Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
May 14, 2025
2 Kings 19:14–20 — Hezekiah’s Prayer
Hezekiah received the letter from the messengers and read it. Then he went up to the temple of the Lord and spread it out before Him. And Hezekiah prayed:
“Lord, the God of Israel, enthroned between the cherubim, You alone are God over all the kingdoms of the earth. You have made heaven and earth. Give ear, Lord, and hear; open Your eyes and see; listen to the words Sennacherib has sent to ridicule the living God.
It is true, Lord, that the Assyrian kings have laid waste to these nations. They have thrown their gods into the fire and destroyed them—for they were not gods, but only wood and stone, made by human hands. Now, Lord our God, deliver us from his hand, so that all the kingdoms of the earth may know that You alone, Lord, are God.”
Then Isaiah sent word to Hezekiah: “This is what the Lord says: I have heard your prayer.”
Two events have weighed heavily on my mind these past few days: the passing of my oldest brother and the national election in the Philippines. Both are now behind us. I’ve written my own personal obituary for my brother, as honestly as I could, and I’m relieved that the election is over, with hints of a shift away from celebrity culture and towards more grounded leadership. Perhaps anti-dynasty measures will follow—one can hope.
I stopped posting on Facebook out of respect for my brother. In doing so, I revisited an idea that had often crossed my mind but I never acted on: social media is, more often than not, a stage to seek validation—from either familiar faces or total strangers.
In my case, it was mostly the former. I posted regularly, partly to experiment with new apps, but deep down, I still checked the number of views and likes, even if they came from the same people over and over. It felt like living in a small village, where you step out of your house daily to perform little tricks, waiting for neighbors to say, “That’s nice.” Eventually, I had to ask myself: is it worth it?
I realized that this craving for attention is rooted in loneliness—the kind that can come from living alone as an older man. But there’s nothing inherently wrong with solitude, especially if it serves a purpose. I’ve often told myself that solitude is the best environment for cultivating the gifts God has given me: writing, reading, and learning.
The trouble comes when I mistake social media for an outlet of those gifts. It isn’t. Writing needs practice. Reading nourishes writing. But social media? It interrupts both.
So I’ve gone back to basics. Since halting my Facebook activity, I’ve written more—especially meditations like this one. I still share them via my blog, anonymously, to avoid paranoia. I’m also slowly returning to deeper reading.
Of course, I still browse social media now and then, but I’m choosing to be a spectator rather than a performer. I’ve learned that the “flow” and “zone” I need to thrive creatively are fragile and easily disturbed.
My brother’s death served as a final wake-up call. I’m not far behind him in life’s timeline. I will soon face my own ending, and when that time comes, I will ask myself: Did I spend my time doing what I truly loved—what God gifted me to do—or did I chase validation and distraction?
I’ve prepared in the usual ways: financially, physically, practically. But the more important question lingers: Have I pursued the work that brings me closer to God’s purpose?
Storytelling. Blogging. Designing websites. Reading great books. These are all part of my calling. But I must resist the temptation to obsess over a perfect outcome. My mother worked tirelessly for a sense of perfection, and in the end, she still suffered. My father, after retirement, gave in to indulgences he had long suppressed. And my brother gave everything for a family that eventually couldn’t support him in his weakest days.
Each of them taught me something: don’t abuse your health; don’t suppress your true self; and don’t tie your worth to the unreliable affection of others.
So I’ll walk. I’ll eat well. I’ll write and read. I’ll tend my garden. I’ll guard my time and energy. I’ll share what I have with care, not desperation. And I’ll find joy in what is clean, simple, and quietly mine.
May 15, 2025
2 Corinthians 12:1–10 — Paul’s Vision and His Thorn
“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me... For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
I am in a better place now. Withdrawing from the constant pull of social media has shown me how it tried to shape my behavior, pushing me toward validation addiction. But the Holy Spirit, through life’s events and daily reflections, continues to pull me back to center.
I see now how some friends have fallen so deeply into the grip of online life that they post compulsively—about meals, routines, even personal struggles. The loneliness beneath it is obvious. I was on the verge of that once. But the Lord stopped me. I’m not completely detached yet, but I’m learning to resist that addiction.
