Goodfellas

My good friend Armando is the genuine article. I met him on my first day of law school. I didn't know nobody else and I'm not the character who'd start talking to strangers in a strange place the minute I got there. When I started law school, I didn't intend to have new friends or in the coloquial, barkada--I already have a whole bunch of them stashed away. I was hell bent on going to school, studying my ass off, and then going home so that in a few years, I'd be a kick-ass lawyer. Along with this tall, dark guy, whose exact facial features or surname I can't recall at this moment (though I remember his first name and alma mater; Mike and UPLB, respectively), Mandy started talking to me and even though I can't fucking remember the contents of that conversation, or determine if the same was significant or not, that was the beginning of our friendship. Frankly, I have never met someone like Mandy before. He made his bones when I was six (6) years old. He sent himself to high school while working as a greasy gasoline boy at the same time sharing in the support of his family. While baking donuts for donut giant DD, he clawed his way to college. While working for a lawyer as a para-legal cum legal researcher cum Doctor (ng affidavits, etc.) he propulsed himself into law school. Now he's finally on his fourth (4th) year and I know for sure that soon he'll be more of a lawyer than many of those I know who have already taken their own oaths. He could've been my batch-mate if he hadn't taken a LOA (leave of absense) during our first year because he had this health issue back then. What more can you ask, he's already geezer. Hell, he's a college batch-mate of Atty. Espina, out professor of Constitutional Law I. A few years more and he'll be eligible for a discount card in buses, movie houses and drug stores. Nevertheless, the Armando I know won't stoop down to such travesty. He won't ever apply for a senior citizen card, and neither will I--if I live that long. Mandy's bible is The Godfather by Mario Puzo and his National Hero is Nardong Putik. I think he's one of the few who'd actually agree with me if I say "those who eat shit eat shit because they like to eat shit." He's one of the best friends I've made in law school if not the best, and I'll treasure his friendship until San Miguel stops selling beer, or even longer than that. I'm proud of this guy because he's living proof that free will exists. He continously wills himself to become a made man. He's on the way there, I think (and pray--though unlike me, Mandy doesn't believe in prayers, thinking it's foolish). He's alright, he's one of us, he's a good fella.

My good friend Renato is a saint. I've never met a man who's genuinely morally upright who'd want something to do with the likes of me. He's a straight shooter, much like how Chief Justice Puno or Ghandi is a straight shooter. He doesn't shoot the bull too much and he's really an intelligent man, after me, of course. Since he's my batch-mate and co-conspirator with our operation caochings during the exercise of law professors of what is called the Socratic Method, we've grown to be the closest of friends during law school. So close, that some people (those who don't know us too well, and those who are stupid as jars of clay) mistake one for the other. Ato has always been the one who stopped me (or at least tried to) whenever I decided to translate a stupid plan or idea of mine into actuality. And I'm the one who reminded him constantly to be careful with all the girls he flirts with in law school as he and his ex-girlfriend (who's now his wife) Joji were already soon to be married back then. We were partners both in crime and in acquittal. In fact, we already formed our law firm (JALO = Jorge and Ato Law Office "Mura na, Sure win pa") while we were in law school, me and him as partners, and the class valedictorian, Atty. Mary Ann Reyes, as our secretary. LOL. He and I had lots of fun in law school, as much as one could have there, anyway. Seriously, if I'd really have a partner in a law firm someday, he's still number one on my list. Though I seriously doubt if he has the cojones to do the things that have to be done whatever the cost, it's all gonna be fine because he's a person who lived his life so he wouldn't have to sully his hands with blood and dirt. I see him as someone who'd be right there with me when the family finally disappears into the legal fabric of society on the forthcoming retreat to civility. He's alright, he's one of us, he's a good fella.

Ato and Mandy are two very different animals, but they too are friends and I am just a person who's glad to have known them as a friend. After all, friendship is more valuable than most of the things in this world.

Then there's my cousin Carlo Noel, who's more like a brother to us (Me, David, and Marco) than a cousin. He's the second son of the Godfather, Don Marcelino. He's growing up to be a true Qualificato (qualified man). That tells it all though. For the family is the only thing more important than friendship. He's alright, he's one of us, he's a good fella.

