Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
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~
In my youth, the Lord had to place a lid on my life to prevent me from making mistakes that could haunt me in adulthood. Now, here I am, retired—relatively confident, yet still guarded in how I manage my resources. I constantly calculate my expenses, from the handlebars I installed for safety at home to the collapsible seat I bought for fishing. Groceries and daily necessities are well within my control. But then, there are the unpredictable expenses—the ones that remind me that no amount of planning can fully prepare us for the unexpected. Jim has been unable to work for weeks now, leaving his rent unpaid. Meanwhile, the lease on my rental property is set to expire, with no certainty of renewal. Then there’s the stock market, shaken by the whims of a single man, adding another layer of uncertainty to my financial stability.
This morning, my walk was shorter than usual—just over three miles. I also resisted the urge to overindulge in fishing, a newfound passion that, while exhilarating, has taken a toll on my back and hip. The pain, lingering and persistent, has forced me to adjust my routine. With fewer workouts, I find myself with idle time, a dangerous vacuum that my mind eagerly fills with unnecessary worries, daydreams, and distractions. News from my hometown, social media posts about my hobbies, and my attempts at learning Spanish all swirl in my thoughts, keeping my brain occupied but not necessarily fulfilled. YouTube has become a rabbit hole of intrigue and fascination, but too often, I catch myself lying in bed, overwhelmed by discomfort and unproductive contemplation.
Retirement is not the unbroken stretch of rest and stability I once imagined. My body weakens, my mind wrestles with distractions, and I find myself failing in ways I never anticipated—misprioritizing my time, allowing myself to drift into mental noise, and sometimes, simply surrendering to inertia. Loss, I’ve come to realize, is not just about financial setbacks or physical decline; it is also the sudden shifts in routine that disrupt the sense of stability I once relied upon. Fishing, for instance, was a lifelong dream, something I envisioned as a peaceful and fulfilling retirement pastime. But the unexpected consequence—hip and back pain so severe I could barely rise from my chair—was a stark reminder that even joyful pursuits can have costs.
To mitigate the strain, I made adjustments. I purchased a collapsible chair to relieve the stress of prolonged standing and awkward sitting postures. When fishing from the Intracoastal wall, I had been twisting my body unnaturally—an innocent mistake, but one that my aging body refuses to ignore. It is a lesson I must heed: be careful with how I engage in my newfound joys, for the body is no longer as forgiving as it once was.
Yesterday, I debated whether to try a different park, one less crowded than my usual spot. At the last minute, I decided against it—extra driving time and potential traffic were not worth the trouble. Instead, I returned to my familiar retreat, pleasantly surprised to find it quieter than expected. The old man, who is usually a fixture there, was sober and amiable, making for pleasant conversation. I also noticed a homeless woman, one who has lately become more friendly towards me.
I tread carefully in their presence, observing from a respectful distance. In the early mornings, they remain quiet, some still asleep on the grass, others wrapped in their blankets along the boardwalk. I know better than to visit later in the day, when alcohol and drugs take hold, rendering them erratic and unpredictable. Yet, they have never disturbed me. If I find myself unsettled, it is only because I choose to place myself in their presence. Gone are the days when I sought social acceptance, when I craved engagement with everyone I encountered. I no longer need the validation I once did, and that, in itself, is a liberating realization.
With my pain subsiding, I am eager to return to my usual pursuits. Reading, blogging, programming, and practicing Spanish should once again take precedence. My physical routine will remain a priority—walking, fishing (with caution), and weight training. Meditation has been a consistent anchor in my life, and I am determined to maintain that discipline. My body, for the most part, seems content with the physical upkeep, but my mind still needs work.
The world outside my personal sphere continues its chaotic march. Politics, both in the U.S. and my homeland, is once again at a fever pitch. Trump, ever the showman, stirs controversy as he maneuvers for the spotlight. In the Philippines, the former president faces justice for crimes against humanity. These events capture my attention more than they should, pulling me into the vortex of debate and speculation. Yet, I cannot ignore the broader lesson: the world is being shown, in stark relief, the consequences of misplaced priorities.
Americans, lured by grand promises of wealth and security, have elected leaders who amass fortunes yet deliver little in return. They were sold a dream—instant prosperity, safer borders, better jobs—if only they purged the government of inefficiency, taxed imports, and expelled immigrants. But reality is not so simple. Now, faced with rising unemployment, a stock market in decline, and the looming specter of recession, many are beginning to realize that wealth does not trickle down by sheer will. The irony is striking—some who once aspired to innovate and create now clamor for jobs as landscapers, farmhands, and factory workers, as if reversing global trade and outsourcing could magically return them to an era that no longer exists.