Yesterday, temptation resurfaced. After a long walk, my old urges returned—roaming, seeking stimulation. But instead of chasing those impulses, I listened to my body. I rested. I napped. I read. I raked the backyard. It was a simple, productive day.
I also discovered how effective it is to listen to audiobooks while walking. It’s a double benefit: mental stimulation and physical movement. This is a rhythm I can embrace.
May 16, 2025
Mark 1:1–8 — John the Baptist Prepares the Way
“I baptize you with water, but He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”
Indeed, the Lord has baptized me with the Holy Spirit since the moment my mind could grasp understanding. It is the Spirit that has guided me and kept me on the Path despite my shortcomings.
Yesterday morning was smooth—walk, grocery, watering plants—but by midday, fatigue crept in. I listened to my body. I took a nap. I adjusted my meals and medications, which were all running late. I acknowledged that consistency still eludes me.
I also realized I’ve been overdoing my walking—3.5 to 4 miles daily—approaching pre-illness levels. That’s a good sign, but I must not overreach. Cardio is essential, but resistance work and balanced rest are just as important.
Later, I met with my nurse practitioner for a long health review. I skipped walking that day because something inside told me to rest. My body gave subtle warnings, and I listened.
In the past, I would’ve called such a day “lazy” or “unproductive.” Not anymore. This is stewardship of the body, not sloth. I watched a few documentaries, learned from them, and spent time contemplating the reality of my age and limitations.
I used to imagine exploring bustling places like the Manila Esplanade—but now I see how distant those environments have become for me. Too hot, too crowded, too strenuous. My interests, energy, and social needs are evolving. So must my expectations.
And so, I reflect not with bitterness but with humility. I have done what I could. But the time of constant exploration and endless motion has passed. I must live within the rhythm of my body—much like an old car that now requires gentler handling.
Final Reflection
This week has shown me that joy, fulfillment, and meaning don’t always come from activity. Sometimes they come from attention: to one’s health, to God’s voice, to the truth of aging.
I am learning to balance function and medication. To listen to my body. To reclaim my time from the digital world. To write not for attention, but to honor the gift.
There’s still so much to do—but also so much to rest in.
2025-05-20 16:04:05
popong
"I Don't Love You, But You've Got Great Boobs, Tita"
A Reader’s Journey Through Eric Gamalinda’s Planet Waves
by Alex Maskara
Here I go again...
Dear reader—whoever you are—I present to you the debut novel of Eric Gamalinda. But let me confess right away: I'm not a literary scholar. I wasn’t trained to critique fiction, and my life’s calling lies in caring for the sick, not dissecting prose. Reading is my passion because it offers a window into lives beyond the routine I’m either blessed or cursed to live. And yes, I’m getting dramatic. Go ahead—cry me a river or laugh like a cow’s belch.
In truth, I hold only a flimsy license to comment on fiction. But not every reader is an English major, and if I share my opinion, it’s purely personal, speculative—and perhaps worthwhile if you're wondering: What does one ordinary reader think about Planet Waves by Eric Gamalinda?
Well, here goes...
I just finished reading Planet Waves. Once I flipped through the opening pages, I couldn’t stop. Thank God I had a free weekend. So, what’s this novel all about? A lot. Each chapter brought surprising echoes of other authors and styles—Gabriel García Márquez, Kafka, Genet, Camus, even Dostoevsky—each whispering their influences without overpowering Gamalinda’s own voice.
At first, I thought it was a historical novel. Then fantasy. Then mystery. Then magical realism. Even science fiction with a moral edge. It’s all of the above. I reserved judgment while reading, devouring it in one sitting. When I finished, I pressed the blue, black-and-white, man-with-wings cover to my chest and sighed, “Aaaah.” I rarely do that. No, I didn’t masturbate or ejaculate—nothing like that. But let me tell you, it was better. The book filled me with what I can only call orgasmic pride. Pardon the metaphor. Call it the Filipino surprise: this local author summoned a literary symphony with one novel.
