore or navigate my elongated romance with this thing called, “spontaneity”? Or it was all a struggle between “random” and “method,” and still is? Or, well—what am I ranting about here, really? Isn’t life a silent war of attrition between system and disarray, convention and chaos? And since, I am such contradiction—I am doomed to wrestle with the bleeding truths of my unpredictable existence.

EVERYBODY adheres to a sort of routine, I guess. The working class, like perpetually-exhausted urban urchins tugging along concrete jungle’s rotating valves… they just have to do it. We don’t really have a choice. We all need to conform with the machine’s machinations like toil weary spare parts of fluid production lines.

But what about the ascetics, those who seem to follow vibes and wavelengths and universal ebbtides? How do Buddhist monks keep a certain spiritual flow, for example—amidst a haze of meditative bliss? I mean, I observed (when I backpacked in Southeast Asia and elsewhere) that most “monks” wake up at the crack of dawn, meditate at a given moment on a day… I mean, they got some routine going on somehow.

I call my little existence a spontaneous flow of reflex and regimen, a sort of carefree adherence to a daily work checklist, yet I still fit in my writing schedule in and around my obligatory house chores and personal responsibilities on a methodical pace. Do I believe that suddenly, life has become so crowded—so tedious and pressured? No.

Thing is, I prefer such a daily pattern… I knew it’ll help me get back to my focused, one-story each day reporter’s routine. I need that discipline back and if I don’t, it’s only me to blame. I am basically the only lump of mind and body here, wrestling with my focus and consistency. There’s no one or nothing to blame anymore (like in the past): Not my parental obligations, ideological commitments, societal pressures, whatsoever…

Years ago, it was a lot different—in fact, there’s not much physical room to operate with, yet I was churning out work at an astoundingly consistent way. To think that, at that time, I was raising and feeding little kids—juggling 3 or 4 jobs at a time. But I was right up the flaming cauldron of youthful zeal: activism, romanticism, curiosity, adventure. Those days—I produced quite a body of work: hundreds of songs and poetry, street plays, movie scripts, paintings and murals, stuff. I was all over: a social/political life that tiptoed between subversive frolic and ferocious idealism.

A couple more decades hence, I am here—beaten and battered like driftwood lounging by a riverbank. There’s so much to remember, reflect, redeem—and write. But it’s not that easy… I so want to put system to those memories as they seep through computer pages. I know that the past’s eccentric production of bodies of creative work came at a time when my gung-ho, “hit it anywhere you want it” zeal was a milky way of exploding chakras. But age (or something cosmic maybe?) has overtaken me, I couldn’t be what I was anymore.

I USUALLY begin my day at around 10:30 in the morning—since I normally hit the sack around 3 or 15 past 3 before dawn. That’s already about 7 hours sleep time… Not bad. I may prolong that “rest” into indolence, an hour or so more in bed—if not for Georgia and Chloe (the batcave’s babedawgs) diligently waking me up at 10:30am each day, no fail. Thanks to these lovely animals…

Let the dogs out, bathroom ritual, fix some coffee, switch on the laptop, turn on some 70s music—check emails and Facebook for an hour… My day officially starts.

In between fiddling with my insane list of “works/writings-in-progress”—I attend to about one and half hours obligatory housework. Sweep, mop, vacuum, dust, dishwasher, washer-laundry, beddings… This is not a tiny house and I always prefer to write after a housework (and/or yardwork) and shower, my kind of OCD fix. More or less, I’d be able to devote a good 4 hours daytime on writing each day—that’s excluding more time at night, usually from 10:30pm to 3am.

So mathematically, I can actually work or write and finish something at a given deadline…

At this age, I feel I have “researched” enough of life and living. There are so much in me that I need to reflect on, ponder, process—and then methodically put on paper, like a neatly-arranged stack of emptied wine glasses on a shelf at the cellar. A collection of bad wine and good wine, each bottle tells a different story. These vessels of divergent shapes are empty anyhow—but I’d like to remember how it was when the bottles were full and beaming and sweet and sour.

SO HERE I go again. It’s 7 minutes past 1am on a Monday. MONDAY. Perfect day to restart some kinda routine again? I NEED TO. I’d be cool if I follow through with these words and FINISH a book! I just have to keep on doing it, keep on trying, you know what I mean. Until these daily struggles—uhh, routines—become easy and effortless. There is hope.

THE freeflowing, living room-feel of MariJo Moore’s reading/group conversation at Crystal Visions in Hendersonville on a Saturday afternoon (June 4th) was very conducive for instant reflection. Ms Moore, a townmate in Candler (12 miles to downtown Asheville), draws on her Native American roots in her poetry. I could easily relate—since most, if not all, of my work take immediate, convenient access to my lineage.

MariJo read and discussed a few excerpts from her new book, “A Book of Spiritual Wisdom.” The part that caught me was her exploration of humanity’s connection—or, if I may, “connectedness”—with the past… Suddenly, I was thrown in reflective memory.

