I just woke up from a dream. I was walking across a suspension bridge that spanned a body of dark water. It was foggy, the bridge looked somewhat like the Golden Gate bridge, but the color was a grey more like the Bay Bridge. I saw someone jump from a level above me, and land in the water where a few others were swimming. The boy sprung up to the surface with a laughing roar, his only injury was the sting from the water slapping the bottom of his feet. From my height on the bridge, the jump didn't look too far so I hopped over the side, and landed in between the leaper and his friend.

Once in the water I asked how he got so far up the bridge, since it didn't look like there was an easy access. He told me that I just have to look hard enough as he splashed playfully about the dark water. My gaze followed the support beams from the surface of the water, I saw that there was a series of guide wires and metal bars that could act like a ladder. I turned to him, and said that it probably wouldn't hurt as much if one wore socks. I swam over to a support beam, and started climbing.

The people down below were shouting encouragement by the time I reached the top. To my surprise, I saw a pair of working boots when I grasped the last rung of the ladder. I looked up and saw Clint Eastwood's face. It spooked me, but I tossed myself onto the top of the platform. He was wearing a dark blue jumpsuit, and was eating his lunch as if he were a steel worker. I determined that this must be his private getaway. He greeted me with a hoot and a hello. In my mind I thought his greeting was so friendly because were related somehow, as if only by last name, but not really.

I noticed when I looked over the edge that I was much higher up than I expected. (After reflecting on this height after I woke up, there's no way I would have survived this kind of jump). Eastwood asked me what was the name of the place I was planning to land, as if every spot that was deep enough and free of debris had a name. I got the sensation that he had done this before. I gestured to the spot where the boy had landed (again way too far down). He nodded, and told me to take a load off and forget about this for a minute, as if he knew that I wanted to get this done as soon as possible to avoid the fear and doubt that would creep into my mind. He wanted to draw it all out for me.

He wanted to ask me a question about his last movie, and he fumbled with the title. I guessed Gran Torino, and he acknowledged. He asked what I thought about a paradox, and I can't be clear quite on what it was, except for I seemed to know what he was talking. I said, "About how, at some, point people can't be friends and lovers?" This doesn't make sense, since this was definitely not a topic in Gran Torino, but Eastwood wanted my opinion on it. He was worried about some paradox on love and sacrifice (and that sounds closer to outcome of the movie) I told him that I don't think it works that way, and that friendship and love are bound up together, you can't be friends without expressing real love, and you can't be lovers without real friendship. He seemed to be satisfied with the answer, and he nodded his head again.

He tried to stall me again with more questions, but I was set on jumping off the edge. I realized that it might be harder getting over because I was wearing socks, and I might slip off the rounded guardrail that now looked like it was made of smooth wood, a dark mahogany. I started for the railing, and when he saw that I was making a break for it he shouted, "Hold on a bit! Wait till I get to the bottom!" This made me proud, he really believed I was going to do it, and wanted to greet my success. He opened a door that apparently led to some service stairs that I hadn't noticed. I heard a crash and some struggling. He was trying to fend off some workers that were scrambling to keep me from jumping. He cried, "It's Pojman!" and I turned and rushed towards the railing. As soon as I looked down at the water, my dream ended.

I won't go too far into what I think about the dream, except for when I woke up I was immediately making connections about finding work in a creative industry like writing or more currently video game design. This seems like a leap since I won't have any real measure of security like I would if I just went to Law school. Pojman was the editor of my textbook for Environmental Philosophy, and was also a professor at West Point. I got the sense that he symbolized my previous work and ambitions.

He will look at the city which is within him, and take heed that no disorder occur in it, such as might arise either from superfluity or from want; and upon this principle he will regulate his property and gain or spend according to his means.

Very true.

And, for the same reason, he will gladly accept and enjoy such honours as he deems likely to make him a better man; but those, whether private or public, which are likely to disorder his life, he will avoid?

Then, if that is his motive, he will not be a statesman.

By the dog of Egypt, he will! in the city which 's his own he certainly will, though in the land of his birth perhaps not, unless he have a divine call.

I understand; you mean that he will be a ruler in the city of which we are the founders, and which exists in idea only; for I do not believe that there is such an one anywhere on earth?