But this isn’t a sentimental book. It doesn’t follow the old Dickensian or Jamesian route. It centers on Joaquin Alfonso, a young Manileño raised in dull, ordinary circumstances—until he discovers his dead grandfather’s secret writings about planets and the sun. Soon after, he sees his mother performing in a porn film. With his rich friend Bart (who hires goons to beat up gym bullies and gets off watching Joaquin with a hooker), Joaquin navigates a world of eccentric family members, unorthodox relationships, and the slow, spiraling undoing of what we might call Filipino family values.
Nothing traditional here. This is a world of extramarital affairs, dominated by a transsexual bastard child, a stepmother whose nipples are bitten by her stepson, and that unforgettable line: “No, I don’t love you, but you’ve got great boobs.”
Reminiscent of One Hundred Years of Solitude, the novel unfolds in an aging Manila house threatened with demolition—it stands on public land, and the original title deeds died with grandfather Miguel Tomas de Andrade, crushed in an elevator. The quest for these papers becomes the central plot, while subplots whirl around it: Joaquin’s mother leaves and ends up in bomba films; part of the house is rented to Eileen and her alluring daughter Melissa; Joaquin falls for Melissa, so does Bart—and guess who wins?
Joaquin fails at love, family, and self. He lifts weights, becomes ripped, and is seduced by his father’s mistress-turned-wife Rachel Guzman—who wears kabuki makeup and wields three dozen eyeliners like weapons. Her gay son Lester (Joaquin’s stepbrother, born the same day by a different woman at their father's wedding) is a fashion-savvy hustler with a taste for neighborhood boys.
It’s wild. It’s tragic. And it’s brilliant.
Characters get pinned down and pinned apart. Joaquin, unwittingly, smuggles his father’s guns. Rachel enforces her reign with cruelty and lipstick. Grandmother Amiranta reads the stars and claims knowledge of her destiny. Joaquin, now in his twenties, struggles to find a job. He writes freelance articles for peanuts and trains for a bodybuilding contest with a 1,500-peso prize. Then—something strange: two painful lumps sprout on his back. Feathers. Wings. But he never flies. Two thugs snip the wings, and Joaquin is grounded once more, transformed but still trapped.
The novel doesn't shy away from darkness. Gamalinda describes, in graphic detail, Lester's throat being slashed, Joaquin’s father getting shot in bed post-stroke, Eileen run over by a truck, Melissa becoming a prostitute, Bart attempting to strangle another. Each death is grotesque but deliberate. Characters collapse, disintegrate, and vanish. Gamalinda paints their destruction not out of cruelty, but to point us to life’s transience—life is a wave: dancing, rising, fading.
There’s a poignant dream scene: Joaquin meets his grandfather, and in that ephemeral moment, Gamalinda hints at something profound—maybe about time, memory, or the persistence of dreams. I can’t fully explain it here. Planet Waves offers more than I can capture.
What makes this novel unforgettable are the sudden shifts, the emotional detours, and the surreal turns. Gamalinda pulls us into a dream within a dream, only to snap his fingers and whisper: “It’s all make-believe.” But then he shows us another reality—another illusion. That, dear reader, is the alchemy of fiction.
The final image lingers: a fight erupts in Quiapo. Amid the chaos, a child picks up a stray apple, bites it, and chews while watching the world with firm, defiant eyes.
This is a story of human defiance. Of survival. Of madness and meaning. Thank you, Eric, for making me believe in the Filipino author again.
About the Author
Eric Gamalinda, born in 1956, studied at the University of Santo Tomas and the University of the Philippines. He won the Centennial Literary Prize for Novel, and his works include Popular Delusions, Fire Poem/Rain Poem, and numerous award-winning plays and poems. He has received the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards and a Focus magazine award, and his work has appeared in Frank, a Paris-based journal. He is an associate fellow of the Philippine Literary Arts Council.