This misguided pursuit of material success, the belief that financial gain equates to fulfillment, is a folly as old as time. The Lord’s wisdom, written across generations, teaches otherwise. Wealth is neither good nor evil—it is the love of wealth, the obsession with it, that corrupts. True fulfillment lies not in amassing riches but in nurturing one’s talents, in pursuing knowledge, in crafting a life of substance rather than illusion. Those who build their identities on wealth and power will one day face the inevitable: all that is accumulated will slip away, as fleeting as a whisper on the wind.
For my part, I remain at peace with what I have. I observe, from a distance, those who measure their worth by the size of their assets and the reach of their influence. I see them cling to their wealth as if it were a permanent fixture in their lives, unaware that the tides of fortune are as fickle as the seasons. In the end, it is not what the world gives us that defines us—it is what we choose to hold onto and what we are willing to let go. And as I move forward in this chapter of my life, I choose to hold onto simplicity, to embrace the wisdom of restraint, and to let go of the illusions that bind so many to a cycle of endless want.
2025-03-17 01:25:20
popong
(written early 2000s)
You are probably not interested in his story, the story of Miguel. It is not one filled with laughter, philosophy, or life-altering lessons. It is written in poor English, broken like his heart. And you know what a broken heart is—it weeps with blood. Blood that floods the brain, making it go crazy. Sad, dirty blood. And Miguel washes it away with wine. Wine cleanses his mind, scrubs it empty. Reality, memories, dreams—gone, at least for a while.
Sometimes it is difficult to understand his English, but don't worry. You'll get it. It won't hurt you if you keep hearing him repeat himself. You understand? His English is gathered from the groves where he picks oranges, from the women who sell their bodies, from the men who sell their souls, from bars that pour cerveza negra, and from Taco Bell. It is tangled with prayers to the Lord Jesus Christ and punctuated with the echoes of home. "Hola, my life is fine, Teresita," he says into a prepaid calling card, standing inside a phone booth by the side of the road.
Dressed like a farmer ready to cultivate an entire continent, he holds the receiver against his ear, unmindful of the cars rushing past, their drivers either oblivious to his existence or fully aware of his non-existence. Ay caramba.
He once arrived in this country well-dressed, with good manners and great confidence. But now, reduced to second-hand clothes from Salvation Army, he wonders—who here in the USA cares to see him dressed as handsomely as he once was? Who even cares to see him at all? Standing by the roadside, his eyes plead with passing drivers. "Have you a job for me?"
And the jobs he takes—less than minimum wage—lifting, pushing, shoveling, cultivating, digging, planting, cementing, cleaning, washing. What is left? Every kind of labor except the one he trained for.
Back home, he was an accountant. But what is an accountant's worth in a place where numbers do not add up to survival?
You see, in his home country, you can have many decent things—education, love, romance, respect, dignity, honor, history, friendships—but without money, they all crumble into dust. Here, he has no home, no family, no full grasp of the language. But that does not matter. What matters is that he has muscles, silence, servitude. He will not flinch if poked, spat at, cursed, treated like dirt. Because at the end of the day, for real, at the end, he earns dinero. Yeah, dolares, for real. Money—that’s what counts. Everything else can wait. It doesn’t matter how he is treated in Gringo-land. Who cares, as long as he can feed himself and send something back home?
Miguel places the receiver back on the hook. He turns his gaze to the long, winding road, so clean, so well-kept. Thanks to workers like him, America remains beautiful.
Every day, cada día, he learns more about the Gringo system. He notices that hard work is rewarded here. There is no such thing as a low-class job as long as you pay taxes (but he is still illegal) and commit no public scandal or crime (so far). In Gringo-land, you can live your life, mind your business, and no one will bother you—so long as you follow the rules. And so, he will be here—weeks, months, years, even forever—until he becomes one of them. A Gringo who pays taxes. A Gringo who is treated as an equal.
This plastic calling card in his pocket—someday, it will transform into an American Express card. Or Visa. Or Mastercard. How does he get there from here?
Miguel sits by the roadside, plotting his future. He can marry a Gringa. He might be lucky and receive amnesty from some politician looking for votes. He could enroll in an American school, become a nurse like the Filipinos. He could start a landscaping business and apply for a business visa. So many possibilities, yet all seem just out of reach.
Today, he cannot even find someone to hire him. Is this what life is meant to be? Born in a poor country, drawn to a land of promise, only to scrape by, endlessly scheming for a way to belong?
He is a migratory bird, flying toward abundance, hoping it will last long enough for him to blend in, to become a native. But how long will it take to acquire the plumage of the local birds, to fly like them, live like them, build a nest like them?
The other migratory birds have scattered. They once flew together, but now they part ways, each seeking a branch to call their own. There is no more flock, only solitary wanderers, drifting in limbo, chasing a dream that is both near and impossibly far.
And he has chosen Gringo-land. But where does he begin?
