Achtung!

First a caveat. Beginnings are critical, so Muad Dib says (or is it his Bene Gesserit mother, Jessica?) Honestly, I don't know. I just find it dramatic to say beginnings are critical. But we should try to pinpoint where and when the ensuing madness emanated in order to find a cure. Before you try to wrap a deranged man in a straight jacket, you must first try to find where the beginning of straps are, or is it you must first try to put the madman in a headlock, or is it you must first try to stop screaming like a girl while the madman is biting you in the thigh? Again, I honestly don't know. I was in the other cell that night and I only heard the steward's high octave while that schizoid is gnawing on his groin like a pit bull with a lechon manok. But I digress.

The beginning.

I remember it vividly...It was in Sipocot, a sleepy little town north of Camarines Sur. It was an hour before noon about a decade and a half ago. My mother was cooking lunch when she asked me to buy vinegar in a nearby sari sari store. The Guardian of Fates must had a drink too many that day because one thing led to another and I found myself hopping on a bus bound to Manila and enrolling in UP Diliman. After n+2x years later with a BA Pol Sci degree in hand and a half finished MPA, I decided to check if my mom still needs her vinegar. I really could not recall the circumstances but I found myself again going the opposite way. Now half a world away and very much bewildered by my wanderings (Odysseus was a Sherpa guide equipped with a GPS device compared to me), I try to write down every thought/observation/experience so as to unravel the cause of my peripatetic (read: very pathetic) existence. Illuminated by the flickering light of an ancient monitor and guided by trembling hands, I write down these ramblings together with a sacred intonation: may my mother forgive me for her ruined stew.