—Alex Maskara
Volume 1
2025-05-14 01:54:55
bookreviews
Popong: Weekly Contemplation
May 14, 2025
2 Kings 19:14–20 — Hezekiah’s Prayer
Hezekiah received the letter from the messengers and read it. Then he went up to the temple of the Lord and spread it out before Him. And Hezekiah prayed:
“Lord, the God of Israel, enthroned between the cherubim, You alone are God over all the kingdoms of the earth. You have made heaven and earth. Give ear, Lord, and hear; open Your eyes and see; listen to the words Sennacherib has sent to ridicule the living God.
It is true, Lord, that the Assyrian kings have laid waste to these nations. They have thrown their gods into the fire and destroyed them—for they were not gods, but only wood and stone, made by human hands. Now, Lord our God, deliver us from his hand, so that all the kingdoms of the earth may know that You alone, Lord, are God.”
Then Isaiah sent word to Hezekiah: “This is what the Lord says: I have heard your prayer.”
Two events have weighed heavily on my mind these past few days: the passing of my oldest brother and the national election in the Philippines. Both are now behind us. I’ve written my own personal obituary for my brother, as honestly as I could, and I’m relieved that the election is over, with hints of a shift away from celebrity culture and towards more grounded leadership. Perhaps anti-dynasty measures will follow—one can hope.
I stopped posting on Facebook out of respect for my brother. In doing so, I revisited an idea that had often crossed my mind but I never acted on: social media is, more often than not, a stage to seek validation—from either familiar faces or total strangers.
In my case, it was mostly the former. I posted regularly, partly to experiment with new apps, but deep down, I still checked the number of views and likes, even if they came from the same people over and over. It felt like living in a small village, where you step out of your house daily to perform little tricks, waiting for neighbors to say, “That’s nice.” Eventually, I had to ask myself: is it worth it?
I realized that this craving for attention is rooted in loneliness—the kind that can come from living alone as an older man. But there’s nothing inherently wrong with solitude, especially if it serves a purpose. I’ve often told myself that solitude is the best environment for cultivating the gifts God has given me: writing, reading, and learning.
The trouble comes when I mistake social media for an outlet of those gifts. It isn’t. Writing needs practice. Reading nourishes writing. But social media? It interrupts both.
So I’ve gone back to basics. Since halting my Facebook activity, I’ve written more—especially meditations like this one. I still share them via my blog, anonymously, to avoid paranoia. I’m also slowly returning to deeper reading.
Of course, I still browse social media now and then, but I’m choosing to be a spectator rather than a performer. I’ve learned that the “flow” and “zone” I need to thrive creatively are fragile and easily disturbed.
My brother’s death served as a final wake-up call. I’m not far behind him in life’s timeline. I will soon face my own ending, and when that time comes, I will ask myself: Did I spend my time doing what I truly loved—what God gifted me to do—or did I chase validation and distraction?
I’ve prepared in the usual ways: financially, physically, practically. But the more important question lingers: Have I pursued the work that brings me closer to God’s purpose?
Storytelling. Blogging. Designing websites. Reading great books. These are all part of my calling. But I must resist the temptation to obsess over a perfect outcome. My mother worked tirelessly for a sense of perfection, and in the end, she still suffered. My father, after retirement, gave in to indulgences he had long suppressed. And my brother gave everything for a family that eventually couldn’t support him in his weakest days.
Each of them taught me something: don’t abuse your health; don’t suppress your true self; and don’t tie your worth to the unreliable affection of others.
So I’ll walk. I’ll eat well. I’ll write and read. I’ll tend my garden. I’ll guard my time and energy. I’ll share what I have with care, not desperation. And I’ll find joy in what is clean, simple, and quietly mine.
May 15, 2025
2 Corinthians 12:1–10 — Paul’s Vision and His Thorn
“But He said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me... For when I am weak, then I am strong.”
I am in a better place now. Withdrawing from the constant pull of social media has shown me how it tried to shape my behavior, pushing me toward validation addiction. But the Holy Spirit, through life’s events and daily reflections, continues to pull me back to center.
