Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
For comments, inquiries, corrections and feedback, contact admin: alexzita5@gmail.com
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Ephesians 3:14-21 – A Prayer for Strength and Understanding
“For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power… to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ…” (Ephesians 3:14–18, NIV)
This passage resonates with me more deeply these days. As I age and reflect more on my physical limitations, it’s as though Paul’s prayer for “inner strength” is being whispered into my own daily struggle—a divine encouragement to realign my spirit even as my body falters.
Last night was another restless one. I didn’t sleep well, likely for a few reasons. Since my illness and retirement, I’ve associated "rest" with lying down more often—perhaps too often. But I now realize that the way I lie in bed is problematic. My mattress is flat and firm, and my pillows don’t support my cervical spine well. I often read on my Kindle, use my laptop, or watch TV while in bed—sometimes with the screen at the level of my feet. This forces my neck into prolonged flexion, which is the worst possible position for someone with C5-C6 impingement and spinal stenosis.
The result? Persistent numbness and tingling in my hands, particularly when I lie down. It’s clear now that my increased time in bed—doing anything but actually resting—is contributing to these symptoms. My old life involved movement, routine, purpose. Now, I drift into long hours of passive lying down between meals or in lieu of activity.
Take yesterday, for instance. I walked early in the park—a good 5,000 steps in 50 minutes. But after that, between 10 AM and noon, I mostly laid in bed, bouncing between reading and tapping on my laptop perched on my chest. It’s a lazy kind of multitasking that puts undue strain on my neck. By late afternoon, I was back in bed again, asleep before 5 PM, only to awaken at 8 PM with weird tingling in my right arm that kept me up until almost 3 AM. That’s when I really began to reflect on how my posture and positioning have been silently working against me.
So today I made a small but important commitment: no more extended tasks while supine. I’m sitting upright as I type this, and I’ve set a timer on my iPhone to prompt me to get up every 20 minutes. I’ve also ordered a Casio watch with an activity reminder to reinforce this habit. After all, movement was the core of my life pre-retirement. Rest, I now know, doesn’t have to mean lying down—it can mean moving gently, sitting with awareness, and staying actively present.
I’m also trying to redirect my energy into creative outlets. I hope to start working on a new Canva video—maybe something simple but meaningful for my health site. I also plan to continue reading The Fires of Heaven (Book 5 of The Wheel of Time), eager to discover what happens to Suan, the deposed Amyrlin.
A familiar face greeted me again today at the park—John, the older man I often chat with. He’s 66 now, three years my senior, but his walk has become slower and more burdened. He told me he slept at Boca beach the other night. I wonder where he was last night. His stories are sometimes suspect, but there’s a quiet truth in his weathered presence. I used to envy his freedom—sitting alone reading, undisturbed. But I know myself too well: I’m too sensitive to my surroundings, too easily distracted, to fully embrace that kind of solitude.
I saw fewer regulars at the park today. Maybe the police cleared them out again, as they sometimes do. There are those who may be unhoused, and others who just prefer the peace of the outdoors during the day before heading home. If not for my spinal issues and allergies, I might enjoy doing the same.
Today has been a near miss—almost good, if not for the lingering effects of last night’s discomfort. I did meditate this morning, which grounded me. But I also wasted time and money on an app to manage my iPhone storage before realizing I could do it manually. That ate up more time, but I still made it to the park. I intended to do some resistance exercises and maybe film them, but I didn’t follow through.
Still, I take comfort in small wins. No return of last night’s symptoms so far. And now, nearing the end of this day, I am once again writing—an act of reflection that feels more enriching than scrolling through social media or watching TV.
Yes, I sometimes feel like those aging warriors in the book I’m reading—those who remain in service to their aging lords, recounting tales only they truly remember. My stories may no longer captivate younger ears, but I know there’s still meaning in remembering and telling them. My generation has its own archive of glory and defeat, and even if our audience dwindles, we remain witnesses to a time and a way of life now passing.
I retired after many years serving patients, most of them in their final stages of life. Many had lost their independence, faculties, or social worlds. But with them, I shared a bond—we occupied the same temporal plane. What they valued most was simple conversation and presence. That’s why I still seek connection, whether through this blog, brief park conversations, or shared stories with others my age.
So here I am, not just surviving but still walking, still thinking, still creating—even if slowly. My life may have shifted, but the Spirit that strengthens the inner being, as Paul prays, continues to move within me. And that, above all, is what gives me hope.