In heaven, I replied, there is laid up a pattern of it, methinks, which he who desires may behold, and beholding, may set his own house in order. But whether such an one exists, or ever will exist in fact, is no matter; for he will live after the manner of that city, having nothing to do with any other.

I think so, he said.

-Book IX, The Republic

Matt, Derek, and I watched a movie at Derek's place last night, so again my nose is stuffed up from cat allergies. I only have three more days of work at the School of Education, and then I'll have two weeks off to relax and look for work. That'll be nice.

I just got a t-shirt that I ordered from my the author of my favorite comic strip. I was worried because it took awhile to come in the mail, and I thought it had been lost. The author just quit is day job to work on his web comic full time, so I wanted to be supportive. I hope he does well.

Speaking of clothing, my good pair of jeans ripped yesterday. I'm waiting to buy new clothes until I know what kind of job I'll have this year. It's not so much that I dislike buying clothes, I just know that probably only half of the pants I buy make it into the daily use category of my closet. I'm still wearing shirts from high school, though my chest, back, and stomach are all bigger now so they don't fit all that well. But at least they are comfortable. The problem with maintaining a wardrobe is that you have to actually maintain it. And by maintain it, I mean you have to constantly shop to fill in gaps. I'm more of a binge shopper, once every year or so. My mom used to take us school shopping once the summer was ending, that was fun. I guess she'd throw in some clothes for Christmas as well.

Since I'm not working I can walk to work more comfortably without worrying about being late, and that's great. I should be getting healthier these next few weeks. I'm not even going to think about moving my stuff.

I was just reading over my post from March 16th. I was feeling ill after working with dusty files. It's almost two months later, and I'm just now getting over that sickness. I recently starting taking vitamins, which has been helping. Since I've working in the gradbary, I haven't been eating or sleeping well. But in the end, it's been worth it just to finally get some work out of myself. I'm sitting in the Escondido library. I came last night after my commencement ceremony so I could spend more time with Katyana. That's the other thing that has taken a shot while I've been working. I haven't been able to stay in touch as much as I should; there's only a few places where my mind doesn't churn lately. It's sort of a weird sensation, even when I set time apart to talk, I can't wrap my attention around her like I should. But that's just one of the costs of putting myself in that kind of bind-- having to do that much work in a short amount of time. I'm on the way out of it though, just a little bit more to go.

There's a man sitting nearby with a hacking cough. I really hope I wasn't like that the last few weeks in the library. I feel pretty bad for my classmates if I was, cause this guy really shouldn't be in public. His cough is so bad, it's hard to think.

Now that I'm detaching myself with Loyola Marymount, hopefully I'll be able to find work and a place to stay in San Diego. It would be good for Katyana and me. It's hard to believe we've been together for almost 4 1/2 years now. My parents were only married for 7 years. A lot of our time has been spent at a distance, and I think we've paid our dues in that respect.

My friends and I have been talking a lot about marriage lately. It's the kind of thing that's often on the mind of 24+ years olds. While we have different perspectives on where we are in relation to that kind of commitment, I'm glad that we have a similar attitude towards it. It's an issue I think the four of us actually show maturity. When I listen to them I see a form of humility, we recognize how limited we are, and we see how important marriage and family is to the soul's fulfillment.

Lately, we have also been talking about life issues. Everything from abortion to torture. It's been pretty taxing. I know my account for my positions have become stronger and more solidified, but it's hard to remain in thought about these things for extended periods of time. It starts to permeate my consciousness, and it gets to the point that every time I flip through news articles I find some new kind of destruction. I've been charged with not being able to consider the depth of the issue of abortion, because I'm not considering these things on a more emotional level. That was a slap in the face. To be told that, after letting these things weigh on me probably more than I should, was a tough criticism to take. I had a similar experience when talking about marriage. It seems like one side of the debate has a misplaced authority/dominance on the feeling aspect. I constantly hear how my capacity to feel or empathize is limited, and so I can't judge rightly about these situations. It's difficult for two reasons (1) though I recognize that we have to take these sorts of experiences into account when considering the issue, I don't think it's true that my (or the general)capacity to feel inhibits me (2) it seems that those who level the charge of insensitivity against me are just as guilty of the same error. I realize that it's difficult for me to empathize with a raped woman. However, I try. I try as much as I can. Yet, it is so easy to say that this 'try' is just inadequate, especially because I am a man. But it's another thing altogether to return that 'try' with its reciprocate. And that being the case, it's an ugly thing for my voice to be ignored by someone who doesn't try for the unborn. They can hide behind the fact that the unborn doesn't look like us. But if it's just a clump of cells, than what am I? 1.5 million in the United States every year, 42 million worldwide. That dwarfs any holocaust or genocide.

