Here's a tribute to one of the pillars fo automation: OPC. What is it?

I didn't know until I had the training. If you're into process control and automation, you'd definitely learn a lot on DCOM and comms in process control. Check this site. If not, don't bother unless you plan to automate the lighting around your house or teach your garage door to auto-detect you everytime you get in the driveway...

We had this whole week of training with Randy Kondor from the OPC training institute. OPC is a good topic for conversation (and so was Canada... where Randy came from... and I specifically remember his discussion on pine beetles which bury in pine trees and their environmental effect caused by the temperature no longer reaching -40 degrees. Yes, even global warming has an effect in Canada!).

It's amazing how I got to write this far without even giving you an answer. What then is OPC? Open Process Connectivity, OLE for Process Control, or simply OPC...

If it's hard to explain to my mother, then it is hard to explain.

The mascara would smear, I told myself and so I held my breath, the edges of my smile shaking, and kept back the tears struggling to run down my cheeks.

That was the inner battle I fought as I watched one of my closest friends walk down the aisle. Cathy was my playmate and our neighbor back in my elementary days. She had gone through a mitral valve problem last December and she needs heart surgery to get her heart back in shape. I guess all the minuses and pluses in life finally do add up and here we were on such a happy and lovely day, her wedding.

I looked around. The best man was crying and so was the maid of honor. The tears of joy were contagious. And for that very reason, I had refused to cry. Baka mahawa sa pag-iyak. True enough, as Cathy walked down the aisle and looked at me, I held my smile in place and gave her the signal to smile herself. I will never know the exact feeling she had at that very moment but she looked like she was in a trance - afloat, with her shear, white veil and long, white gown. Then, she smiled.

It was a moment I would never forget. If there was a wedding that would've really made me cry, this was the first one. As the moment finally passed, the ceremony dragging by, I remained overwhelmed about how much beauty there still could be in something so personal.

I tag Cathy's wedding as one of the most meaningful weddings I have attended. There was no wedding organizer. She decorated the tiny oil lamps herself, these as tokens the couple gave away. Not to mention, it was the first time I saw myself in a Grade 6 graduation picture in one of the slideshows. It was like a walk down memory lane and watch where people have come and gone. It was like watching a new beginning unfold. It was truly beautiful.

Kidding aside, it was a new beginning for me as well. I had worked on a diet for 3 weeks, eating 4 small meals each day with less carbo loading. I t all started during the first fitting. The gown was a bit too tight. It was the type that created a "cleavage" on my back. Just imagine. Haha! The beginning for me was that, finally, I could stop dieting. A double celebration!

*Batchmates in the picture...

Our cartero is named Boyet. Only a few people probably know their cartero nowadays In fact, only a few have the reason to do so.

I was waiting for a registered mail from the SSS. A registered mail from SSS would mean that the mailman could not just so easily leave your letter in your drop box. Somebody had to be at your house to receive it and a signature was needed for formality.T he mailman was not someone who should so easily give up and was required to come back for at least three tries.

During the first try, our mailman was able to arrive at our house and thank God my housemate was there. But then, the presence of a receiver and the signature was unfortunately not enough. At least my SSS ID or a authorization letter was needed as the final hurdle to completing the task. So I didn't get my letter. And so I wrote the authorization letter and handed it over to Phoebe, my housemate.

On the mailman's second try, Phoebe was not around and instead, Oy2, another housemate was there. He didn't know anything about the authorization letter issue. So again, there goes my mail.

I finally decided that luck should completely be on my side and so decided to go to the nearby post office to get my letter personally. The mailmen leave the post office before 9am and so I went there early expecting a short wait and just a few uneventful minutes under the roof of the Quezon City Post Office.

Arriving in the (closed) front windows of the post office, the lady in there kindly told me to ask for the "cartero" of Pag-asa out back. I silently obeyed and walked out back. I was not prepared for the awe I felt as I entered the world of the carteros.

The sound of repetitive stamping slowly became louder as I neared the door and my heartbeat struggled to keep in time with rhythm. I do not recall about whether it was of nervousness that I was about to enter a world of unknown men nor was it of wonder and excitement that this was going to be a unique experience.

It was warm inside. The ceiling was high and the turning exhaust fans constantly disturbed the shadows cast by the glass window rims as the morning sun streamed through it. An old tune from an AM station boomed loudly and there were a few men joyfully singing along. It felt like stepping into a film from the 60's. It was like one of the old factories, remnants of the Industrial Revolution and everyone was busy. Men sorting mail across a shelf. Men counting letters and stamping on them. Men swiftly running their fingers across letters sprawled on large tables.