2025-05-09 09:46:48
popong
CITY OF PURE ELEGANCE
When Mod arrived at the campus, he was met by screams.
Not directed at him, but at something else entirely. He turned to see what the commotion was about. Two naked men were sprinting across the lawn, heading toward a room opposite the cafeteria. Paper bags covered their heads, and their penises bobbed up and down as they ran.
What is this, he asked in shock.
A pimpled girl nearby overheard him and snickered. Oh gosh, how naive, she said with contempt. Her eyes brazenly assessed his appearance, then she whispered something to her friend. The two glanced at his retro 70s look, exchanged glances, and started giggling. The girl tugged at her friend’s arm and they joined the ecstatic crowd of spectators.
What’s going on, Mod called out, addressing no one in particular.
They’re streaking, exclaimed a student next to him. He sported a New Wave punk look—brown skin, a cropped head with a crown of blue hair—and was clearly enjoying the lascivious grins of the girls around him. The ADI fraternity pulled it off again. I wonder what Beti Sogma will do to top this.
It was part of ADI’s infamous initiation ritual.
God, Mod thought. Being naked in front of this crowd takes guts. That must be some fraternity—imagine enduring this humiliation just to get in.
Note:
Come on, Mod. Wake up. It is about time you learned the university fads. You are new, I get it—but prepare yourself for more surprises beyond streaking. Someday you will find out that those seemingly respectable students are having sex beside the Swollen Garden—with an audience. Call it promiscuity, call it ritual—they hold orgies while passing around joints.
Want something more bizarre? Try drinking a mix of wine, bile, and feces. It is a thing. They sip it, share it, and pretend it is holy. That is a fad.
Sure, the university looks intellectual by day—but wait until sundown. Miracles happen at night.
See those screaming girls? They are members of the Christian Student Organization. By daylight, they are praying, preaching, rebuking public nudity. But for now? They are soaking in the show. Do not be shocked if those two naked neophytes stay in the Swollen Garden until midnight—stacked on top of each other.
Do not judge by appearances. That saintly classmate of yours? He is swapping girlfriends under cover of darkness. And beware the drunkards of Krum Na Bigkas—they will offer you a drink of Tanduay laced with gasoline. That is the game here: use or be used, beat or be beaten, play or be cast out.
Now, do not get me wrong, dear readers. What I am showing you is the underbelly of Maliwalu life in the 80s—a decade of poverty, moral collapse, and hopelessness. A far cry from the relatively prosperous 60s.
Sure, Maliwalu had its priests and nuns, self-proclaimed guardians of morality. The city even boasted some of the world’s most stylishly religious citizens—some of the wealthiest too, thanks to cronyism. Many clung to Catholic conservatism, even as prostitutes peddled their flesh just outside the city gates.
The university was a modest building in a city falling apart. Once known as Maliwalan Institute, it became a university only after President Mapang-Api issued an Executive Order. As with all institutions, it mirrored the society around it—both its ideals and its rot.
Just beyond the campus wall flowed a canal of human waste. Vendors on both banks hawked fruits and cakes. Dust blew in from speeding jeepneys, choking the air. Men wrapped towels around their heads, shielding themselves from the grime.
In front of the university were makeshift copy centers—guards of knowledge, with emaciated men seated beside rusty typewriters, selling term papers and theses. Some even forged diplomas for a few hundred pesos—a fast-track to a degree without earning it.
Inside, the university barely functioned. Ceiling fans were broken. Staircases wobbled. Female students wore thick makeup. Male students looked like orphans lost in a jungle of decay.
There were always two kinds of people— the Haves and the Have-nots. The Haves were chauffeured, protected by political or business dynasties. The Have-nots lived on scraps—juggling part-time jobs as laborers, guards, hustlers, waitresses, or prostitutes.
I am a part-time student was the Have-nots’ catchphrase. They were allowed to form groups, though most were toothless associations. The more fervent joined born-again Christian bands. The rest channeled their fury into activism: ousting Mapang-Api, denouncing imperialism, capitalism, and every -ism that gripped the airwaves.
Everyone was restless. Rumors of disappearances and torture circled like vultures. Suddenly, the campus would erupt in strikes and boycotts. Marches loomed like swords of Damocles above their heads.
Distortion ruled. Students chose courses that could launch them abroad. Nursing and Engineering were the golden tickets. As soon as they learned enough, they left—off to the Middle East, the US, anywhere but here.
To borrow from the activists: the university was a processing plant for multinational labor—foreigners, not Filipinos.