I WAS already on midlife age when I decided to live in America. Tons of heavy baggages clogged my chest as I nonchalantly, albeit willingly, immersed myself in the heartland, so to say. At first, I wanted escape from my past—a long history of relationship struggles and loss of self-worth. More significantly, I was fleeing from gaping wounds of my long work as fiery supporter of the organized Left in the Philippines—which, at that time, was in the process of correcting errors that created huge organizational crack on the revolutionary movement for more than a decade since its founding in 1968.

When I flew to New York City in 1998, I hadn’t an iota of idea what’s in store for me—I just wanted to leave. I felt lost and “spiritually homeless.” The private battle within me that almost cost me my life in 1995 when a near-fatal lung ailment befell me was still crawling in my system like an insistent spider pushing its way out.

Quite naturally, my logical impulse—being a writer and artist—was to write and create work that speaks beyond my personal experiences. I wanted to run and forget—and eventually, regroup somewhere far as a new person. I planned to maybe pen my own “Lord of the Rings” or “Harry Potter” kind of stuff—some diversionary excursion that is beyond my realm of realistic immediacy. Or maybe an Elmore Leonard noirish crime caper set in Brooklyn, or why not tackle a subject that is way off my cultural background and geographical reference—probably an Appalachian-inspired mystery thriller?

So I tried…

While in New York City, I cranked out volumes of words—in between editing a weekly Filipino newspaper in Manhattan—and spent most of my non-working days detained in an Ozone Park, Queens basement studio, writing like an avenging crow, painting like a serpent on fire. It was winter of 1999. I was consciously pushing myself to forget by banging my head on just about any idea that popped in my head—while intermittently attacking canvases like a madman. Spray paints, scrounged latex, found objects etc. As a result, I ruined my lungs and had to subject myself to surgery eight months after when a toxic lump accumulated on my right lung.
Then I flew to Asheville, North Carolina a few weeks after being discharged from a Secaucus, New Jersey hospital to recuperate. I purposely schemed to be in a place where no one knew me or nothing reminded me of my past. It served my purpose pretty well. No one knew where the hell I emanated from in the backwoods of Weaverville, a few miles to city proper.

But that was just temporary. It wasn’t about the people around me. It was about me. I was struggling to create, to write—to make sense of my life. But I couldn’t craft anything new. Nothing made sense. The thousands of words that I produced in New York amounted to rubble, so I thought at that time. I wanted a continuum, but I couldn’t move on—there were so much to remember. The more I ran, the more I kept coming back. I couldn’t get pass 2,000 words of focused writing. Just when I felt I was on a roll, I started hitting bumps and humps. I get derailed so easily.

IT WAS then that I came to accept that it’s impossible for me to write a totally make-believe work of fiction or a story that is beyond the parameters of my real existence. There was so much to deal with in regards my past… I was and still am connected to those days—where my spirit emanates and palpitates. I have to let go and find release to all the wounds, joys, misery, and celebrations that traversed through my life’s roadsides and alleyways and then gather them on the middle of the highway or desert isle. And, like spare parts of a giant puzzle—I’d like to rebuild my life, piece them together, through those memories… those words, as I write them.

The memories aren’t just linked to my own personal realities. These were attached to everything that I was born into, grew up with, and evolved as a human being: those endless monsoon rains, destructive floods, unmitigated hunger and sickness in urban slums and rural towns, senseless killings. All these crisscross with tiny details: a creaking Underwood typewriter that pierced through the nights, half-naked kids running around streets, endless Christmas celebrations, festive chaos during fiesta seasons, my beaten-down pair of street sandals, my grandmother chopping up onions and garlic for arroz valenciana, my grandfather gesturing around like the way he was at war in Bataan and in his mind, my mom and dad fighting over silly jealousies and insecurities, my 4 brothers and 4 sisters before fate took me oceans away from them.

I have to let go off these memories before I sit down, write a new book, and find peace and quiet. It’s a journey within. I am still struggling—but I am almost there… I just have to keep on remembering the past than running away from it.

[MariJo Moore’s new book, “A Book of Spiritual Wisdom—for all days,” is available at Crystal Visions, 5426 Asheville Highway, Hendersonville, NC 28791, (828) 687-1193, and Malaprop’s Bookstore/Café, 55 Haywood Street, Asheville, NC 28801-2834, (828) 254-6734. http://www.marijomoore.com/ / PHOTOS by Jimmy Ancheta Domingo]

NEWS: Facebook CEO Mark Zuckerberg is buzzing in Yahoo! Search for an unusual reason: his eating habits. The social network pioneer told Fortune Magazine that he is challenging himself to eat more responsibly and sustainably. He's not separating himself from meat; he's getting closer to it. "The only meat I'm eating is from animals I've killed myself," the 27-year-old billionaire told Fortune. "It's easy to take the food we eat for granted when we can eat good things every day." So far he's slaughtered a goat, slayed a pig, and boiled a live lobster. The response around social media has been positive. Many say they applaud his thoughtful way of eating.