Mary, pray for us sinners.

I haven't written in here in awhile, but at least this time it's because I have been working on my term papers. I don't think I've ever worked harder academically, and I'm very content with the work so far. Something about trying that much, and doing good work has brought my closer to the Holy Spirit. I feel like I am doing what I should be doing, though you might not notice since my room looks like a mess and I'm barely getting enough sleep. I look wretched, but in a good way.

I'm actually writing this post as a reminder for a project I'd like to work on. At some point I'd like to do a poem or translation of Luke. It's kind of an intimidating project, because that Gospel is apparently the most complete Christology. So it would be pretty awful to foul something up, if I got a too loose. But I think if I frame it as a poem, it will be...nicer. I thought of the idea while researching the death penalty for my Aquinas class. I was just struck by the passage (taken from the New American Standard translation):

Luke 23:35-41

35And the people stood by, looking on. And even the rulers were sneering at Him, saying, "He saved others; let Him save Himself if this is the Christ of God, His Chosen One."

36The soldiers also mocked Him, coming up to Him, offering Him sour wine,

37and saying, "If You are the King of the Jews, save Yourself!"

38Now there was also an inscription above Him, "THIS IS THE KING OF THE JEWS."

39One of the criminals who were hanged there was hurling abuse at Him, saying, "Are You not the Christ? Save Yourself and us!"

40But the other answered, and rebuking him said, "Do you not even fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation?

41"And we indeed are suffering justly, for we are receiving what we deserve for our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong."

42And he was saying, "Jesus, remember me when You come in Your kingdom!"

43And He said to him, "Truly I say to you, today you shall be with Me in Paradise."

44It was now about the sixth hour, and darkness fell over the whole land until the ninth hour,

45because the sun was obscured; and the veil of the temple was torn in two.

46And Jesus, crying out with a loud voice, said, "Father, INTO YOUR HANDS I COMMIT MY SPIRIT." Having said this, He breathed His last.

elephant tusks and miracle dust and indescribable things
the same warmth there ever was
is here again today and gone tomorrow

the least of things
wrestled with the sea
and endeavored to become what may be- unending

the bells that remind
ringing for better times
tears and memories running undone

resting in the solace of a shade.

Again, tonight, I do not feel like writing, but I've learned that times like these are the best opportunity for it. Today I worked on reorganizing files for the School of Education department. It's a somewhat large fruitless task, but it didn't seem too bothersome once I had started. The dust from the files irritated my sinuses, and I am still feeling the effects 7 hours later. I hope I'm not getting sick. It's the time of the year when being sick doesn't help; it's not raining outside, and it's not a lazy month. This weekend I will drive down to San Diego for a job fair. The archdiocese has set it up for its schools. It seems like a good first real shot at a job. Katyana only learned about it this weekend, but she decided to join. I am glad she will be with me. If I cannot find a job there, I will either have to find part-positions at community colleges in San Diego, or travel back up to Santa Cruz. It would be nice to head home, but I would rather be near Katyana. We've sustained our relationship from a distance for quite some time, but if it's left up to me I'd rather be near her.

Lately I've been having more bad dreams than good. I don't know if I am more stressed than usual, I do feel like I am handling my daily affairs more responsibly. But the dreams have been troublesome. A few days ago I dreamt that I was fleeing from the government. The dream proceeded like the post-apocalyptic (or in this case post- new world order) dreams I've had, characterized by the following: I am running from a force or entity that is much larger, more numerous and powerful than I am, there is a vague/uncertain threat of zombies, I am perhaps too keenly aware of the societal changes that are occurring as a result of the present crisis. The dreams are somewhat like Alice in Wonderland, as the experiences fluctuate periodically from eerily pleasurable to outright horrific.
What made this dream peculiar- and it's been long enough since I had that I don't remember much of anything else- was at one point, when I and the group I was fleeing the government with had driven into a town that looked very much like the Old City in Jerusalem. The sky was overcast gray, and our pursuer was just on our heels as we took a sharp turn onto a narrow street. The streets in Jerusalem are impossible narrow, and are paved with cobblestones large enough to make it difficult to walk on comfortable. When it rains, the oil makes the stones slick. This street was covered with Arabs lying prostrate, dying from some plague. We hardly slowed as we plowed into them, the ones still alive ahead struggled to pull the dead from our path. Their clothes were smeared from the oil and rain. My next memory of that dream was of riding a compact, red roller coaster in Japan with Takeshi.