2025-03-14 02:51:53
shortstories
Popong 23: Life Adjustments
In my youth, the Lord had to place a lid on my life to prevent me from making mistakes that could haunt me in adulthood. Now, here I am, retired—relatively confident, yet still guarded in how I manage my resources. I constantly calculate my expenses, from the handlebars I installed for safety at home to the collapsible seat I bought for fishing. Groceries and daily necessities are well within my control. But then, there are the unpredictable expenses—the ones that remind me that no amount of planning can fully prepare us for the unexpected. Jim has been unable to work for weeks now, leaving his rent unpaid. Meanwhile, the lease on my rental property is set to expire, with no certainty of renewal. Then there’s the stock market, shaken by the whims of a single man, adding another layer of uncertainty to my financial stability.
This morning, my walk was shorter than usual—just over three miles. I also resisted the urge to overindulge in fishing, a newfound passion that, while exhilarating, has taken a toll on my back and hip. The pain, lingering and persistent, has forced me to adjust my routine. With fewer workouts, I find myself with idle time, a dangerous vacuum that my mind eagerly fills with unnecessary worries, daydreams, and distractions. News from my hometown, social media posts about my hobbies, and my attempts at learning Spanish all swirl in my thoughts, keeping my brain occupied but not necessarily fulfilled. YouTube has become a rabbit hole of intrigue and fascination, but too often, I catch myself lying in bed, overwhelmed by discomfort and unproductive contemplation.
Retirement is not the unbroken stretch of rest and stability I once imagined. My body weakens, my mind wrestles with distractions, and I find myself failing in ways I never anticipated—misprioritizing my time, allowing myself to drift into mental noise, and sometimes, simply surrendering to inertia. Loss, I’ve come to realize, is not just about financial setbacks or physical decline; it is also the sudden shifts in routine that disrupt the sense of stability I once relied upon. Fishing, for instance, was a lifelong dream, something I envisioned as a peaceful and fulfilling retirement pastime. But the unexpected consequence—hip and back pain so severe I could barely rise from my chair—was a stark reminder that even joyful pursuits can have costs.
To mitigate the strain, I made adjustments. I purchased a collapsible chair to relieve the stress of prolonged standing and awkward sitting postures. When fishing from the Intracoastal wall, I had been twisting my body unnaturally—an innocent mistake, but one that my aging body refuses to ignore. It is a lesson I must heed: be careful with how I engage in my newfound joys, for the body is no longer as forgiving as it once was.
Yesterday, I debated whether to try a different park, one less crowded than my usual spot. At the last minute, I decided against it—extra driving time and potential traffic were not worth the trouble. Instead, I returned to my familiar retreat, pleasantly surprised to find it quieter than expected. The old man, who is usually a fixture there, was sober and amiable, making for pleasant conversation. I also noticed a homeless woman, one who has lately become more friendly towards me.
I tread carefully in their presence, observing from a respectful distance. In the early mornings, they remain quiet, some still asleep on the grass, others wrapped in their blankets along the boardwalk. I know better than to visit later in the day, when alcohol and drugs take hold, rendering them erratic and unpredictable. Yet, they have never disturbed me. If I find myself unsettled, it is only because I choose to place myself in their presence. Gone are the days when I sought social acceptance, when I craved engagement with everyone I encountered. I no longer need the validation I once did, and that, in itself, is a liberating realization.
With my pain subsiding, I am eager to return to my usual pursuits. Reading, blogging, programming, and practicing Spanish should once again take precedence. My physical routine will remain a priority—walking, fishing (with caution), and weight training. Meditation has been a consistent anchor in my life, and I am determined to maintain that discipline. My body, for the most part, seems content with the physical upkeep, but my mind still needs work.
The world outside my personal sphere continues its chaotic march. Politics, both in the U.S. and my homeland, is once again at a fever pitch. Trump, ever the showman, stirs controversy as he maneuvers for the spotlight. In the Philippines, the former president faces justice for crimes against humanity. These events capture my attention more than they should, pulling me into the vortex of debate and speculation. Yet, I cannot ignore the broader lesson: the world is being shown, in stark relief, the consequences of misplaced priorities.
Americans, lured by grand promises of wealth and security, have elected leaders who amass fortunes yet deliver little in return. They were sold a dream—instant prosperity, safer borders, better jobs—if only they purged the government of inefficiency, taxed imports, and expelled immigrants. But reality is not so simple. Now, faced with rising unemployment, a stock market in decline, and the looming specter of recession, many are beginning to realize that wealth does not trickle down by sheer will. The irony is striking—some who once aspired to innovate and create now clamor for jobs as landscapers, farmhands, and factory workers, as if reversing global trade and outsourcing could magically return them to an era that no longer exists.
