Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
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It has been a day since I went through that exhausting series of errands: a laboratory visit for my blood-type test, a stop at the Toyota dealership, breakfast and lunch, a walk around Clark, an application for my birth certificate, and finally picking up my laundry. None of those things sounds particularly strenuous by itself, but by the end of the day, I was completely drained. I suspect the real culprit was not the errands but the heat. I felt exhausted, sweaty, dirty, and uncomfortable—the smell of perspiration, the gritty feeling on my skin, the general stickiness of being outdoors in this climate. Thank God for a cold shower and for finally having my blankets back from the laundry. I slept deeply through most of the afternoon and into the evening.
I also managed to control my carbohydrate intake somewhat, which is good considering how much rice I have been eating since returning to my ancestral home in the barrio. Old habits have a way of returning along with old surroundings.
Despite the exhaustion, I accomplished several things I had been putting off. I kept up with my meditation journal, which is important to me, and since last night I have been working on the closing of my Florida house, now scheduled in two days. If everything goes smoothly, I should finally have access to the proceeds from the sale and can move forward with buying a new vehicle here. Having a car would restore a certain freedom I have been missing since I arrived. I would no longer have to spend so much time exposed to the heat while going to the market, stores, government offices, or wherever else I need to go. I could drive to an air-conditioned mall, take a longer trip, or even check into a hotel somewhere for a change of scenery. I would once again have the freedom simply to get in the car and go. Hopefully, that happens sometime next week.
I have also been thinking about going to Manila for a few days. Being cooped up in one place for too long is not healthy for me. I need variety in my life, just as I did in the United States. I don't want to live in a tomb while I am still alive. I want movement, new scenery, different experiences, and occasional breaks from the routine.
But there is a caveat.
Somewhere in the back of my mind are lingering temptations to recreate the life and pleasures of my younger years—to exercise as intensely as I once did, wander around endlessly, stay out late, and perhaps chase the kinds of good times that belonged to another stage of my life. But I have to be realistic. My age, energy level, and physical limitations have changed the equation. Yesterday was proof enough. A handful of ordinary errands in the heat left me completely exhausted. It would be foolish to expect my body to perform as though I were half my present age. Accepting that is not surrender. It is simply recognizing reality.
This morning, I woke up to the usual flurry of activity among my older brother's family. That, too, is something I have to get used to. I admit that it irritates me sometimes because I became so accustomed to a quiet life in the United States. When Jim and I shared the same house, we hardly spoke to each other for long stretches of the day, and perhaps that was one reason we lived together so peacefully. We both respected silence. Our conversations were mostly small talk and occasional short discussions before each of us returned to his own world. Jim had his sports on television, his beer, and his cigarettes—not all the time, of course—while I had my video editing, meditative writing, websites, and, for many years, social media.
Perhaps that long attachment to social media is also why I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with it.
I find myself growing tired of people documenting nearly everything under the sun, especially when ordinary experiences seem to be presented as demonstrations of status. A trip becomes an opportunity to mention the cars. A family update becomes a catalog of houses, properties, accomplishments, and possessions. Then, almost as an afterthought, God is invoked as the source of all these "blessings."
That is where I become uncomfortable.
There is nothing wrong with being grateful for what we have. There is nothing wrong with owning a nice house, driving a good car, succeeding in business, or celebrating the accomplishments of our children. But I sometimes wonder where gratitude ends and performance begins. When does thanking God quietly for what we have turn into announcing our possessions so that other people will admire—or perhaps envy—us? I cannot answer that question for anyone else. I can only ask it of myself.
And maybe that is why I am grateful that I have gradually escaped much of social media's pull. I have drastically reduced my posting and now try to share only things that genuinely interest me rather than every passing detail of my existence.
There is another kind of social-media behavior that bothers me even more: the constant judging and condemning of other people in the name of God. I see acquaintances proclaiming their religious beliefs while simultaneously attacking people whose lives, identities, politics, or values differ from their own. I have even watched an old coworker move from political posts into repeated condemnations of LGBT and transgender people, often wrapping those judgments in religious language. Whether I agree or disagree with someone's beliefs is almost beside the point. What troubles me is the certainty with which some people assume that their personal judgments are identical to God's.
Ironically, I often don't even unfollow these people because I know them personally and don't want to hurt them. So I scroll past the posts, shake my head, and move on.
Then there are those who seem obsessed with views, followers, likes, and engagement, constantly thanking their "supporters" as though they have suddenly become celebrities. I sometimes laugh at it, but underneath the humor is something I find genuinely sad. Social media has created a strange world in which numbers generated partly by algorithms can begin to feel like measurements of human worth. Followers become status. Views become validation. Ordinary moments become performances because apparently no breakfast, shopping trip, vacation, or afternoon stroll can be allowed to disappear without being documented for an audience.
Of course, I have participated in this world myself. That is why I cannot pretend to stand completely outside it.
Perhaps my criticism of other people is also telling me something about myself. Maybe I am becoming the stereotypical grumpy old man, increasingly irritated by things younger—or simply different—people consider normal. I have to admit that possibility. Age has a way of making us compare the present with the world we remember, and memory is hardly an impartial judge. We tend to polish the past while magnifying everything that annoys us about the present. So perhaps some of what I call wisdom is simply age talking.
Still, something deeper continues to bother me, and it goes beyond social media or this particular town. It is a cultural shift I have noticed in many places: the growing tendency to measure a person's value through money, possessions, visibility, influence, and status.
I notice it when I travel through town with relatives and the conversation turns to businesses, hotels, quarries, supermarkets, properties, and the families who own them. Stories circulate about how certain fortunes began, how businesses expanded, how political connections were cultivated, and how money gradually translated into influence and respectability. Some of those histories are complicated and controversial, and I do not pretend to know every fact behind them. But what fascinates me is how easily wealth itself can eventually become evidence of virtue in people's minds. Once enough money has accumulated, people often stop asking where it came from. Success becomes its own justification.
That, perhaps, is what bothers me most.
Money becomes not merely something useful but a certificate of importance. Wealth becomes proof that someone has lived correctly. A large house, another property, a business, an expensive vehicle—these become visible evidence that a person has "made it." People admire the finished mansion without necessarily asking about the foundation underneath it.