I have been thinking about writing poetry again. It occured to me in the bathroom today that I might be a better poet than philosopher- it was a somewhat unhappy notion. However, I do take pride in my development in creative writing. From Mrs. Basilius to Mrs. Audino to the Sappho translation that the poet laureate appreciated to the professor who taught my steinbeck class, to norm partridge's tutelage. I can happily reflect on those experiences, rough as they sometimes were.

Earlier today in the bathroom- it was a productive day there for some reason- i read a passage by blaise pascal. It was about how we so rarely look upon the present, but are constantly engaging ourselves with the future or the past, either to prolong the good or to speed along or lament the bad. The challenge to look more adequately at the present is difficult to deal with. Especially, because it cannot be honestly put off for later. I do take heart in the idea that my happiness is not something that should be looked for on some distant horizon after grad school papers are written or after i have got a job or a law school position or a house for my children. It almost seems like bad advice to turn my head away from my plans for the future, even if to reflect subjectively on the present, but I know it to be otherwise. It just seems true that we are meant to live in the present, despite the magnificence of our future and the depth of the past.

My two brothers and I were all born in the month of April. Stuart, being the oldest, has had to experience everything first. And in seeing and being out there before either of us, it seems like like comes out him hardest. Ian is probably the most clever of the three. He has a way of looking at the world that let's him handle things- he's the funniest of us. My mother worried when we were growing up, about the effects divorce and broken family life would have on us. She worried that we would suffer from depression. She came from a large family, and her parents created a home for them, especially my grandfather. I can see why she was afraid for us; I can see a little bit of how she must have known things should have been different.

She wanted to hide us away from the world, just long enough. Long enough so we wouldn't have to run up against it before we were ready. Part of growing up in a fractured family is that you have to see and hear things before you are ready. You have to witness anger and resentment, before you know fully the sentiments that transcend those emotions. You have to see your parents fight, and scream, and weep before you can understand what would possess them to act that way.

My brothers and I have always been independent, or at least we have always sought independence. We get it from our parents, my father worked to create his livelihood without an inheritance or help from his own father, and my mother traveled across the world to work and to start a family. Mom could only hold us for so long, she thinks as soon as we turned twelve or maybe fourteen, that was when we were already fighting to be on out on our own. I had thought it was later. When I went to college, I felt like I was starting a new life. My things were then my things, and they were packed into my car. I had a room.

The world is upon us now, the three of us. It's turning and changing us. My brother's divorce, and his daughter, Amira. The house and the war. Ian's job flying, and my studying, and sitting here, and feeling sadness every once in awhile. It's all here now, and it's been there for years but it takes some time to see it.

I used to think if I could just make the right choices, life would go smoothly. Some things couldn't be helped, but if I continued to finish my work, and make it through the day, and be a faithful friend things would fall into place. Things just had to be done well. Now as I go on I'm realizing the world is so complex, and the guidelines are growing thin and far apart. We run the course of our lives, trying to give ourselves the best shot- cutting away at the worst possibilities, we insure that we have a job, and a home, and comfort in relationships. But at some time we have to acknowledge the unknown in the world. We just can't know what will come, and it's a fearful thing. We guard as much as we can, but we can only grasp and hold on to so much.

In my brothers I see many things. I see the home we grew up in, the woods we used to run through. So much of our lives is bound up amongst us. As I grow older I realize that they are what I want keep with me as the world changes. As it swells and fades.

No disrespect to Cesar Chavez, but the fact that Loyola Marymount University observes Cesar Chavez day, and ignores President's Day (a federal holiday) is messed up.

The last few days I have been considering the idea of insanity. My old room mate was telling me that his neighbor is suffering from some mental disease, something like schizophrenia. He believes that he is being possessed by a demon, and had expressed this to James on one occasion. He was also consulting with priests as to how he could be exorcised. The following evening he had an episode, and was taken by ambulance to a psychiatric ward.