I see now how some friends have fallen so deeply into the grip of online life that they post compulsively—about meals, routines, even personal struggles. The loneliness beneath it is obvious. I was on the verge of that once. But the Lord stopped me. I’m not completely detached yet, but I’m learning to resist that addiction.
Yesterday, temptation resurfaced. After a long walk, my old urges returned—roaming, seeking stimulation. But instead of chasing those impulses, I listened to my body. I rested. I napped. I read. I raked the backyard. It was a simple, productive day.
I also discovered how effective it is to listen to audiobooks while walking. It’s a double benefit: mental stimulation and physical movement. This is a rhythm I can embrace.
May 16, 2025
Mark 1:1–8 — John the Baptist Prepares the Way
“I baptize you with water, but He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit.”
Indeed, the Lord has baptized me with the Holy Spirit since the moment my mind could grasp understanding. It is the Spirit that has guided me and kept me on the Path despite my shortcomings.
Yesterday morning was smooth—walk, grocery, watering plants—but by midday, fatigue crept in. I listened to my body. I took a nap. I adjusted my meals and medications, which were all running late. I acknowledged that consistency still eludes me.
I also realized I’ve been overdoing my walking—3.5 to 4 miles daily—approaching pre-illness levels. That’s a good sign, but I must not overreach. Cardio is essential, but resistance work and balanced rest are just as important.
Later, I met with my nurse practitioner for a long health review. I skipped walking that day because something inside told me to rest. My body gave subtle warnings, and I listened.
In the past, I would’ve called such a day “lazy” or “unproductive.” Not anymore. This is stewardship of the body, not sloth. I watched a few documentaries, learned from them, and spent time contemplating the reality of my age and limitations.
I used to imagine exploring bustling places like the Manila Esplanade—but now I see how distant those environments have become for me. Too hot, too crowded, too strenuous. My interests, energy, and social needs are evolving. So must my expectations.
And so, I reflect not with bitterness but with humility. I have done what I could. But the time of constant exploration and endless motion has passed. I must live within the rhythm of my body—much like an old car that now requires gentler handling.
Final Reflection
This week has shown me that joy, fulfillment, and meaning don’t always come from activity. Sometimes they come from attention: to one’s health, to God’s voice, to the truth of aging.
I am learning to balance function and medication. To listen to my body. To reclaim my time from the digital world. To write not for attention, but to honor the gift.
There’s still so much to do—but also so much to rest in.
2025-05-20 16:04:05
popong
Planet Waves
"I Don't Love You, But You've Got Great Boobs, Tita"
A Reader’s Journey Through Eric Gamalinda’s Planet Waves
by Alex Maskara
Here I go again...
Dear reader—whoever you are—I present to you the debut novel of Eric Gamalinda. But let me confess right away: I'm not a literary scholar. I wasn’t trained to critique fiction, and my life’s calling lies in caring for the sick, not dissecting prose. Reading is my passion because it offers a window into lives beyond the routine I’m either blessed or cursed to live. And yes, I’m getting dramatic. Go ahead—cry me a river or laugh like a cow’s belch.
In truth, I hold only a flimsy license to comment on fiction. But not every reader is an English major, and if I share my opinion, it’s purely personal, speculative—and perhaps worthwhile if you're wondering: What does one ordinary reader think about Planet Waves by Eric Gamalinda?
Well, here goes...
I just finished reading Planet Waves. Once I flipped through the opening pages, I couldn’t stop. Thank God I had a free weekend. So, what’s this novel all about? A lot. Each chapter brought surprising echoes of other authors and styles—Gabriel García Márquez, Kafka, Genet, Camus, even Dostoevsky—each whispering their influences without overpowering Gamalinda’s own voice.
At first, I thought it was a historical novel. Then fantasy. Then mystery. Then magical realism. Even science fiction with a moral edge. It’s all of the above. I reserved judgment while reading, devouring it in one sitting. When I finished, I pressed the blue, black-and-white, man-with-wings cover to my chest and sighed, “Aaaah.” I rarely do that. No, I didn’t masturbate or ejaculate—nothing like that. But let me tell you, it was better. The book filled me with what I can only call orgasmic pride. Pardon the metaphor. Call it the Filipino surprise: this local author summoned a literary symphony with one novel.