I sometimes miss a simpler standard, perhaps partly imagined through nostalgia, when qualities such as honesty, integrity, hard work, intelligence, wisdom, respectability, and fear of God seemed to carry more weight. Today I met one or two old acquaintances, and before long the conversation turned to properties—what they owned, what they were building, what vehicles they drove. Guiltily, I played along and acted impressed.
The funny thing is that I have accumulated material things myself. I am not writing this from a hut while wearing sackcloth. I owned a house in Florida. I still have property. I am preparing to buy a new vehicle. I spent decades working in America and benefited from that life. So it would be hypocritical for me to condemn possessions themselves.
The difference I am trying to understand is between 'having' something and needing other people to 'know that I have it'.
That distinction matters to me.
Whatever I accumulated came through decades of work, opportunity, sacrifice, good fortune, and, from my perspective as a believer, the grace of God. I do not feel compelled to use those things to establish my position relative to another person. When I meet someone, I don't want to mentally calculate whether he has more than I do or whether I have more than he does. What would be the point? Eventually, both of us leave everything behind.
Maybe Ecclesiastes has been whispering into my ear again.
"Vanity of vanities."
Everything we accumulate, display, defend, compare, and brag about eventually becomes somebody else's problem to sort through.
That brings me back to what I am most grateful for. The gifts I increasingly value are not the things parked in a garage or recorded on a property title. They are the quieter gifts: meditation, writing, reading, creating stories, building my little websites, gardening, learning, thinking, and expressing what is going on inside my mind. These things do not require an audience. I can write a story and post it on a website I created myself even if hardly anyone reads it. I can meditate without announcing that I meditated. I can read without photographing the book. I can enjoy a garden without needing strangers to admire it.
For me, that may be one of the great lessons of retirement.
I spent much of my life working, acquiring, accomplishing, moving, and preparing for the next thing. Now I am entering a period when perhaps the better question is not, What else can I accumulate? but What can I appreciate without needing anyone else's approval?
Maybe that is why writing like this has become so important. Meditation and writing give me somewhere to place all these observations, frustrations, temptations, judgments, contradictions, and occasional bursts of grumpiness. Without them, I might sit around staring at the walls, chase pleasures that no longer fit the person I have become, or return to the very social-media habits I criticize.
Instead, I can sit here and write.
And perhaps that is enough.
The world can continue counting followers, properties, vehicles, bank accounts, views, businesses, and whatever other measurements it chooses. I am trying—imperfectly, certainly—to use a different measuring stick.
At this stage of my life, I would rather measure wealth by peace of mind, freedom of movement, the ability to create, the health to walk another mile, the presence of family, the wisdom to know my limitations, and the quiet assurance that I can sit alone with my thoughts without needing the whole world to applaud them.
And above all, I remain grateful to God—not because I have something to display, but because I have been given enough to live, enough to think, enough to create, and enough time left to understand the difference.
2026-09-26 01:31:11
blog
I am glad the day of my house closing has finally arrived. I have been anxious to receive the proceeds from the sale—to recover something from everything I invested in that house over the years. I suppose the return is not that much, but at least I did not lose money. More than anything, I am looking forward to the days when I no longer have to worry about a mortgage, insurance, property taxes, and all the other expenses that came with maintaining my life in the United States.
It has been a difficult year and a half since I fully retired. I lost an older brother, then my younger sister, and most devastating of all, Jim. He was the last man standing—the person I relied on for a sense of security and companionship in retirement. Because he was younger and still agile, I thought Jim was one of the blessings God had given me so I could continue living in the United States without worrying so much about growing old alone. But that was not to be. Jim died suddenly of a heart attack, and I can only believe that the Lord has His own reasons and His own plan.
Today, another of the final doors connecting me to my old life in America is closing. I don't know whether I will ever return, even for a visit. Only God knows that. Right now, I am trying to adjust to the new life I have here at home. Before coming back, I was confident that dealing with people and everyday barrio life would be easy because I grew up here. Far from it. I find myself surprised by how much has changed—the habits, attitudes, values, expectations, and rhythms of daily life. Sometimes I become suspicious that certain people may expect to gain something from my presence here, and I have to guard myself against allowing reasonable caution to turn into paranoia. I am trying to handle those feelings with prayer, patience, and the Lord's guidance. I am discovering that returning home after so many years away is not a simple transition.
Still, this is better than what I faced before. At least I have family and a community around me, despite my occasional reservations. The Lord has been kind enough to provide what I need without requiring me to depend heavily on anyone. I pray that I can maintain my independence for many more years. I don't want to create a situation in which other people begin factoring me into their livelihood or assuming that my retirement means I need to hire someone to take care of me. That would be unfair to them as well as to me because I am not looking to become anyone's employer. I am not helpless. I don't need a caregiver or personal assistant at this point in my life. I still want to be active, free, strong, and decisive about how I live. Someday I may need more help, and when that time comes, I hope I will have enough wisdom to recognize it. But that time is not now. I don't want to surrender my independence prematurely or fall into idleness by paying other people to do everything I am still perfectly capable of doing myself.
So what am I looking forward to? I am looking forward to the joy I believe the Lord has promised after all those decades of hard work. I want days when I can drive along small, quiet roads and enjoy the beauty of nature. I want to exercise, take long walks, cook my own food, clean my own room, and bring my own laundry to the laundromat. I want to find beautiful places where I can record videos and create material for Facebook. I want to watch plants grow and build another garden and landscape. After spending most of my professional life working in rehabilitation, I know the importance of remaining active. I want a retirement filled with movement, purpose, creativity, and rest—but without constantly subjecting my body to unnecessary stress and excitement. That is the life I pray for.
But first, I want to praise and thank God for everything He has done so far.
The sale of this house began, in a way, on August 7, after Jim died. I don't want to revisit that tragic day too deeply, but about a week afterward, I decided to empty the house and put it on the market. I considered every alternative I could think of. I could find another roommate. I could move into my condo and rent out the house. I could remain where I was and somehow rebuild my life. But one major obstacle kept staring me in the face: my health. I was already dealing with health issues, and subjecting myself to the stress of finding another roommate, maintaining the house, paying all the expenses, and adjusting to yet another completely different living arrangement seemed like an invitation to another health crisis. After what happened to me the year before, that possibility frightened me. What if something serious happened and I had to deal with it completely alone?
I finally told myself, **No.**
Trying to replace Jim simply to help cover the expenses, while cleaning and maintaining that house and forcing myself through another major adjustment, seemed like the least sensible option available to me. The Lord was kind enough to give me the clarity to make a decision. Everything that happened afterward seemed to fall into place through His kindness and guidance. Less than two months later, I am closing on the house.