A horse-coach's tale

A poor kid I know (from a family who was poor ever since the beginning of time) in my hometown was thrown in jail yesterday. He's 20 years young. He's about the same age as my youngest brother Marco, who in a few years time will become a Doctor. A DVM (Doctor of Veterinary Medicine), but a Doctor nonetheless. Anyway, this kid, whose real name I can't remember or do not know at all, goes by the name of Jomar (probably Jose Mari, but I could be wrong). He's one of those kids who saw too many Robin Padilla movies as a young boy. And like all jerk-offs who thinks he's a "Bad Boy," he ends up being a loser, like 75% of all Filipinos think what they are, if you have seen the results of the latest Pulse Asia survey.

Apparently, Jomar together with another young thug @ Brando, beat the shit out of two other kids in broad daylight in front of the Public Market the other day. According to some kids I have talked to this afternoon, Jomar started the hit with a solid asero (alloy knuckles) punch to the face which cracked the face of his opponent. After that first hit, he and @ Brando pummeled and mauled the two other kids until their faces were as plump as tomatoes and their cheeks as fat and red like siopao with hotsauce poured all over. Unlike @ Brando who fled the scene almost instantaneously after the skirmish, Jomar went on to tambay and chit-chat with some other local kids, perhaps to convey the story of his great victory. Sure as hell, he was picked-up by the cops. By the time you read this, and in the words of a PAO (Public Attorney's Office) lawyer I know, "he's still languishing in jail." That's all detention and convicted prisoners do: languish in jail. Funny word, really--languish. I'm guessing its etymology would reveal that such is the by-product of the combination of the two words "long" and "anguish." "Long anguish" has been shortened to become "languish". Truth is, however, languishing may have stemmed from "laughing" and "fishing" for all I know. Who knows these things?

I have only known Jomar when he was a young kid. Since I have studied for most of my life in Manila, I only saw this "mini-goon" during the summers. I have always thought he was an asshole; the type that wouldn't easily obey my commands whenever I gave one. He always kept the change whenever I ask him to buy something for me. At times, when he sees me, he turns away in order to evade the chore he would have to perform for me. He did not refuse me straight out, as no kid in our neighborhood could have outwardly refused to obey me or my brother David, like no man in our shitty little backward town can openly refuse my father or my uncles. As early as then, I realized that I would have very little use of him in the future if he ever grows up.

Last year (or maybe early this year I can't really remember for sure), my mama took pity on the damned kid and asked my father if he can give him a job of sorts, so that Jomar could help out his family even a little bit. Jomar was hired to be a peon in the LPG (Liquefied Petroleum Gas) refilling plant. After two weeks or so, Jomar gave Papa a head-ache. Why? Because Jomar is an asshole. My father can not and does not tolerate assholes, especially in the business. Pa gave the order and Jomar packed his bags and went back home to return to being a small time hood. He might have stayed there at least a little bit longer notwithstanding the fact that he is lazy as a turtle (my apologies to turtles and all other amphibians who might take offense with my statement), but the darn kid even made an enemy of one of Pa's own crew. Pa told me that kid wanted to die so quick, but he wouldn't have it under his watch. There are just some folks who anybody can't make a decent man out of. He is what he is.

Jomar is not in jail now because he cracked that kid's face wide open; nor because unlike his friend @ Brando, he did not go underground a little bit after the hit so the cops wouldn't find him as easily as they did; and neither is he still in jail because the justice system is really tough. Jomar is in jail right now because he's poor and stupid. One cannot afford to be stupid when he's poor. And one cannot suffer to be poor when he's stupid. Being poor and stupid is a lethal mix.