"Sino po ang cartero ng Pag-asa?", I lightly asked, setting my tone of voice not knowing whether I was even allowed to disturb the harmony of working men among letters or whether my voice was even loud enough as not to drown in the steady stamping of letters. But someone answered, "Si Boyet. Si Boyet ang cartero dun. Maghintay ka na lang sa taas."

The mailman who had answered me happened to be the mailman who sat beside Boyet. I knew it must be coincidence and easily put my trust knowing that he would call my attention when his seatmate arrives.

I waited (a while) and looked down from the balcony across the bustle of mailmen. Slowly the rhythmic pounding lowered in volume and the mailmen went up one by one to settle into their tables. It was almost 9am. They were getting ready for the long day out. The letters have been sorted out and were slowly stuffed into the leather brown mailman shoulder bags.

Boyet happened to be one of the last men to come up and arrive at his table. I did not know it was him the first time I saw him. He carried a large transparent plastic bag, the size of a large garbage bag. He was dragging it along ang singing nonchalantly at the top of his lungs. Instead of carrying it behind his shoulders he was dragging it along. He was definitely one of the mailmen with the most number of letters to deliver.

His seatmate signalled to me and suddenly I came face to face with our cartero. He reminded me of Santa Claus. It was Christmas time then and he was probably hoping that all the Christmas cards he had in his bag makes it in time. I knew this the moment he handed over the letter from SSS. He said that maybe my letter was really important because I had to come for it. Yes, I said, it was.

Our cartero is named Boyet and from the moment he dragged along that large plastic bag, he reminded me of Santa Claus, unknowingly he had one of the most meaningful jobs.

Emails and e-cards come in handy but holding a card or letter or the photo of your loved one in your hand gives a more personal and close-up experience. Don't you think so?

there I was dumbfounded by what the taxi driver had said. he said that my friend should learn to speak Tagalog as well as she speaks English. my initial thought was defensiveness... that was my friend you were talking about! he hasn't even heard my friend speak in Tagalog. yet his words suddenly made me re-think my lingua. how was I supposed to react? i... a not-so-young Visayan trying to make a living in a Tagalog-dominated city? i will have to admit that my Tagalog vocabulary would probably be limited to that of a third grade student's currently studying here in Luzon (in a Tagalog-speaking region especially). does that make me less of a Filipino?

*note: I specifically am going to use "Tagalog" instead of the more adaptable "Filipino" because the cab driver started it... 

of course, the driver did not stop there and continued ranting about the way a Miriam Defensor-Santiago so poorly spoke and subtly murdered the national language. "Yung kwan" and "sa amon"... were his examples. he definitely had a point stating that these politikos should ideally be good speakers of Tagalog. meanwhile, my mind was racing with a number of arguments I could have thrown back at him. if the national language had been Cebuano how would he have fared? it just so happened that the national government was seated in a Tagalog region. moreover, isn't the content of what we say suppose to matter over what dialect or language we said it in? and most of all, aren't actions suppose to speak louder than words? a senator working his back just to pass several bills with worthwhile consequences would be definitely my choice over one who quacks most of the time.

here then, the driver proceeded with saying that he admired randy david for being a gifted speaker for the depth and wisdom his words were and that randy david did this well when speaking in both english and Filipino. i dared not ask what his criteria for a malalim magsalita was... for fear of ruining his day and being accused of one who took Miriam's side. well, i did not exactly rue on miriam's side but i was on the side of all discriminated non-Tagalog speakers (English-speaking Filipinos included!). but then yes, i would have to agree that randy david has his sociological background and thus the malalim magsalita. as for miriam, dalom maghambal kung pa-hillonggohon mo siya e. Despite all my raging thoughts, I calmly agreed with the driver's every word and said that our local courts and even sessions in the house of representatives should be better of speaking in Filipino.

as i stepped out of the cab and walked into the church and a Tagalog mass, my thoughts run awry, one illuminating realization i had was that it was an inner battle for every Filipino: nationalism vs. individualism. Each person has a choice about where to position himself in this wide spectrum. what if one could express his/her thought better in English but would definitely die for his/her own country if forced to renounce cultural heritage? or what if one's best subject was Filipino but loved the foreign hiphop dance moves on MTV? But then again, the way one speaks or in what language he/she speaks is not the only measure of nationalism. a Filipino may speak in a different language but i think one should never let go of speaking in straight Filipino. In a way, be proud you're one.