I have been home since September 4. Overall, my adjustment has gone well, although there have been some snags along the way. One of the biggest is simply having so many people around me. I was accustomed to living independently. Even when Jim lived with me—and before him, when my sister was around—I remained largely responsible for myself. Now it sometimes seems as though everyone wants to do things for me, and I am uncomfortable accepting help for things I can still do myself. I like cooking. I like cleaning. I like driving. I did not return to the Philippines because I was looking for household help or someone to manage my everyday activities. Far from it. I believe the Lord brought me home to enjoy the fruits of my labor in whatever way He sees fit.
I spent my first few weeks here resting, sleeping, recovering from the move, and walking wherever I could get some exercise. That period is ending. Once I have my car, I can start driving to the lot where I intend to recreate my garden and add gardening to my exercise routine. Eventually, I want to start going into the city again, perhaps once a week, because I know myself well enough to realize that remaining in the barrio day after day would eventually make me restless.
I see a very different lifestyle in my older brother, who can remain inside the house and yard for days without venturing beyond the fence. I don't want that kind of retirement for myself. At the same time, I have to remind myself not to judge him. His circumstances, resources, health, and life experiences are different from mine. What works for him does not necessarily have to work for me.
That is one reason I am buying a car. I want mobility. I want to choose where I go and when I go there. If driving all the way to Manila becomes too difficult, I can drive to a convenient place, park the car, take a bus into the city, enjoy my day, and return later. Having the car waiting for me would solve one of the problems I have now: getting from the bus station back to our house, especially late at night when transportation becomes limited. Our home is still remote enough that having a personal vehicle makes a tremendous difference. Perhaps someday, once I become comfortable enough with the roads again, I might even drive all the way to Manila.
Of course, I know I have limitations now. Night driving, for example, is something I need to approach carefully. If necessary, I can ask one of my nieces or nephews to pick me up from the station using their car or mine. And perhaps my brother could occasionally use my car when I am not using it. If I am away in Manila and the car is sitting idle, maybe his son could drive him somewhere. He would only have to cover the gas. Perhaps it would give my brother an opportunity to get beyond the small world he has become accustomed to. But that is his decision, not mine.
Meanwhile, I am slowly returning to my old self. I even question my own motives when I think about traveling to Manila. I have to be aware of what I am actually looking for there. Sure, part of me still wants to have a little fun. But is that really worth making the center of my trips? I spent decades in the United States, particularly South Florida, and my experiences there inevitably shaped my expectations. Trying to recreate the same kind of excitement in Manila would probably be pointless. The last time I tried to chase that kind of experience there, it was fine for a while, but eventually I couldn't wait to return to the United States.
At this stage of my life, I don't want sexual adventure or the pursuit of a "good time" to become my main reason for going to Manila. There is far more to see and experience there. I hope reason and common sense prevail. I need to consider my age, my health, and my actual capacity. Besides, I have never considered myself particularly attractive, so there is no reason to start flattering myself now. Ha! Fun should remain fun, not become some serious mission. What matters more is getting out, moving around, seeing things, enjoying the trip, perhaps eating some good food, and coming home satisfied.
And nothing can beat the beauty of nature here in the Philippines. I am on a quiet quest now to enjoy what I can before age eventually imposes more limitations on me. I pray that God gives me enough years to do that.
Perhaps that is another reason I should be careful about judging my older siblings. They are examples of the limitations that eventually come with age and illness. My sister sometimes relies on her daughter so she can get out and enjoy whatever her physical condition still allows. My older brother also has his limitations, although he has less exposure to the world outside his immediate surroundings. Then there is my second-oldest surviving sibling, who became quadriplegic after an accident and has to be physically assisted into a car whenever he gets the opportunity to go somewhere.
I am not as far removed from them as I sometimes like to imagine. Despite my criticism of my brother for remaining within the confines of his small world, I don't fully understand the extent of his limitations. I know his health has affected what he can do. I am simply thankful that I have not yet reached the point where my own limitations prevent me from doing the things I enjoy.
But I certainly have limitations of my own. Recently, I resumed taking Flonase and Allegra after developing an earache that felt like the congestion I have experienced before. I sometimes notice uncomfortable sensations in my legs, occasional vertigo that affects my sense of balance, and pain in my right knee. I am not as physically resilient as I sometimes imagine myself to be, and that is exactly why I have to be careful when I venture outside, no matter how eager I am to explore.
Yesterday I walked nearly 10,000 steps. Afterward, I became so hungry and tired that I had to eat something and spend much of the afternoon lying down. Three years ago, during my previous visit, I once walked about 21,000 steps. I am nowhere near that level now. And that is okay. The important thing is recognizing the difference instead of pretending it doesn't exist.
So perhaps retirement now means driving along smaller, quieter roads, stopping wherever I see something beautiful, and visiting Manila without exhausting myself by wandering around endlessly. Life is different now from what it was three years ago, and I suspect it will continue changing as I grow older. Still, I am grateful for the smaller victories. Ten thousand steps yesterday may not be 21,000, but it was still 10,000 steps.
I also need to get back to monitoring my blood sugar. I haven't checked it in more than a month, and my carbohydrate intake has definitely increased. I may be avoiding rice, but sweet bread, pancit, puto, and kalamay have more than compensated for those missing carbohydrates. I try to control myself, but sometimes I worry that my eating is getting away from me. A couple of days ago, I went too far in the opposite direction and loaded my meals with fats and meat while calling everything "protein." I wasn't exactly hungry afterward, but I found myself craving vegetables and fiber. Yesterday I corrected that somewhat. It is another reminder that moderation matters.
At any rate, thank You, Lord.
The sale of the house has been a surprisingly quiet ending. After Jim died, I began removing his belongings because seeing everything around me was simply too painful. Considering my own health problems the previous year, I knew I had to protect myself from becoming overwhelmed. The irony was painful: Jim had been the person I expected to rely on during exactly that kind of crisis, and suddenly he was the reason I was facing the crisis alone.
For a while, I considered renting his room. I even offered it to neighbors or asked whether they knew someone who needed a place. But emotionally, I could not do it. It had taken me nearly ten years to develop the kind of trust I had with Jim. At 64, I did not feel that I had either the time or the willingness to begin "testing" a stranger who would sleep in the room next to mine. I had imagined retirement as something secure: first with my sister nearby, until cancer took her from us, and then with Jim, whose death from a heart attack came without warning. After working so hard to build a stable life for myself and my family, losing both of them made everything seem terribly unfair.