Jomar went to jail because he did the hit against the wrong guys, at the wrong place at the wrong time. That's because he's stupid. If he weren't, he could have known that his "victims" are the nephews of a policeman, while his father is a mere tree-trimmer and ocassional "if-in-the-mood" fisherman; he wouldn't have made the hit in front of the public market, where everyone there saw them; and he wouldn't have scheduled the hit in broad day-light when everyone who saw the melee could easily make them out in a line-up. Jomar is still in jail because he is poor as a rat (this time, my apologies go to the rodent class). His family couldn't afford to even post bail, much more pay that the family of the "victims" what they are asking for. I heard that the sum is in the tune of 80 G's. I know a few guys who pay that much in a night in a posh QC night club, but even if Jomar's father walked the entire length of EDSA using his hands with his feet up in the air, and his mother turn to a whore in a cheap local brothel, they couldn't raise that money. You won't find more than 25C coins in the streets and they don't accept broads whose belly-buttons and nipples are of the same height and level even in the cheapest of all casas.

Being young, and therefore sometimes illogically merciful to the fates of others, I related all of this to my father. He said "Let him be." Without any other word, I understood completely. Jomar wouldn't have any use for us whatsoever as I have feared. His only talent is contained in his fists, and that, we have more than enough of. Que sera sera.

What is the lesson to be learned from all of this? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Plasticity

One of my favorite websites provide: "Plasticity generally means ability to permanently change or deform. (It differs from 'elasticity', which refers to ability to change temporarily and revert back to original form.)"

The ability to permanently change or deform. Permanent meaning "lasting for an indefinitely long time", or in the extreme sense, it may mean "without end, eternal". Change. Deform. IMHO, these words don't sound too good. While "change" is a neutral word, "deform" on the other hand is definitely a negative one. Deform may imply a change of shape through stress, injury, or some accident of growth. As a verb, "deform" means "to spoil in the form of; or, to become mishapen; or to be misfigured.

In view of all the foregoing, it is not incorrect for me to say that "Plasticity" may be defined as the ability to spoil, to become mishapen or misfigured for a lasting or indefinite period of time which may encomapss eternity.

Now I have a word for that pehonomenon which occurs to almost all (if not all) people who enter into Philippine Government Service.

After I finally became a lawyer (or in other words "a priveleged member of the distinct and noble legal profession") a lot of people were somewhat surprised why I chose to serve in the Judiciary as a Branch Clerk of Court. I always answer, "Serbisyo Publiko po muna in my first few years as a lawyer, as a way of giving back to society." or "Gusto ko lang pong tumulong sa administrasyon ng hustisya sa mga unang taon ko bilang abogado." I knew in my heart that although my answers were honest, they were incomplete. The truth of the matter is that I opted for a job in the judiciary also because I want to practice law (in the traditional sense) in the near future. And what better place to learn to swin than in the shark-filled ocean? Nevertheless, not a few people who receive such answers from me do not take such replies seriously (even though I say them out loud in a straight face that could make a world series poker player cringe). These people either think I was only joking or perhaps, label me as another hypocrite who preaches a certain belief or way of life, but do not in fact hold these same virtues oneself. Still, a few others just think that I am ridiculously out of my mind and believe.

BTW, the Greek word "Hypokrisis" is applied to any sort of public performance, while its counterpart noun "Hypokrites" was a technical term for a stage actor and was not, therefore, considered an appropriate role for a public figure. In Athens in the 4th Century BC, for example, the great orator Demosthenes ridiculed his rival Aeschines, who had been a successful actor before taking up politics, as a hypokrites whose skill at impersonating characters on stage made him an untrustworthy politician. This negative view of the hypokrites, perhaps combined with the Roman disdain for actors, later shaded into the originally neutral hypokrisis. It is this later sense of hypokrisis as "play-acting," i.e. the assumption of a counterfeit persona, that gives the modern word hypocrisy its negative connotation.

Anyway, I do not consider myself to be a hypocrite. I am just a someone who wills himself to become a man who earns his daily bread with dignity and respect, and someday make the retreat and disappear into the legal fabric of society as one of the pillars of the family. I entered in the service of the judiciary not to start a revolution of sorts. I am not here to drastically alter the state of things. I am not here to weed out the corrupt, to stop the graft, or even prevent it. There would be too much unneccessary risks on my part. And those who know me well know that I do not like unneccessary risks. I have chosen to work for the government to learn, earn, and at the same time fulfill my duties the best way I can in the service of my country whose soil I cannot leave out of pride and love. I'd rather be issuing subpoenas and signing warrants of arrests all day than taking care of old geezers in London or in the States or walking strange dogs owned by strange people in NYC. Five (5) years shall pass and hopefully by then I have done my share of duty towards the country and start making some real money to wet the beaks of my family. Then perhaps, I could finally afford a cozy little house and real car like a Mercedes and a personal driver cum bodyguard that comes along with the purchase.