This misguided pursuit of material success, the belief that financial gain equates to fulfillment, is a folly as old as time. The Lord’s wisdom, written across generations, teaches otherwise. Wealth is neither good nor evil—it is the love of wealth, the obsession with it, that corrupts. True fulfillment lies not in amassing riches but in nurturing one’s talents, in pursuing knowledge, in crafting a life of substance rather than illusion. Those who build their identities on wealth and power will one day face the inevitable: all that is accumulated will slip away, as fleeting as a whisper on the wind.
For my part, I remain at peace with what I have. I observe, from a distance, those who measure their worth by the size of their assets and the reach of their influence. I see them cling to their wealth as if it were a permanent fixture in their lives, unaware that the tides of fortune are as fickle as the seasons. In the end, it is not what the world gives us that defines us—it is what we choose to hold onto and what we are willing to let go. And as I move forward in this chapter of my life, I choose to hold onto simplicity, to embrace the wisdom of restraint, and to let go of the illusions that bind so many to a cycle of endless want.
2025-03-17 01:25:20
popong
Migratory Bird
(written early 2000s)
You are probably not interested in his story, the story of Miguel. It is not one filled with laughter, philosophy, or life-altering lessons. It is written in poor English, broken like his heart. And you know what a broken heart is—it weeps with blood. Blood that floods the brain, making it go crazy. Sad, dirty blood. And Miguel washes it away with wine. Wine cleanses his mind, scrubs it empty. Reality, memories, dreams—gone, at least for a while.
Sometimes it is difficult to understand his English, but don't worry. You'll get it. It won't hurt you if you keep hearing him repeat himself. You understand? His English is gathered from the groves where he picks oranges, from the women who sell their bodies, from the men who sell their souls, from bars that pour cerveza negra, and from Taco Bell. It is tangled with prayers to the Lord Jesus Christ and punctuated with the echoes of home. "Hola, my life is fine, Teresita," he says into a prepaid calling card, standing inside a phone booth by the side of the road.
Dressed like a farmer ready to cultivate an entire continent, he holds the receiver against his ear, unmindful of the cars rushing past, their drivers either oblivious to his existence or fully aware of his non-existence. Ay caramba.
He once arrived in this country well-dressed, with good manners and great confidence. But now, reduced to second-hand clothes from Salvation Army, he wonders—who here in the USA cares to see him dressed as handsomely as he once was? Who even cares to see him at all? Standing by the roadside, his eyes plead with passing drivers. "Have you a job for me?"
And the jobs he takes—less than minimum wage—lifting, pushing, shoveling, cultivating, digging, planting, cementing, cleaning, washing. What is left? Every kind of labor except the one he trained for.
Back home, he was an accountant. But what is an accountant's worth in a place where numbers do not add up to survival?
You see, in his home country, you can have many decent things—education, love, romance, respect, dignity, honor, history, friendships—but without money, they all crumble into dust. Here, he has no home, no family, no full grasp of the language. But that does not matter. What matters is that he has muscles, silence, servitude. He will not flinch if poked, spat at, cursed, treated like dirt. Because at the end of the day, for real, at the end, he earns dinero. Yeah, dolares, for real. Money—that’s what counts. Everything else can wait. It doesn’t matter how he is treated in Gringo-land. Who cares, as long as he can feed himself and send something back home?
Miguel places the receiver back on the hook. He turns his gaze to the long, winding road, so clean, so well-kept. Thanks to workers like him, America remains beautiful.
Every day, cada día, he learns more about the Gringo system. He notices that hard work is rewarded here. There is no such thing as a low-class job as long as you pay taxes (but he is still illegal) and commit no public scandal or crime (so far). In Gringo-land, you can live your life, mind your business, and no one will bother you—so long as you follow the rules. And so, he will be here—weeks, months, years, even forever—until he becomes one of them. A Gringo who pays taxes. A Gringo who is treated as an equal.
This plastic calling card in his pocket—someday, it will transform into an American Express card. Or Visa. Or Mastercard. How does he get there from here?
Miguel sits by the roadside, plotting his future. He can marry a Gringa. He might be lucky and receive amnesty from some politician looking for votes. He could enroll in an American school, become a nurse like the Filipinos. He could start a landscaping business and apply for a business visa. So many possibilities, yet all seem just out of reach.
Today, he cannot even find someone to hire him. Is this what life is meant to be? Born in a poor country, drawn to a land of promise, only to scrape by, endlessly scheming for a way to belong?
He is a migratory bird, flying toward abundance, hoping it will last long enough for him to blend in, to become a native. But how long will it take to acquire the plumage of the local birds, to fly like them, live like them, build a nest like them?
The other migratory birds have scattered. They once flew together, but now they part ways, each seeking a branch to call their own. There is no more flock, only solitary wanderers, drifting in limbo, chasing a dream that is both near and impossibly far.
And he has chosen Gringo-land. But where does he begin?
2025-03-14 02:51:53
shortstories