It is a frightful thing to witness someone lose their sanity. Even hearing third hand accounts can be disturbing. On one hand this this is caused by a historical notion of mental derangement, namely that of demonic possession. It's not merely that someone has lost touch with reality through some dysfunction or imbalance in their brain chemistry, but rather that their will has been subordinated to the devil. They now pose the possibility of great harm to us and themselves, imbued with a demonic power. For me, the idea of their radical unpredictability is a dreadful thing. It would be strange to think that in all our interactions we are in the process of predicting what others around us will do next- we enjoy a certain amount of passivity to the world. But to be cognizant of the fact that someone near you has possibly lost touch with all intellectual and social norms would be unsettling to say the least. At the same time, it is more than their simply losing the possibility of social contract. In some way they lose touch with part of their human soul.

At this point, I've used broad strokes to frame the idea of insanity. The current perspective could include a range of illnesses from Alzheimer's to bi-polar disorder to those who are in a blind rage after experiencing great loss. I have not distinguished between the legal, medical, and social aspects of such a condition. These reasons makes this sort of inspection largely unfruitful. I am talking about a topic I have a woeful inadequacy to handle. However, I want to get at a common notion of the idea. That is a loss of the self. It could be argued that someone undergoing the throes of mental aberration still have "themself", but I can't help but thinking such violence done to they way one thinks radically reshapes the psyche. The reason I am willing to engage this topic, is because I want to elicit the idea that we should have a reverence for the suffering of such a violence.

Today, we often cannot help but mock those we think are mentally ill. This woman who projects her derangement with an obsession for children, and gives birth to eight children she is wholly incapable of raising is the target of great maligning in the news. People can't wait to take a shot at her. We've developed a great sense of distrust and suspicion regarding these manners, no doubt in part because of our awareness of how insanity pleas are abused in the courts. We see people faking dementia as a way of absconding themselves from responsibility. However, given the circumstance when we confront someone who legitimately suffers such an affliction, it seems to require a great reordering of the way we think if we are to display the appropriate sympathy. You can't lure someone out of irrationality with syllogistic reasoning, and this is even more so when it is involuntary. Our actions must be characterized by an emotive touch, a sensitivity to the part of human soul the insane still has direct contact with- namely the sensitive part.

Going over this entry I'm afraid the looseness of what I have written obscures my intention. Rather than become overly apologetic, I will re-synthesize my thought. When those of us around us encounter such an experience, when they lose grips with the intellectual part of their soul, we should direct our care of them in such a way as to exhibit reverence for their loss. However, temporary it may or not be, I think if we come to terms with the evil (natural or moral) suffered, we are obligated to mourn more than the forfeiture of our personal comfort.

It's been wicked cold in Los Angeles lately. It must be anomaly that the temperature is dropping down to the low 40's; it certainly is the coldest since I moved here a year and 1/2 ago. The other day I purchased some fried chicken from the KFC on Lincoln. I noticed when I was in the elevator that the bag had a KFC seal of approval for food safety. The idea seemed odd to me, the label was more advertisement than health notice. In this day, that sort of thing has become a selling point, rather than something granted. I had food poisoning, by that night. That sort of illness is much easier to deal with when you can stay at home all day.

The time spent indoors from the rain, cold, and illness has given me insight on the effects of sedentary life. I've become resistant to cabin fever. That is, I can spend a series of days without any physical activity, and yet not become restless. However, when I am at my apartment I only reside in a few places. Primarily that is in my chair at the computer, which at the most was meant for maybe 30 minutes of seating a day. It's a wooden dinner table chair, and really it would be more fitting for breakfast. My elbows and my finger joints start to swell from typing too much, it's a mess.

One thing I enjoy about this room is that immediately to left from my desk is a large window. Unfortunately, it's covered by vertical blinds that do a poor job at nearly all the tasks we expect of blinds. It's sort of comical how poorly they keep light out and insulate. The real treasure is behind those blinds. The view is something less than magnificent; outside is the fabricated apartment complex garden albeit with a more liberal distribution of trees. It's just enough of a view to take a look to clear my mind for a moment, and then to go back to work. I'd love an ocean view, perhaps one of those captain's cabin views out the rear of a spanish galleon. I'd never get anything done.