I thought about it over and over until one conclusion became clear to me:
I had to go home.
And once I accepted that, it seemed as though the Lord began pointing me in that direction. At least He made the transition easier than I expected. I found a real estate agent. I found people to empty and clean the house. Buyers appeared quickly. I made the long journey back to my birthplace. And now the closing appears to have gone smoothly. No frantic calls, no emergency emails, no last-minute problems. After all the turmoil that brought me here, the final closing of that chapter was remarkably quiet.
I still pray that someday the Lord will help me understand everything that happened. I have never viewed these losses as punishment. How could I? My sister, Jim, and I simply tried to live our lives as decently as we knew how. They had their imperfections, as we all do. My sister struggled with her health and activity level. Jim loved his beer and cigarettes and could be incredibly stubborn when anyone encouraged him to change. But I cannot reduce their deaths to some simplistic moral explanation. My sister's cancer progressed rapidly. Jim's heart attack came suddenly. Their deaths were tragedies, not sermons.
All I can say is that perhaps the Lord had plans I could not see. I don't know what might have happened had they lived longer, and I don't want to pretend that I know God's reasons. What I do know is that after losing them, the road somehow pointed me home.
It still hurts when I think about everything that happened. There may even be people who interpret my losses through their own prejudices, particularly those who believe that being gay automatically makes someone deserving of God's punishment. I have seen enough judgment disguised as religion to recognize it when I encounter it.
But I know God in my own imperfect way.
The people I loved did not endure prolonged suffering at the end, and I can find grace in that. Their earthly lives ended, and in my faith I entrust whatever came afterward to God. I also believe God protected me by giving me enough presence of mind to recognize that remaining alone in Florida might expose me to another health crisis without adequate support. He led me back to where I was born, where family members—many of whom remember the times I was able to help them—are now willing to help me when I truly need it. Perhaps that is one of life's quiet circles: being there for people when they need you, then discovering years later that some of them are still there when you need them.
And so here I am.
In my own way, I accept God's decision, even though acceptance does not erase grief. I don't think grief ever completely disappears. The Lord never promised anyone a rose garden. People may present perfect lives on social media. Others may share religious messages condemning anyone who does not fit their definition of righteousness. But between the Lord and me, and between those I lost and me, I know how we lived. We were imperfect human beings trying to live decent lives. I would rather leave the final judgment where it belongs—with God.
As for me, I will continue this meditative life in His presence. If anything, my losses have brought me closer to God, although I have no desire to advertise myself as being more spiritual than anyone else.
I remember how happy I was when I finally found the house that became home for Jim, Rocky, and me. Earlier in my lonely life, I often went searching for something that resembled a good time. That changed when I found that home. My mornings became quieter. I wrote my meditations, much as I am doing now. That house brought me closer to the Lord through solitude, writing, and contemplation. For the first time, it became my peaceful and secure place, and Jim's presence gave me the companionship I had wanted for so long.
Jim and I didn't need to constantly entertain each other. Our personalities were complicated and, in some ways, opposite, yet strangely similar at a deeper level. Often, simply knowing that he was in the other room was enough. That was all the companionship I needed. I thought perhaps the Lord had finally answered one of my oldest prayers. He had given me Jim as a true brother, someone who would remain with me for the rest of my life.
I even tried to secure his future in the house. I told him, "Jim, you can stay in this house for as long as you want. No one should bother you. You can stay here for the rest of your life." I had the arrangement notarized. I saw the peace of mind it gave him. After so many years of instability, he finally knew that he had a home. I naturally assumed I would die before he did.
I still believe giving him that security was one of the best decisions I ever made.
Little did I know how fragile our time together would be. Yet even in losing him, I learned something about myself. I learned that I was capable of living with another person. In the past, companionship had never come easily to me. I became irritated quickly. Arguments started. Eventually, I would ask the person to leave. Joey lived with me for about two years before Jim, and there were others who stayed briefly until it became obvious that we were incompatible.
Jim was different.
Even when I became tired of him, he somehow remained—or stayed nearby. Eventually I realized that, despite everything, he wanted my friendship through good times and bad. Perhaps that was the gift God gave me through him. For the first time in my life, someone stayed as a friend for good. And I am grateful that Jim never gave up.
People who saw two men sharing a home may have made their own assumptions about us. They would have been wrong. Jim was straight. What we had was something different, and in some ways more difficult to explain. He became my soul-brother.
Perhaps that was one of the greatest gifts of my life: simply having Jim there.
There will never be another Jim, and I don't expect there to be. I have brothers, a sister, nieces, nephews, neighbors, and other people who may remain part of my life for years. Family is family. But Jim became family by choice rather than obligation. Maybe I helped him greatly when he needed it, but he was always free to walk away. He didn't.
Now our home has been emptied, cleaned, vacated, and sold. Yet I remain thankful that we had it, no matter how brief our time there ultimately seems. I am thankful that I found a brother and a friend at a time in my life when I had begun to think such a relationship might never happen to someone like me. I was never particularly skilled at being brotherly or openly affectionate. Most of my life revolved around work. I helped people, certainly, but often from a sense of duty rather than emotional closeness. I approached companionship almost like business.
Then Jim came along.
So what good came from owning that house and now letting it go?
I learned to meditate and contemplate in the early mornings, as I am doing now, and I hope to continue that practice for as long as I have the ability to do it. I learned how to enjoy the presence of a true brother, no matter how short our time together turned out to be. I learned how to own something, love it, and still let it go when letting go became necessary. I learned to accept the ending of something good and find the courage to begin again.
I learned to listen to my body and protect my health. I learned to listen when I believed God was telling me that it was time to change direction and move. I learned not to allow other people's condemnation or assumptions about my life to define my relationship with God. Most important, perhaps, I learned to value another human being not for what he could do for me, what he could give me, or how I might benefit from him, but simply for who he was and for the quiet gift of his presence.
The house is gone now. Jim is gone. My old American life, at least as I knew it, has ended.
But what that life taught me came home with me.
For all of it—the joy, the companionship, the grief, the house, the lessons, the endings, and this unexpected new beginning—
Thank You, Lord.