Let us put aside the noise about these so-called deserters. Faced with the choice between earning two thousand pesos or two thousand dollars, who would not choose the latter? One dollar equaled fourteen pesos. Those who shouted stay home were either idealists—or stuck with degrees in Philosophy or Social Studies, useless to foreign employers.
Let us follow Sonny as he makes his way to the library.
The Maliwalu University Library served its purpose—to provide information to students starved for knowledge. But what if you had perfect teeth and were told to chew twenty-year-old jerky? You would grind it, of course—what choice did you have? That was the library.
Books were historically important—but decades out of date. Mushrooms sprouted from their covers. While Yale students studied with digital discs, Maliwalu U taught students to interpret mildewed manuscripts.
The library, once known as Maliwalan Institute Library, was a fossil. It confused more than it enlightened.
The building was small. The population, massive—like every other university in the decaying city. The student-book ratio? Maybe ten to one. By semester’s end, books were either lost or illegally copied to death.
The university’s only survival strategy: accept more students. Education? Secondary. The result? Fraternities grew more extreme. Brawls, killings, orgies, rallies. The whole city began to mimic campus life—more protests, more militancy, more madness. Those who resisted were absorbed by religious sects.
After a while in the library, Sonny headed home. Along the way, he spotted Jaime leaning against a department store window, lighting a cigarette. It was around 10 pm.
A feminine-looking man approached and gently kissed Jaime.
Jaime, Sonny called, confused. Jaime embraced the man and led him away. Sonny was sure he had been heard—the man glanced at him, nudged Jaime, who never looked back.
Free from Lola Sabel’s curfew, Sonny wandered the city alone. He strolled along the sidewalks of Recto, Avenida, Quiapo, Lerma, and Espana.
Lola had called Avenida and Recto the heart of Manila. But Sonny saw districts decaying into ruin. Avenida, once home to the legendary Opera House, now hosted an abandoned brothel surrounded by beggars.
Quiapo and Recto—once symbols of wealth—were now jammed with bargain stalls and shady dealers. Lola used to say:
When you enter Manila, find Quiapo and Recto. Everything flows through them.
But Sonny knew: the Manila she remembered was the Manila of the Liberation. That Manila was gone.
What stood now was a ghost city. Dying slowly. Piece by piece.
2025-05-05 16:07:36
4students
Meditation 5/9/25
Ephesians 3:14-21 – A Prayer for Strength and Understanding
“For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power… to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ…” (Ephesians 3:14–18, NIV)
This passage resonates with me more deeply these days. As I age and reflect more on my physical limitations, it’s as though Paul’s prayer for “inner strength” is being whispered into my own daily struggle—a divine encouragement to realign my spirit even as my body falters.
Last night was another restless one. I didn’t sleep well, likely for a few reasons. Since my illness and retirement, I’ve associated "rest" with lying down more often—perhaps too often. But I now realize that the way I lie in bed is problematic. My mattress is flat and firm, and my pillows don’t support my cervical spine well. I often read on my Kindle, use my laptop, or watch TV while in bed—sometimes with the screen at the level of my feet. This forces my neck into prolonged flexion, which is the worst possible position for someone with C5-C6 impingement and spinal stenosis.
The result? Persistent numbness and tingling in my hands, particularly when I lie down. It’s clear now that my increased time in bed—doing anything but actually resting—is contributing to these symptoms. My old life involved movement, routine, purpose. Now, I drift into long hours of passive lying down between meals or in lieu of activity.
Take yesterday, for instance. I walked early in the park—a good 5,000 steps in 50 minutes. But after that, between 10 AM and noon, I mostly laid in bed, bouncing between reading and tapping on my laptop perched on my chest. It’s a lazy kind of multitasking that puts undue strain on my neck. By late afternoon, I was back in bed again, asleep before 5 PM, only to awaken at 8 PM with weird tingling in my right arm that kept me up until almost 3 AM. That’s when I really began to reflect on how my posture and positioning have been silently working against me.
So today I made a small but important commitment: no more extended tasks while supine. I’m sitting upright as I type this, and I’ve set a timer on my iPhone to prompt me to get up every 20 minutes. I’ve also ordered a Casio watch with an activity reminder to reinforce this habit. After all, movement was the core of my life pre-retirement. Rest, I now know, doesn’t have to mean lying down—it can mean moving gently, sitting with awareness, and staying actively present.
I’m also trying to redirect my energy into creative outlets. I hope to start working on a new Canva video—maybe something simple but meaningful for my health site. I also plan to continue reading The Fires of Heaven (Book 5 of The Wheel of Time), eager to discover what happens to Suan, the deposed Amyrlin.