Plasticity sets in at different times depending on the branch of Philippine Government where it occurs. Sadly, it is wide-spread in all branches and in all agencies. In the BIR, Customs, and the DPWH, I have heard that the same sets in in a matter of minutes. In the legislature, a few months, and in the Judiciary, a few years. Hopefully, I can get out before I catch it too bad. I just need to stay focused and try to keep my eyes on the goal. I'm way too near the basket to miss.

One way to get home

Since the price of gasoline has been continually skyrocketing at a dizzying, if not mindblowing pace, many motorists-who, like me cannot be considred rich by all acceptable social standards (not yet, anyway)-have devolved into being work-week pedestrians. Yesterday marked my first jeepney ride home from work. Since there are no FXs plowing the route towards my parents' house, the worsening economy have done the impossible. It turned back time and made me a 15 year-old kid again commuting his way home from high school. I always wanted to be a teen-ager again but I guess there is an ounce of truth to the cliche, "be careful of what you wish for..."

Like most Filipino males who ride jeepneys, I opted to acquire a seat in the front, riding shotgun with the driver. Luckily, I got to the front seat first before anybody else could squeeze in. When I got inside the king-of-the-road PUJ, I instantly noticed that the cabin was more cramped than I had expected and imagined. Perhaps, over the years I have gained too much weight for my own good. To be sure, even a ninety pound (90 lbs) old lady wouldn't fit beside me and the driver in that particular PUJ cockpit. Apparently, the seat was cannibalized from an old, early 90's Toyota Crown or Corona--if I'm not mistaken. Meaning, even if the seat is initially designed to accomodate one (1) passenger, it is now living its second life constantly seating two (2) commuting passengers at a time. Further, there was too much clutter around the cabin: a toolbox, a water jug filled with what seemed like diesel fuel, a pair of old pliers, etc., etc..

I decided that I would rather sit alone in the front with the driver and pay for what is the equivalent of another passenger's fare than pay only for myself and get squeezed into extreme discomfort all the way home to my parents'. I asked for how much is the fare and with no sruprise on my part, it was almost three (3) times more than what I used to pay when I was a thin, rocker-wannabe school kid from UST High. I paid twice that amount and told the driver not to let anybody else sit beside me para hindi masikip. I wouldn't mind at all if someone who resembles Ara Mina or Angelica Panganiban would sit beside me, but in all probability, it could be someone closer to the looks of Max Alvarado or Tommy Abuel at the least. Hell, if an Ara or Angelica attempted to sit there, maybe I'd even let her sit on my lap. On second thought, maybe not. My lovely and loving wife might just kill me faster than GMA's government would eventually kill us all if I did such an immoral and distasteful thing.

In our profession, we are required to dress up every single God-given day as if we are getting shot by a TV or Movie camera. Lawyers must be at all times dressed to kill. At least, those of us who give a damn about proper decorum anyway. So its either a barong or a suit. No other kind of professional except a lawyer would be crazy or pompous enough to wear a tailored suit in this tropical weather. I have been taught in my law school days that wearing the same is an acquired taste, just like the taste for beer. Personally, I enjoy wearing barongs and tailored suits. I had five (5) barongs made at a time by "Exclusively His Tailors" a few months back and a nice charcoal black Brooks Brothers replica of a suit also made by the same tailor. On the questioned date with the jeepney ride however, I was just wearing an embroidered but comfortable yellowish "Onesimus" polo barong together with RTW pinstripe slacks that my wife bought at the local SM mall just a few days back.