2026-09-24 00:21:07
blog
The Changing Measures in Life
It has been a day since I went through that exhausting series of errands: a laboratory visit for my blood-type test, a stop at the Toyota dealership, breakfast and lunch, a walk around Clark, an application for my birth certificate, and finally picking up my laundry. None of those things sounds particularly strenuous by itself, but by the end of the day, I was completely drained. I suspect the real culprit was not the errands but the heat. I felt exhausted, sweaty, dirty, and uncomfortable—the smell of perspiration, the gritty feeling on my skin, the general stickiness of being outdoors in this climate. Thank God for a cold shower and for finally having my blankets back from the laundry. I slept deeply through most of the afternoon and into the evening.
I also managed to control my carbohydrate intake somewhat, which is good considering how much rice I have been eating since returning to my ancestral home in the barrio. Old habits have a way of returning along with old surroundings.
Despite the exhaustion, I accomplished several things I had been putting off. I kept up with my meditation journal, which is important to me, and since last night I have been working on the closing of my Florida house, now scheduled in two days. If everything goes smoothly, I should finally have access to the proceeds from the sale and can move forward with buying a new vehicle here. Having a car would restore a certain freedom I have been missing since I arrived. I would no longer have to spend so much time exposed to the heat while going to the market, stores, government offices, or wherever else I need to go. I could drive to an air-conditioned mall, take a longer trip, or even check into a hotel somewhere for a change of scenery. I would once again have the freedom simply to get in the car and go. Hopefully, that happens sometime next week.
I have also been thinking about going to Manila for a few days. Being cooped up in one place for too long is not healthy for me. I need variety in my life, just as I did in the United States. I don't want to live in a tomb while I am still alive. I want movement, new scenery, different experiences, and occasional breaks from the routine.
But there is a caveat.
Somewhere in the back of my mind are lingering temptations to recreate the life and pleasures of my younger years—to exercise as intensely as I once did, wander around endlessly, stay out late, and perhaps chase the kinds of good times that belonged to another stage of my life. But I have to be realistic. My age, energy level, and physical limitations have changed the equation. Yesterday was proof enough. A handful of ordinary errands in the heat left me completely exhausted. It would be foolish to expect my body to perform as though I were half my present age. Accepting that is not surrender. It is simply recognizing reality.
This morning, I woke up to the usual flurry of activity among my older brother's family. That, too, is something I have to get used to. I admit that it irritates me sometimes because I became so accustomed to a quiet life in the United States. When Jim and I shared the same house, we hardly spoke to each other for long stretches of the day, and perhaps that was one reason we lived together so peacefully. We both respected silence. Our conversations were mostly small talk and occasional short discussions before each of us returned to his own world. Jim had his sports on television, his beer, and his cigarettes—not all the time, of course—while I had my video editing, meditative writing, websites, and, for many years, social media.
Perhaps that long attachment to social media is also why I am becoming increasingly uncomfortable with it.
I find myself growing tired of people documenting nearly everything under the sun, especially when ordinary experiences seem to be presented as demonstrations of status. A trip becomes an opportunity to mention the cars. A family update becomes a catalog of houses, properties, accomplishments, and possessions. Then, almost as an afterthought, God is invoked as the source of all these "blessings."
That is where I become uncomfortable.
There is nothing wrong with being grateful for what we have. There is nothing wrong with owning a nice house, driving a good car, succeeding in business, or celebrating the accomplishments of our children. But I sometimes wonder where gratitude ends and performance begins. When does thanking God quietly for what we have turn into announcing our possessions so that other people will admire—or perhaps envy—us? I cannot answer that question for anyone else. I can only ask it of myself.
And maybe that is why I am grateful that I have gradually escaped much of social media's pull. I have drastically reduced my posting and now try to share only things that genuinely interest me rather than every passing detail of my existence.
There is another kind of social-media behavior that bothers me even more: the constant judging and condemning of other people in the name of God. I see acquaintances proclaiming their religious beliefs while simultaneously attacking people whose lives, identities, politics, or values differ from their own. I have even watched an old coworker move from political posts into repeated condemnations of LGBT and transgender people, often wrapping those judgments in religious language. Whether I agree or disagree with someone's beliefs is almost beside the point. What troubles me is the certainty with which some people assume that their personal judgments are identical to God's.
Ironically, I often don't even unfollow these people because I know them personally and don't want to hurt them. So I scroll past the posts, shake my head, and move on.
Then there are those who seem obsessed with views, followers, likes, and engagement, constantly thanking their "supporters" as though they have suddenly become celebrities. I sometimes laugh at it, but underneath the humor is something I find genuinely sad. Social media has created a strange world in which numbers generated partly by algorithms can begin to feel like measurements of human worth. Followers become status. Views become validation. Ordinary moments become performances because apparently no breakfast, shopping trip, vacation, or afternoon stroll can be allowed to disappear without being documented for an audience.
Of course, I have participated in this world myself. That is why I cannot pretend to stand completely outside it.
Perhaps my criticism of other people is also telling me something about myself. Maybe I am becoming the stereotypical grumpy old man, increasingly irritated by things younger—or simply different—people consider normal. I have to admit that possibility. Age has a way of making us compare the present with the world we remember, and memory is hardly an impartial judge. We tend to polish the past while magnifying everything that annoys us about the present. So perhaps some of what I call wisdom is simply age talking.
Still, something deeper continues to bother me, and it goes beyond social media or this particular town. It is a cultural shift I have noticed in many places: the growing tendency to measure a person's value through money, possessions, visibility, influence, and status.
I notice it when I travel through town with relatives and the conversation turns to businesses, hotels, quarries, supermarkets, properties, and the families who own them. Stories circulate about how certain fortunes began, how businesses expanded, how political connections were cultivated, and how money gradually translated into influence and respectability. Some of those histories are complicated and controversial, and I do not pretend to know every fact behind them. But what fascinates me is how easily wealth itself can eventually become evidence of virtue in people's minds. Once enough money has accumulated, people often stop asking where it came from. Success becomes its own justification.
That, perhaps, is what bothers me most.
Money becomes not merely something useful but a certificate of importance. Wealth becomes proof that someone has lived correctly. A large house, another property, a business, an expensive vehicle—these become visible evidence that a person has "made it." People admire the finished mansion without necessarily asking about the foundation underneath it.