A familiar face greeted me again today at the park—John, the older man I often chat with. He’s 66 now, three years my senior, but his walk has become slower and more burdened. He told me he slept at Boca beach the other night. I wonder where he was last night. His stories are sometimes suspect, but there’s a quiet truth in his weathered presence. I used to envy his freedom—sitting alone reading, undisturbed. But I know myself too well: I’m too sensitive to my surroundings, too easily distracted, to fully embrace that kind of solitude.
I saw fewer regulars at the park today. Maybe the police cleared them out again, as they sometimes do. There are those who may be unhoused, and others who just prefer the peace of the outdoors during the day before heading home. If not for my spinal issues and allergies, I might enjoy doing the same.
Today has been a near miss—almost good, if not for the lingering effects of last night’s discomfort. I did meditate this morning, which grounded me. But I also wasted time and money on an app to manage my iPhone storage before realizing I could do it manually. That ate up more time, but I still made it to the park. I intended to do some resistance exercises and maybe film them, but I didn’t follow through.
Still, I take comfort in small wins. No return of last night’s symptoms so far. And now, nearing the end of this day, I am once again writing—an act of reflection that feels more enriching than scrolling through social media or watching TV.
Yes, I sometimes feel like those aging warriors in the book I’m reading—those who remain in service to their aging lords, recounting tales only they truly remember. My stories may no longer captivate younger ears, but I know there’s still meaning in remembering and telling them. My generation has its own archive of glory and defeat, and even if our audience dwindles, we remain witnesses to a time and a way of life now passing.
I retired after many years serving patients, most of them in their final stages of life. Many had lost their independence, faculties, or social worlds. But with them, I shared a bond—we occupied the same temporal plane. What they valued most was simple conversation and presence. That’s why I still seek connection, whether through this blog, brief park conversations, or shared stories with others my age.
So here I am, not just surviving but still walking, still thinking, still creating—even if slowly. My life may have shifted, but the Spirit that strengthens the inner being, as Paul prays, continues to move within me. And that, above all, is what gives me hope.
2025-05-09 09:46:48
popong
Four Students 5
CITY OF PURE ELEGANCE
When Mod arrived at the campus, he was met by screams.
Not directed at him, but at something else entirely. He turned to see what the commotion was about. Two naked men were sprinting across the lawn, heading toward a room opposite the cafeteria. Paper bags covered their heads, and their penises bobbed up and down as they ran.
What is this, he asked in shock.
A pimpled girl nearby overheard him and snickered. Oh gosh, how naive, she said with contempt. Her eyes brazenly assessed his appearance, then she whispered something to her friend. The two glanced at his retro 70s look, exchanged glances, and started giggling. The girl tugged at her friend’s arm and they joined the ecstatic crowd of spectators.
What’s going on, Mod called out, addressing no one in particular.
They’re streaking, exclaimed a student next to him. He sported a New Wave punk look—brown skin, a cropped head with a crown of blue hair—and was clearly enjoying the lascivious grins of the girls around him. The ADI fraternity pulled it off again. I wonder what Beti Sogma will do to top this.
It was part of ADI’s infamous initiation ritual.
God, Mod thought. Being naked in front of this crowd takes guts. That must be some fraternity—imagine enduring this humiliation just to get in.
Note:
Come on, Mod. Wake up. It is about time you learned the university fads. You are new, I get it—but prepare yourself for more surprises beyond streaking. Someday you will find out that those seemingly respectable students are having sex beside the Swollen Garden—with an audience. Call it promiscuity, call it ritual—they hold orgies while passing around joints.
Want something more bizarre? Try drinking a mix of wine, bile, and feces. It is a thing. They sip it, share it, and pretend it is holy. That is a fad.
Sure, the university looks intellectual by day—but wait until sundown. Miracles happen at night.
See those screaming girls? They are members of the Christian Student Organization. By daylight, they are praying, preaching, rebuking public nudity. But for now? They are soaking in the show. Do not be shocked if those two naked neophytes stay in the Swollen Garden until midnight—stacked on top of each other.
Do not judge by appearances. That saintly classmate of yours? He is swapping girlfriends under cover of darkness. And beware the drunkards of Krum Na Bigkas—they will offer you a drink of Tanduay laced with gasoline. That is the game here: use or be used, beat or be beaten, play or be cast out.