Slaughter, slay… sounds bad, eh? I can name a few hundred of friends—good tax-paying citizens, cool and responsible families, and peace-loving human beings—who own small farms and… well, also “slaughter and slay” animals that they raise, so they could feed their kids and neighbors.

Something is wrong with this news, huh?

I believe what we should be concerned about--and should spend more energy on--is to protest the wholesale and massive “slaughter, slaying, and boiling” of humans and environment in war, just because humanity love drinking OIL instead of toxic soda and contaminated bottled water. Imagine the extent of devastation wrought by war and big business annihilation in rainforests and farmlands that are so far away from our comfort zones… and here we are blabbering about the so-called political-incorrectness or “inhumanity/cruelty” of our reality-TV mentality.

If some people want to eat meat that is murdered by a minimum wage earner with 3 kids in Birmingham, Alabama, or killed by a billionaire who, well—just committed genocide to animals that he gobbles up, or some people prefer a healthy diet of hummus, tempeh and tofu, organic fresh produce and non-antibiotics meat products… so be it. Good eating, be happy. Let's leave them alone in peace and quiet while they enjoy their dinners.

NEXT NEWS, PLEASE…

WHEN I write love poems, my flow seems unaffected, freefalling, easy. The creative moondance isn’t so constrained, guarded, or pondered so deeply—like my usual high-handed, mostly politically-charged, sermonizing writings. It’s relatively hard to judge a love poem as incorrect or self-righteous, judgmental or condescending (like what I usually get when I discuss/argue a sociopolitical discourse). Love poems are very private and personal yet they easily, effortlessly cut across a wider audience—irrelevant of cultural background, ideological leaning, sexual orientation, or age level. Everybody can freely own them… And I like my work to always tread that wavelength—so that I can reach more humanity…

MANY times when I am asked—or I’m motivated—to speak my mind about how I feel about America (or the west in relation to east/Asia/rest of world)… I’m left with two natural options.

[1] KEEP MY MOUTH SHUT, stay glued in my “ethnic” community’s comfort zones, and “mind my own business.” Bothersome… since, this would mean that – if I opt to be safe and silent and distance myself from what’s going on around me, that’d be tantamount to willingly plastering a duct tape on my spirit’s mouth. Have you ever hogtied your own hands and arms on a concrete picket fence? Probably, you did—but clamming up our own mouths is gross self-abuse. Sado-masochism.

ERGO: Beyond the popular thinking that a proverbial evil came with colonization and invasion, somewhere—I also saw a light of wisdom that inched through the cracks when the beautiful, articulate White Man landed in the islands (of my birth). With a saintly smile painted across his immaculate face, the White Man persuaded the Brown Man to come out of his warm, easy shell—and inspired/coaxed/motivated the native dude to speak his mind and trade crafts, arts, food, merchandise and all that good stuff—with him and the rest of the world. Beautiful synergy.

So White Man, Brown Man talked.

In no time at all, the White Man provided a gorgeous ship for the Brown Man to reach America. The Brown Man farmed the earth for apples and grapes, cleaned frozen fish for canned food, leveled the mountains to usher railroads, hopped in another kind of ship to help fight his friend’s adversaries in war, etcetera etcetera.

While doing work, most Brown Men chose to keep quiet and minded their own business… Yet, some were thinking otherwise. They saw the beauty of speaking their minds out—in music, poetry, art, media, activism—despite the risks and dangers and discomfort that “free speech” may invite. The sublimity of speaking one’s mind is a hallmark of American Democracy, they reckon—but why is it, as a koolcat dude named Cat Stevens once sang, “… from the moment that I could talk, I was ordered to listen.”

So, the Brown Man was called so many English words that he never knew before: Judgmental, critical, condescending, rude, narcissist, arrogant, disrespectful, egoistic, inconsiderate, loud, unreasonable, holier-than-thou, one-tracked-mind, asshole.

Sadly (or fortunately), I belong to that Brown Man Group. 

[2] I SPEAK MY MIND—the way I feel it.  While many favored (and took pleasure) from my words, some vehemently resisted them. While I heap praises and acceptance about/to so many stuff and things—ie FREEDOM—in America, I also pose so many contradictions and anomalies around it. But it all sums up to: As we savor the freedom to agree, we also exalt the freedom to disagree. Take it or leave it—everybody has their own community and sectors and friendships and cults and religions and circles to dance around with.

When people speak their minds in a social forum or work of literature or media that is shared with the public, I don’t believe it is an imposition of political advocacy, religious dogma or personal aggrandizement. We speak because we have a mind that beats and functions as deliverer of messages. If we are mute and deaf, we will find a way to express our inner truths… Unless we let the nuzzle of a  gun or the blade of a machete to express that truth, “speaking”—no matter how people’s ears reject them—is a gift of humanity.

I doff my hat to those who dared let their spirits fly with words than those who choose to be nice and quiet… Wake up and speak!