I sometimes miss a simpler standard, perhaps partly imagined through nostalgia, when qualities such as honesty, integrity, hard work, intelligence, wisdom, respectability, and fear of God seemed to carry more weight. Today I met one or two old acquaintances, and before long the conversation turned to properties—what they owned, what they were building, what vehicles they drove. Guiltily, I played along and acted impressed.
The funny thing is that I have accumulated material things myself. I am not writing this from a hut while wearing sackcloth. I owned a house in Florida. I still have property. I am preparing to buy a new vehicle. I spent decades working in America and benefited from that life. So it would be hypocritical for me to condemn possessions themselves.
The difference I am trying to understand is between 'having' something and needing other people to 'know that I have it'.
That distinction matters to me.
Whatever I accumulated came through decades of work, opportunity, sacrifice, good fortune, and, from my perspective as a believer, the grace of God. I do not feel compelled to use those things to establish my position relative to another person. When I meet someone, I don't want to mentally calculate whether he has more than I do or whether I have more than he does. What would be the point? Eventually, both of us leave everything behind.
Maybe Ecclesiastes has been whispering into my ear again.
"Vanity of vanities."
Everything we accumulate, display, defend, compare, and brag about eventually becomes somebody else's problem to sort through.
That brings me back to what I am most grateful for. The gifts I increasingly value are not the things parked in a garage or recorded on a property title. They are the quieter gifts: meditation, writing, reading, creating stories, building my little websites, gardening, learning, thinking, and expressing what is going on inside my mind. These things do not require an audience. I can write a story and post it on a website I created myself even if hardly anyone reads it. I can meditate without announcing that I meditated. I can read without photographing the book. I can enjoy a garden without needing strangers to admire it.
For me, that may be one of the great lessons of retirement.
I spent much of my life working, acquiring, accomplishing, moving, and preparing for the next thing. Now I am entering a period when perhaps the better question is not, What else can I accumulate? but What can I appreciate without needing anyone else's approval?
Maybe that is why writing like this has become so important. Meditation and writing give me somewhere to place all these observations, frustrations, temptations, judgments, contradictions, and occasional bursts of grumpiness. Without them, I might sit around staring at the walls, chase pleasures that no longer fit the person I have become, or return to the very social-media habits I criticize.
Instead, I can sit here and write.
And perhaps that is enough.
The world can continue counting followers, properties, vehicles, bank accounts, views, businesses, and whatever other measurements it chooses. I am trying—imperfectly, certainly—to use a different measuring stick.
At this stage of my life, I would rather measure wealth by peace of mind, freedom of movement, the ability to create, the health to walk another mile, the presence of family, the wisdom to know my limitations, and the quiet assurance that I can sit alone with my thoughts without needing the whole world to applaud them.
And above all, I remain grateful to God—not because I have something to display, but because I have been given enough to live, enough to think, enough to create, and enough time left to understand the difference.
2026-09-26 01:31:11
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Closing The Door Behind Me
I am glad the day of my house closing has finally arrived. I have been anxious to receive the proceeds from the sale—to recover something from everything I invested in that house over the years. I suppose the return is not that much, but at least I did not lose money. More than anything, I am looking forward to the days when I no longer have to worry about a mortgage, insurance, property taxes, and all the other expenses that came with maintaining my life in the United States.
It has been a difficult year and a half since I fully retired. I lost an older brother, then my younger sister, and most devastating of all, Jim. He was the last man standing—the person I relied on for a sense of security and companionship in retirement. Because he was younger and still agile, I thought Jim was one of the blessings God had given me so I could continue living in the United States without worrying so much about growing old alone. But that was not to be. Jim died suddenly of a heart attack, and I can only believe that the Lord has His own reasons and His own plan.
Today, another of the final doors connecting me to my old life in America is closing. I don't know whether I will ever return, even for a visit. Only God knows that. Right now, I am trying to adjust to the new life I have here at home. Before coming back, I was confident that dealing with people and everyday barrio life would be easy because I grew up here. Far from it. I find myself surprised by how much has changed—the habits, attitudes, values, expectations, and rhythms of daily life. Sometimes I become suspicious that certain people may expect to gain something from my presence here, and I have to guard myself against allowing reasonable caution to turn into paranoia. I am trying to handle those feelings with prayer, patience, and the Lord's guidance. I am discovering that returning home after so many years away is not a simple transition.
Still, this is better than what I faced before. At least I have family and a community around me, despite my occasional reservations. The Lord has been kind enough to provide what I need without requiring me to depend heavily on anyone. I pray that I can maintain my independence for many more years. I don't want to create a situation in which other people begin factoring me into their livelihood or assuming that my retirement means I need to hire someone to take care of me. That would be unfair to them as well as to me because I am not looking to become anyone's employer. I am not helpless. I don't need a caregiver or personal assistant at this point in my life. I still want to be active, free, strong, and decisive about how I live. Someday I may need more help, and when that time comes, I hope I will have enough wisdom to recognize it. But that time is not now. I don't want to surrender my independence prematurely or fall into idleness by paying other people to do everything I am still perfectly capable of doing myself.
So what am I looking forward to? I am looking forward to the joy I believe the Lord has promised after all those decades of hard work. I want days when I can drive along small, quiet roads and enjoy the beauty of nature. I want to exercise, take long walks, cook my own food, clean my own room, and bring my own laundry to the laundromat. I want to find beautiful places where I can record videos and create material for Facebook. I want to watch plants grow and build another garden and landscape. After spending most of my professional life working in rehabilitation, I know the importance of remaining active. I want a retirement filled with movement, purpose, creativity, and rest—but without constantly subjecting my body to unnecessary stress and excitement. That is the life I pray for.
But first, I want to praise and thank God for everything He has done so far.
The sale of this house began, in a way, on August 7, after Jim died. I don't want to revisit that tragic day too deeply, but about a week afterward, I decided to empty the house and put it on the market. I considered every alternative I could think of. I could find another roommate. I could move into my condo and rent out the house. I could remain where I was and somehow rebuild my life. But one major obstacle kept staring me in the face: my health. I was already dealing with health issues, and subjecting myself to the stress of finding another roommate, maintaining the house, paying all the expenses, and adjusting to yet another completely different living arrangement seemed like an invitation to another health crisis. After what happened to me the year before, that possibility frightened me. What if something serious happened and I had to deal with it completely alone?
I finally told myself, **No.**
Trying to replace Jim simply to help cover the expenses, while cleaning and maintaining that house and forcing myself through another major adjustment, seemed like the least sensible option available to me. The Lord was kind enough to give me the clarity to make a decision. Everything that happened afterward seemed to fall into place through His kindness and guidance. Less than two months later, I am closing on the house.