Now, do not get me wrong, dear readers. What I am showing you is the underbelly of Maliwalu life in the 80s—a decade of poverty, moral collapse, and hopelessness. A far cry from the relatively prosperous 60s.
Sure, Maliwalu had its priests and nuns, self-proclaimed guardians of morality. The city even boasted some of the world’s most stylishly religious citizens—some of the wealthiest too, thanks to cronyism. Many clung to Catholic conservatism, even as prostitutes peddled their flesh just outside the city gates.
The university was a modest building in a city falling apart. Once known as Maliwalan Institute, it became a university only after President Mapang-Api issued an Executive Order. As with all institutions, it mirrored the society around it—both its ideals and its rot.
Just beyond the campus wall flowed a canal of human waste. Vendors on both banks hawked fruits and cakes. Dust blew in from speeding jeepneys, choking the air. Men wrapped towels around their heads, shielding themselves from the grime.
In front of the university were makeshift copy centers—guards of knowledge, with emaciated men seated beside rusty typewriters, selling term papers and theses. Some even forged diplomas for a few hundred pesos—a fast-track to a degree without earning it.
Inside, the university barely functioned. Ceiling fans were broken. Staircases wobbled. Female students wore thick makeup. Male students looked like orphans lost in a jungle of decay.
There were always two kinds of people— the Haves and the Have-nots. The Haves were chauffeured, protected by political or business dynasties. The Have-nots lived on scraps—juggling part-time jobs as laborers, guards, hustlers, waitresses, or prostitutes.
I am a part-time student was the Have-nots’ catchphrase. They were allowed to form groups, though most were toothless associations. The more fervent joined born-again Christian bands. The rest channeled their fury into activism: ousting Mapang-Api, denouncing imperialism, capitalism, and every -ism that gripped the airwaves.
Everyone was restless. Rumors of disappearances and torture circled like vultures. Suddenly, the campus would erupt in strikes and boycotts. Marches loomed like swords of Damocles above their heads.
Distortion ruled. Students chose courses that could launch them abroad. Nursing and Engineering were the golden tickets. As soon as they learned enough, they left—off to the Middle East, the US, anywhere but here.
To borrow from the activists: the university was a processing plant for multinational labor—foreigners, not Filipinos.
Let us put aside the noise about these so-called deserters. Faced with the choice between earning two thousand pesos or two thousand dollars, who would not choose the latter? One dollar equaled fourteen pesos. Those who shouted stay home were either idealists—or stuck with degrees in Philosophy or Social Studies, useless to foreign employers.
Let us follow Sonny as he makes his way to the library.
The Maliwalu University Library served its purpose—to provide information to students starved for knowledge. But what if you had perfect teeth and were told to chew twenty-year-old jerky? You would grind it, of course—what choice did you have? That was the library.
Books were historically important—but decades out of date. Mushrooms sprouted from their covers. While Yale students studied with digital discs, Maliwalu U taught students to interpret mildewed manuscripts.
The library, once known as Maliwalan Institute Library, was a fossil. It confused more than it enlightened.
The building was small. The population, massive—like every other university in the decaying city. The student-book ratio? Maybe ten to one. By semester’s end, books were either lost or illegally copied to death.
The university’s only survival strategy: accept more students. Education? Secondary. The result? Fraternities grew more extreme. Brawls, killings, orgies, rallies. The whole city began to mimic campus life—more protests, more militancy, more madness. Those who resisted were absorbed by religious sects.
After a while in the library, Sonny headed home. Along the way, he spotted Jaime leaning against a department store window, lighting a cigarette. It was around 10 pm.
A feminine-looking man approached and gently kissed Jaime.
Jaime, Sonny called, confused. Jaime embraced the man and led him away. Sonny was sure he had been heard—the man glanced at him, nudged Jaime, who never looked back.
Free from Lola Sabel’s curfew, Sonny wandered the city alone. He strolled along the sidewalks of Recto, Avenida, Quiapo, Lerma, and Espana.
Lola had called Avenida and Recto the heart of Manila. But Sonny saw districts decaying into ruin. Avenida, once home to the legendary Opera House, now hosted an abandoned brothel surrounded by beggars.
Quiapo and Recto—once symbols of wealth—were now jammed with bargain stalls and shady dealers. Lola used to say:
When you enter Manila, find Quiapo and Recto. Everything flows through them.
But Sonny knew: the Manila she remembered was the Manila of the Liberation. That Manila was gone.
What stood now was a ghost city. Dying slowly. Piece by piece.
2025-05-05 16:07:36
4students