on a rather tangential note, but touching a point on the curve nevertheless. i'd like to say my piece on teri hatcher's lines in desperate housewives about doctors with Philippine diplomas. we react to the international racial slur but forget that discrimination itself exists among regions within the country? that's a bigger issue to deal with. how could we unite when we are in fact divided by islands and our respective subcultures?

i myself am a raw mix of different dialects: a tagalog mother who grew up in Nueva Ecija, an ilocano father from La Union, cebuano catholic masses every sunday and illonggo yayas when i grew up (plus not to mention a pseudo Francophone). literally, a jock of all trades, master of none. yes, i express myself well in written English, speak Filipino and Cebuano comfortably but never an expert in any of these.

as the angelic hymn on that First Friday mass wafted through my ears, i thought that here was a Tagalog song, the message clear and meaningful. in whatever language may be used. bakas ng Kanyang yakap... made me think that those lines was inspiring. but in tagalog i think it was most beautifully sung.

what is a zahir?

i guess you wouldn't so easily find the answer in a dictionary but if to stop you from clicking on that search button and reading on instead, i might as well tell you what it is. it is an object with the power to create an obsession.

and what is the zahir song? i crown bon jovi's "In these arms" as the ultimate zahir song. the lyrics are perfectly cantabile, moulded into one smooth flow and totally maxes out into a forte of passion, fiery emotions in the chorus. it just makes you want to scream out those words along with jon (bon jovi).

is the zahir good or bad? i don't want to launch into an essay of pros and cons but i guess it would be great to have passion for something. Meanwhile, it would be definitely be a different thing if you throw your life crazily away for such an obsession.

well anyway, i wouldn't want to end the story without having finally admit that, despite all my hip, cool and up-to-date song favorites, I am a huge fan of bon jovi. i know that you are too and don't deny the fact that you memorize at least one, complete chorus among his songs. "Shot through the heart and you're to blame. You give love a bad name." i could just imagine you trying to sing along to those lines, right? this song rocked the house when Blake Lewis sang to its beatbox version on American Idol's bon jovi night.

Blake Lewis on American Idol singing "You give love a bad name" (Click here)

where did this realization come from? after i read paulo coelho's "the zahir".

"you want commitment. take a look into these eyes. they burn with fire. until the end of time." -bon jovi, from "In these arms"

if i were asked the very same question that sushmita sen and charlene gonzales were asked during that miss universe evening more than a decade ago, "what is the essence of a woman?", i would have had a medically correct answer -- her ovaries.

i realized this just when I've had the largest fear for my life so far. both my ovaries have problems. my right ovary has endometrioma and my right ovary has fibroma. just before you  hit google to find out what these are, hope you finish reading thorugh this first. i'm having them operated on next month. i still don't have a schedule for operation but it sure scares me.

i've had thoughts about my little egg cells screaming "mommy" to me just before they get removed. morbid but there is no use dismissing all these thoughts. sometimes, i wish that i'd wake up one day and the 7cm bulge on the lower right of my abdomen would be gone miraculously. somewhat sad but having to go through this ordeal semi-alone makes me believe that only inner strength would keep me sane.

as i knelt down in the chapel in st. luke's medical center, i looked around me and wondered about what all the other people around me were praying for. it would not have mattered who needed the most mercy from God nor who had the worst case of all, they would have all wrought equally painful experiences.

but then, in pain we become more like Jesus. so might as well let it be. this is a test of faith and with it fear will subside.

what is a perfect smile? i know that everyone would always think of monalisa's smile but nowadays is that really what draws people to look at a person for so long trying to guess the complex thoughts running through a woman's mind? imagine miss universe contestants giving that half-baked, half-human stretching of their thin lips. everyone would think it would more likely be unsure emotions clouded with half-baked confidence.

but then again is it a smile which defines whether a gal's totally hot? i flip through celebrity magazines and here's what i found out. angelina has her pouting lips. jennifer lopez has her smoky eyes. toni gonzaga has her long legs and flowing hair. madonna has her semi-masculine physique or is it the tooth gap that does it?

i look at myself and think about a single asset that makes me sexy... <pondering...>... perhaps i could give that monalisa smile a shot. it's a tough decision but it's the cheapest way to go.