I have been home since September 4. Overall, my adjustment has gone well, although there have been some snags along the way. One of the biggest is simply having so many people around me. I was accustomed to living independently. Even when Jim lived with me—and before him, when my sister was around—I remained largely responsible for myself. Now it sometimes seems as though everyone wants to do things for me, and I am uncomfortable accepting help for things I can still do myself. I like cooking. I like cleaning. I like driving. I did not return to the Philippines because I was looking for household help or someone to manage my everyday activities. Far from it. I believe the Lord brought me home to enjoy the fruits of my labor in whatever way He sees fit.
I spent my first few weeks here resting, sleeping, recovering from the move, and walking wherever I could get some exercise. That period is ending. Once I have my car, I can start driving to the lot where I intend to recreate my garden and add gardening to my exercise routine. Eventually, I want to start going into the city again, perhaps once a week, because I know myself well enough to realize that remaining in the barrio day after day would eventually make me restless.
I see a very different lifestyle in my older brother, who can remain inside the house and yard for days without venturing beyond the fence. I don't want that kind of retirement for myself. At the same time, I have to remind myself not to judge him. His circumstances, resources, health, and life experiences are different from mine. What works for him does not necessarily have to work for me.
That is one reason I am buying a car. I want mobility. I want to choose where I go and when I go there. If driving all the way to Manila becomes too difficult, I can drive to a convenient place, park the car, take a bus into the city, enjoy my day, and return later. Having the car waiting for me would solve one of the problems I have now: getting from the bus station back to our house, especially late at night when transportation becomes limited. Our home is still remote enough that having a personal vehicle makes a tremendous difference. Perhaps someday, once I become comfortable enough with the roads again, I might even drive all the way to Manila.
Of course, I know I have limitations now. Night driving, for example, is something I need to approach carefully. If necessary, I can ask one of my nieces or nephews to pick me up from the station using their car or mine. And perhaps my brother could occasionally use my car when I am not using it. If I am away in Manila and the car is sitting idle, maybe his son could drive him somewhere. He would only have to cover the gas. Perhaps it would give my brother an opportunity to get beyond the small world he has become accustomed to. But that is his decision, not mine.
Meanwhile, I am slowly returning to my old self. I even question my own motives when I think about traveling to Manila. I have to be aware of what I am actually looking for there. Sure, part of me still wants to have a little fun. But is that really worth making the center of my trips? I spent decades in the United States, particularly South Florida, and my experiences there inevitably shaped my expectations. Trying to recreate the same kind of excitement in Manila would probably be pointless. The last time I tried to chase that kind of experience there, it was fine for a while, but eventually I couldn't wait to return to the United States.
At this stage of my life, I don't want sexual adventure or the pursuit of a "good time" to become my main reason for going to Manila. There is far more to see and experience there. I hope reason and common sense prevail. I need to consider my age, my health, and my actual capacity. Besides, I have never considered myself particularly attractive, so there is no reason to start flattering myself now. Ha! Fun should remain fun, not become some serious mission. What matters more is getting out, moving around, seeing things, enjoying the trip, perhaps eating some good food, and coming home satisfied.
And nothing can beat the beauty of nature here in the Philippines. I am on a quiet quest now to enjoy what I can before age eventually imposes more limitations on me. I pray that God gives me enough years to do that.
Perhaps that is another reason I should be careful about judging my older siblings. They are examples of the limitations that eventually come with age and illness. My sister sometimes relies on her daughter so she can get out and enjoy whatever her physical condition still allows. My older brother also has his limitations, although he has less exposure to the world outside his immediate surroundings. Then there is my second-oldest surviving sibling, who became quadriplegic after an accident and has to be physically assisted into a car whenever he gets the opportunity to go somewhere.
I am not as far removed from them as I sometimes like to imagine. Despite my criticism of my brother for remaining within the confines of his small world, I don't fully understand the extent of his limitations. I know his health has affected what he can do. I am simply thankful that I have not yet reached the point where my own limitations prevent me from doing the things I enjoy.
But I certainly have limitations of my own. Recently, I resumed taking Flonase and Allegra after developing an earache that felt like the congestion I have experienced before. I sometimes notice uncomfortable sensations in my legs, occasional vertigo that affects my sense of balance, and pain in my right knee. I am not as physically resilient as I sometimes imagine myself to be, and that is exactly why I have to be careful when I venture outside, no matter how eager I am to explore.
Yesterday I walked nearly 10,000 steps. Afterward, I became so hungry and tired that I had to eat something and spend much of the afternoon lying down. Three years ago, during my previous visit, I once walked about 21,000 steps. I am nowhere near that level now. And that is okay. The important thing is recognizing the difference instead of pretending it doesn't exist.
So perhaps retirement now means driving along smaller, quieter roads, stopping wherever I see something beautiful, and visiting Manila without exhausting myself by wandering around endlessly. Life is different now from what it was three years ago, and I suspect it will continue changing as I grow older. Still, I am grateful for the smaller victories. Ten thousand steps yesterday may not be 21,000, but it was still 10,000 steps.
I also need to get back to monitoring my blood sugar. I haven't checked it in more than a month, and my carbohydrate intake has definitely increased. I may be avoiding rice, but sweet bread, pancit, puto, and kalamay have more than compensated for those missing carbohydrates. I try to control myself, but sometimes I worry that my eating is getting away from me. A couple of days ago, I went too far in the opposite direction and loaded my meals with fats and meat while calling everything "protein." I wasn't exactly hungry afterward, but I found myself craving vegetables and fiber. Yesterday I corrected that somewhat. It is another reminder that moderation matters.
At any rate, thank You, Lord.
The sale of the house has been a surprisingly quiet ending. After Jim died, I began removing his belongings because seeing everything around me was simply too painful. Considering my own health problems the previous year, I knew I had to protect myself from becoming overwhelmed. The irony was painful: Jim had been the person I expected to rely on during exactly that kind of crisis, and suddenly he was the reason I was facing the crisis alone.
For a while, I considered renting his room. I even offered it to neighbors or asked whether they knew someone who needed a place. But emotionally, I could not do it. It had taken me nearly ten years to develop the kind of trust I had with Jim. At 64, I did not feel that I had either the time or the willingness to begin "testing" a stranger who would sleep in the room next to mine. I had imagined retirement as something secure: first with my sister nearby, until cancer took her from us, and then with Jim, whose death from a heart attack came without warning. After working so hard to build a stable life for myself and my family, losing both of them made everything seem terribly unfair.
