Well, looks like it's about time for a free association Pearl, a somewhat rare event nowadays. Time constraints and mental overload preclude heavy-duty research, so reckon I'll just kick back and, with the help of Hank Williams, see what the pen yields in this first Pearl of ought-six. Haven't done much gonzo writing since HST decided 'twas better to exit stage left of his own volition than to let human mortality drag him down (maybe he had a point), so might as well let the neurons float with an imaginary Kerouac roll of toilet-typewriter paper recording whatever might transpire 'twixt Point A and Point B.

Anyway, here I sit, cross-legged under a tree on the grounds of a monastery in Tagaytay, the nearest out-of- Manila getaway, meditating in most informal fashion and cogitating about having survived eight years in the Philippines without having turned into a pillar of salt. Once in a while, we find ourselves down in these parts on weekend mornings after a particularly stressful week, with my wife doing the prayer requests and oblations and me doing the obligatory walking in the woods, it being a good thing for a country boy to once in a while escape the urban jungle and revisit his roots, the experience mediated by an eclectic digitalized playlist of old-time country gospel, bluegrass, and the Stones to ensure optimal internal resonance.

Speaking of flashbacks: Shortly after we married and moved to El Lay, I took my new Filipina wife back home to the hills of Brown County, Indiana (my point of origin). Not surprisingly given that she grew up in Makati and is a whole lot more comfortable in a 5-star hotel than in the boondocks, she was astounded by the sheer country-ness of the place - my God, there's so many bugs and-gasp-why are the roads all dirt? Although she speaks good English (not to mention Tagalog, Ilongo, and Espanol, languages that are randomly intermingled in our halo-halo, multicultural household, a phenomenon that sometimes irritates, sometimes amuses, always confuses, and occasionally makes me appreciate that ignorance is bliss after all), she found it difficult to understand me and my late brother Paul's rambling conversations given the strange allusions and his hillbilly accent.

That Southern accent is quite common in the hills of home, reflecting the influence of the migrants from Kentucky and Tennessee who settled the area a century and more ago (see Occidental Lamentations, Oriental Rumination and Finnish Saunas, Scotch-Irish Roots, and Moonshine Whiskey). Indeed, even though my own idiosyncratic middle-age reality is firmly embedded in the soil of post-modern angst and rampant globalization, I still occasionally experience, at the oddest moments, childhood trace memories of skipping flat rocks across a the mirror-smooth surface of a lake in the woods, hunting mushrooms on crisp spring mornings, and climbing happily up trees that had no business being climbed.

Upon returning to civilization, she drew a somewhat apt parallel between Brown County and Manapla, the northernmost port in Negros Occidental, site of her family's sugar farm, and her reference point for ultimate Hicksville. I noted in defense that Brown County has more hills, fall foliage don't exist in the tropics, and there ain't no NPA in Indiana (although there are a few white supremacist zealots hiding out in the hills).

Towards the back of the monastery grounds lies a seemingly incongruous piece of Hoosier heaven, namely a basketball court with more or less level cement court. Although not exactly Chickie Baby's 94 by 50 foot hunk of wood, it is at least a 65 by 50 foot hunk of concrete, the set-up featuring bent rims, faded paint, and chain nets (holy Chuck Taylor flashback, nothing beats the melodious tinkle of a 20-foot jumper rippling the chains on a cool fall afternoon in a small Hoosier town some 40 years ago…). The court is not available for recreational hoop, instead being reserved for the monks who converge there every afternoon for a quick run. Holy Pinoy monk hoop dreams! (see Pinoy Hoop Dreams).

On a (perhaps) more serious note, I should note for new readers and remind regulars that, for reasons explained elsewhere, I have just about given up commentating on the Philippine political circus, However, one can't help but be discouraged about future prospects, what with the fiscal crisis (administration spin to the contrary notwithstanding), permanent domination of the political process by landed elites/vested interests (chit-chat about cha-cha to the contrary notwithstanding), ongoing fighting in Mindanao (peace talks to the contrary notwithstanding), a global diaspora of dollar mommies whose remittances account for about 10% of GDP (while their families disintegrate), and persistent political instability as the opposition does its best to oust GMA while ignoring the significant needs of the country (especially the masa…). The rich get rich while the poor get poorer.

Speaking of multicultural juxtapositions, I was headed home from Quezon City the other afternoon, hunkered down in the backseat under 'phones listening to Hank Williams singing Jambalaya in a zone of my own while stuck in the usual near-gridlock. To my initial irritation, my daydreaming was rudely interrupted by loud street sounds, the bulk of it emanating from a small but revved-up electric amp powered by a rusted auto battery sitting on the sidewalk beside a blind street singer with a small keyboard on his lap. He was enthusiastically performing - believe it or nuts - Jambalaya in a not-bad imitation of an American hick accent (Thibodaux, Fontaineaux the place is buzzin', fill dat fruit jar and gimme some of that crawfish pie), a donation box by his side. Not the weirdest thing that ever happened to me (that would be the time those aliens took me for a joyride in their saucer), but certainly a certifiable Rod Serling moment.

A few meters further on, while still listening to the blind singer ("dress in style, go hog wild, me oh my oh, Son of a gun, we'll have big fun on the bayou"), I watched the existential street scene unfold: a number of street kids picking kuto (lice) out of each other's hair; a very dirty and very pregnant women with two young children clinging to her, as yet unconscious of what life almost certainly holds in store for them a few years down the road; and a scrawny little boy with distended belly scurrying across the street, eating a Jollibee Yum burger, the Philippines being about the only developing country on the planet where the locals beat Mickey D's for fast food market share with a cloyingly sweet burger that pleases the Pinoy palate. (See The Social Volcano for some earlier commentary).

So there you have it, an off-the-cuff Pearl involving free-form rumination that hopefully shows that I didn't just fall off the turnip truck and that probably proves that I remain, indeed, dazed and confused after all these years. But then again, nobody ever said utter clarity was hanging like a ripe mango for the eager hands and mouths waiting below…