But this isn’t a sentimental book. It doesn’t follow the old Dickensian or Jamesian route. It centers on Joaquin Alfonso, a young Manileño raised in dull, ordinary circumstances—until he discovers his dead grandfather’s secret writings about planets and the sun. Soon after, he sees his mother performing in a porn film. With his rich friend Bart (who hires goons to beat up gym bullies and gets off watching Joaquin with a hooker), Joaquin navigates a world of eccentric family members, unorthodox relationships, and the slow, spiraling undoing of what we might call Filipino family values.
Nothing traditional here. This is a world of extramarital affairs, dominated by a transsexual bastard child, a stepmother whose nipples are bitten by her stepson, and that unforgettable line: “No, I don’t love you, but you’ve got great boobs.”
Reminiscent of One Hundred Years of Solitude, the novel unfolds in an aging Manila house threatened with demolition—it stands on public land, and the original title deeds died with grandfather Miguel Tomas de Andrade, crushed in an elevator. The quest for these papers becomes the central plot, while subplots whirl around it: Joaquin’s mother leaves and ends up in bomba films; part of the house is rented to Eileen and her alluring daughter Melissa; Joaquin falls for Melissa, so does Bart—and guess who wins?
Joaquin fails at love, family, and self. He lifts weights, becomes ripped, and is seduced by his father’s mistress-turned-wife Rachel Guzman—who wears kabuki makeup and wields three dozen eyeliners like weapons. Her gay son Lester (Joaquin’s stepbrother, born the same day by a different woman at their father's wedding) is a fashion-savvy hustler with a taste for neighborhood boys.
It’s wild. It’s tragic. And it’s brilliant.
Characters get pinned down and pinned apart. Joaquin, unwittingly, smuggles his father’s guns. Rachel enforces her reign with cruelty and lipstick. Grandmother Amiranta reads the stars and claims knowledge of her destiny. Joaquin, now in his twenties, struggles to find a job. He writes freelance articles for peanuts and trains for a bodybuilding contest with a 1,500-peso prize. Then—something strange: two painful lumps sprout on his back. Feathers. Wings. But he never flies. Two thugs snip the wings, and Joaquin is grounded once more, transformed but still trapped.
The novel doesn't shy away from darkness. Gamalinda describes, in graphic detail, Lester's throat being slashed, Joaquin’s father getting shot in bed post-stroke, Eileen run over by a truck, Melissa becoming a prostitute, Bart attempting to strangle another. Each death is grotesque but deliberate. Characters collapse, disintegrate, and vanish. Gamalinda paints their destruction not out of cruelty, but to point us to life’s transience—life is a wave: dancing, rising, fading.
There’s a poignant dream scene: Joaquin meets his grandfather, and in that ephemeral moment, Gamalinda hints at something profound—maybe about time, memory, or the persistence of dreams. I can’t fully explain it here. Planet Waves offers more than I can capture.
What makes this novel unforgettable are the sudden shifts, the emotional detours, and the surreal turns. Gamalinda pulls us into a dream within a dream, only to snap his fingers and whisper: “It’s all make-believe.” But then he shows us another reality—another illusion. That, dear reader, is the alchemy of fiction.
The final image lingers: a fight erupts in Quiapo. Amid the chaos, a child picks up a stray apple, bites it, and chews while watching the world with firm, defiant eyes.
This is a story of human defiance. Of survival. Of madness and meaning. Thank you, Eric, for making me believe in the Filipino author again.
About the Author
Eric Gamalinda, born in 1956, studied at the University of Santo Tomas and the University of the Philippines. He won the Centennial Literary Prize for Novel, and his works include Popular Delusions, Fire Poem/Rain Poem, and numerous award-winning plays and poems. He has received the Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards and a Focus magazine award, and his work has appeared in Frank, a Paris-based journal. He is an associate fellow of the Philippine Literary Arts Council.
—Alex Maskara
Volume 1
2025-05-14 01:54:55
bookreviews