I thought about it over and over until one conclusion became clear to me:
I had to go home.
And once I accepted that, it seemed as though the Lord began pointing me in that direction. At least He made the transition easier than I expected. I found a real estate agent. I found people to empty and clean the house. Buyers appeared quickly. I made the long journey back to my birthplace. And now the closing appears to have gone smoothly. No frantic calls, no emergency emails, no last-minute problems. After all the turmoil that brought me here, the final closing of that chapter was remarkably quiet.
I still pray that someday the Lord will help me understand everything that happened. I have never viewed these losses as punishment. How could I? My sister, Jim, and I simply tried to live our lives as decently as we knew how. They had their imperfections, as we all do. My sister struggled with her health and activity level. Jim loved his beer and cigarettes and could be incredibly stubborn when anyone encouraged him to change. But I cannot reduce their deaths to some simplistic moral explanation. My sister's cancer progressed rapidly. Jim's heart attack came suddenly. Their deaths were tragedies, not sermons.
All I can say is that perhaps the Lord had plans I could not see. I don't know what might have happened had they lived longer, and I don't want to pretend that I know God's reasons. What I do know is that after losing them, the road somehow pointed me home.
It still hurts when I think about everything that happened. There may even be people who interpret my losses through their own prejudices, particularly those who believe that being gay automatically makes someone deserving of God's punishment. I have seen enough judgment disguised as religion to recognize it when I encounter it.
But I know God in my own imperfect way.
The people I loved did not endure prolonged suffering at the end, and I can find grace in that. Their earthly lives ended, and in my faith I entrust whatever came afterward to God. I also believe God protected me by giving me enough presence of mind to recognize that remaining alone in Florida might expose me to another health crisis without adequate support. He led me back to where I was born, where family members—many of whom remember the times I was able to help them—are now willing to help me when I truly need it. Perhaps that is one of life's quiet circles: being there for people when they need you, then discovering years later that some of them are still there when you need them.
And so here I am.
In my own way, I accept God's decision, even though acceptance does not erase grief. I don't think grief ever completely disappears. The Lord never promised anyone a rose garden. People may present perfect lives on social media. Others may share religious messages condemning anyone who does not fit their definition of righteousness. But between the Lord and me, and between those I lost and me, I know how we lived. We were imperfect human beings trying to live decent lives. I would rather leave the final judgment where it belongs—with God.
As for me, I will continue this meditative life in His presence. If anything, my losses have brought me closer to God, although I have no desire to advertise myself as being more spiritual than anyone else.
I remember how happy I was when I finally found the house that became home for Jim, Rocky, and me. Earlier in my lonely life, I often went searching for something that resembled a good time. That changed when I found that home. My mornings became quieter. I wrote my meditations, much as I am doing now. That house brought me closer to the Lord through solitude, writing, and contemplation. For the first time, it became my peaceful and secure place, and Jim's presence gave me the companionship I had wanted for so long.
Jim and I didn't need to constantly entertain each other. Our personalities were complicated and, in some ways, opposite, yet strangely similar at a deeper level. Often, simply knowing that he was in the other room was enough. That was all the companionship I needed. I thought perhaps the Lord had finally answered one of my oldest prayers. He had given me Jim as a true brother, someone who would remain with me for the rest of my life.
I even tried to secure his future in the house. I told him, "Jim, you can stay in this house for as long as you want. No one should bother you. You can stay here for the rest of your life." I had the arrangement notarized. I saw the peace of mind it gave him. After so many years of instability, he finally knew that he had a home. I naturally assumed I would die before he did.
I still believe giving him that security was one of the best decisions I ever made.
Little did I know how fragile our time together would be. Yet even in losing him, I learned something about myself. I learned that I was capable of living with another person. In the past, companionship had never come easily to me. I became irritated quickly. Arguments started. Eventually, I would ask the person to leave. Joey lived with me for about two years before Jim, and there were others who stayed briefly until it became obvious that we were incompatible.
Jim was different.
Even when I became tired of him, he somehow remained—or stayed nearby. Eventually I realized that, despite everything, he wanted my friendship through good times and bad. Perhaps that was the gift God gave me through him. For the first time in my life, someone stayed as a friend for good. And I am grateful that Jim never gave up.
People who saw two men sharing a home may have made their own assumptions about us. They would have been wrong. Jim was straight. What we had was something different, and in some ways more difficult to explain. He became my soul-brother.
Perhaps that was one of the greatest gifts of my life: simply having Jim there.
There will never be another Jim, and I don't expect there to be. I have brothers, a sister, nieces, nephews, neighbors, and other people who may remain part of my life for years. Family is family. But Jim became family by choice rather than obligation. Maybe I helped him greatly when he needed it, but he was always free to walk away. He didn't.
Now our home has been emptied, cleaned, vacated, and sold. Yet I remain thankful that we had it, no matter how brief our time there ultimately seems. I am thankful that I found a brother and a friend at a time in my life when I had begun to think such a relationship might never happen to someone like me. I was never particularly skilled at being brotherly or openly affectionate. Most of my life revolved around work. I helped people, certainly, but often from a sense of duty rather than emotional closeness. I approached companionship almost like business.
Then Jim came along.
So what good came from owning that house and now letting it go?
I learned to meditate and contemplate in the early mornings, as I am doing now, and I hope to continue that practice for as long as I have the ability to do it. I learned how to enjoy the presence of a true brother, no matter how short our time together turned out to be. I learned how to own something, love it, and still let it go when letting go became necessary. I learned to accept the ending of something good and find the courage to begin again.
I learned to listen to my body and protect my health. I learned to listen when I believed God was telling me that it was time to change direction and move. I learned not to allow other people's condemnation or assumptions about my life to define my relationship with God. Most important, perhaps, I learned to value another human being not for what he could do for me, what he could give me, or how I might benefit from him, but simply for who he was and for the quiet gift of his presence.
The house is gone now. Jim is gone. My old American life, at least as I knew it, has ended.
But what that life taught me came home with me.
For all of it—the joy, the companionship, the grief, the house, the lessons, the endings, and this unexpected new beginning—
Thank You, Lord.
2026-09-24 00:21:07
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