The courtyard outside my window has had its share of events. I watched my room mate's dog, Forban, lose his ball off the balcony. The poor thing looked so despondent. I couldn't find it below. During the Fall, at dusk, birds will land suddenly. The complex surrounding the courtyard offers some protection, and this area lacks any sort of wooded areas, so this is probably the best place for them to sleep. The sound of their wings fluttering is surprisingly audible. It's as if they spent the entire toiling with the wind, and they are just collapsing into their resting grounds. There is also a sweet aroma. I'd like to think it's floral, but it's sweet enough to make me think it's rust or some byproduct from the irrigation system. Really it smells like my mother's sweat.

I'm washing a thermal blanket for tonight. It was dusty when I pulled it out of my closet. It's the blue hospital blanket the nurses gave me when I broke my collar bone playing football. Someday I'll probably lose it, but it's quite a thought to think of my daughter wrapped up in it.

Sometimes when I get home from work and school I want to take off my shoes and shirt, and fling myself off the world. Just dive right over the edge and let my arms and feet hang backwards behind me while I plunge into the night. I wonder about the sailor caught under the superstition that the world was flat, as Magellan took them over the flat limits of the earth. Did he relish the idea of falling? I can imagine him standing apart from his mates, clinging to a hawser- his toes knotting into balls in an effort to cling to the deck. His eyes wild with wonder. For him it must have been about what's at the bottom, the real end. For me I want to know the fall.

My brother is back from the war again. I will be traveling up to Washington again to see him this weekend. He was scheduled to arrive on Tuesday, Inauguration Day.

Almost a year since my last post. I think that's the longest gap so far, but the good thing is I'm posting again. It's 5:00pm, but I'm tired mostly in the eyes. I've been thinking about my trip to the Philippines a lot. There is quite a bit that could be said about my experience there. At this point I'd rather leave that to pictures and random discussions, and hope I don't forget too much if I ever really want to put those memories to ink/key.

The big question I put to myself while I was there wasn't really a question, but I guess something that was influencing me while I was there. Most basically it can be put as this-> what's special about the Philippines? Is it that it has a strong history? From what I learned the prehistoric times in the Philippines took place during the flourishing of Ancient Greek antiquity. Relatively all that has occured in the Philippines has gone on in the shadow of the more prominent Asian civilizations more or less the West. Is it that there is such a stark contrast between first world Makati and the third world slums around the corner? My limited life experience with ghettos in developing countries (a mission trip to Mexico while I was 7th grade, a trip through the West Bank)buffered the surprise I think some of my family expected to see in me as dirt poor children pressed their faces against my tinted window in order to see if there was a handout inside. I wouldn't say I am numb, but I've seen it before. Is it in the things that only the Philippines has- this fruit or that beach? Or in the things that are distinctly Filipino?

I'd have to spend a great deal of time to really ascertain what is special about the Philippines if I went about it by asking those questions. I'm not really asking what is special about the Philippines, I'm asking what makes me belong to this place. This question is infinitely more important to me. I continue to reflect on the Philippines through the perspective that it is the land where my mother was born, and where my family continues to live. Every part of it, from the pleasure of halo halo to the travesties elicited by the corrupt government and politicians are in some part mine.

I think the question I will begin to ask myself is how I take ownership of these things- of the Philippines. This isn't ownership in the sense that I am indebted to solve all its problems or even take up residence there. It's also not ownership in the sense that I take advantage of all that is good there. It's ownership in the sense of belonging. The question as to why I belong there are easily answered. It's familial- ancestral. But now I will ask how I am filipino.

I know I will never truly belong there. I am American, and I am from California- Santa Cruz. But the faint tug that has kept me from becoming American in the same sense as my classmates comes from across the Pacific. I guess that's the mestizo plight. You never really belong here or there. Sometimes I can't help but sympathize with the nationalist/racist who thinks true citizenship is impossible for someone like me. In some acute sense they are right. Though I'd probably never let them know about it- it's probably not for them to understand.

Having returned home I am proud of what is there- in me. I've always known where my family comes from, but it was a rare opportunity to see what those places really look, feel, and smell like. In those two weeks my identity grew incredibly more complex. It seems cliche to think about it in this way, but I don't think it has to be. I don't think it was just a matter of seeing the manila smog, the jeepneys, the sigsig, the barrios. It was confronting that part of my spirit.