Among the lessons in life that I have learned is this: Filipinos judge people they don't know by the way they dress, by the car they drive, by the watch they wear, etc., etc.. There is no distinction. The same is true whether rich or poor. In my mind, I saw that manong driver thought I was not the daily passenger type. Seldom must he have a passenger wearing formal leather boots and pinstripe pants. Conceited as this observation of mine may be, but this is a hard fact of life. During the course of our approximately half-hour journey, we stopped at a gas station. My earlier guess about the water jug was correct. It contained diesel fuel. Apparently, manong customized his beloved jeepney to employ this jug as a makeshift fuel tank instead of the proper one. At this point, I made my sort of a mistake. "Sort of" because I'm not really sure if it indeed was a mistake: I started talking with manong driver.

Evidently, I sensed that he talked to me with an air of respect, in contrast to the rude way he treated some of the passengers. Whenever a student passenger would say "bayad po, isa lang," he would ask, "ano 'to estudyante?" And whenever the student answers "opo," he would retort "dapat kasi sasabihin n'yo kaagad hindi 'yung ginagawa n'yo akong manghuhula!" Also, each time when an old geezer pays, manong would ask "senior ho ba?" After the old folk answers in the affirmative, manong would murmur loud enough to be audible something to the effect of "ayaw kasing sabihin, gusto talaga pahirapan pa ako'ng mag-tanong..."

The Rainmaker (TRM for brevity): 'nong, bakit n'yo diyan kinakarga ang diesel? I was referring to the water jug cum fuel tank.

Manong: Eh kasi ho eh masyadong malaki yung tangke ng krudo nitong jeep, yada, yada, yada. I was not really paying attention but only pretending to be. I remembered that I forgot my paperback copy of Mario Puzo's "The Last Don" at the office.

TRM: Mas ok yan, kitang-kita nyo kung paubos na ang krudo nyo, at at the same time, ma-cocompute n'yo pa konsumo n'yo. Kaya lang, hindi ba delikado 'yan? At that moment, I remembered that when I was a kid, I tried to light a small automotive oil canister filled with diesel fuel with a lighted match but unlike gasoline, diesel doesn't light-up so easy. I figured I'd be safe and I better stop talking to manong. So, I shut my pie-hole.

Unfortunately, it was too late. The series of subsequent events could best be described as similar to the tale of Pandora's Box. Manong did not shut up as I did. In fact, he must've seen an opening--an opportunity to have someone to talk to from a different envronment. Sad but true, I got treated to what me and my freinds call a Nobela ng Talambuhay. Honestly, I didn't really care about what the poor schmuck was saying, but I could truthfully say that I was listening and enjoying the conversation for solely entertainment purposes. Sometimes, when the circumstances and the conditions are right, shooting some bull with a jeepney, taxi, or tricycle driver could be more entertaining than watching a movie. Surely, talking with manong was far more entertaining than all the movies featured on the VIVA movie channel on cable.

Real life is much more fun and exciting than the run-off-the mill, illogical and over-acted local movie flicks. Particularly so when manong talked about local gossip involving local politicians and personalities whom I know on a personal basis or at least those who I have heard of through other sources in the past. John Grisham said, "Lawyers thrive on Gossip." As testament to that remarkable statement, I can say with conviction that almost all lawyers are chismosos and chismosas. Nevertheless, they are of a different breed of chismosos and chismosas than that of those who dwell on the barberias and palangkes. Chismis, or in another word--gossip is a source of information. To the untrained, it has more harmful effects than good, if any at all. But to those versed with the practical working knowledge of Relevance and Materiality, much valuable information could be strainered even from the most outrageous and unbelievable hearsay story.

When it was finally my turn to alight the PUV, I said "salamat, manong" and he answered, "thank you po, sir." Know that I haven't verbally revealed anything about myself and what I do for a living. I just listened to him (or at least tried to listen and at some points, pretended to) while he blaberred on what is the meaning of life. Manong is a regular Ted Failon, who always have an opinion of everything. He's an experienced expert on Saudi Arabia's culture, having worked there for a decade. He's afraid that when his daughter grows up to be sixteen (16), the latter might want to go and work in Japan. And like most Filipinos who are naghihikahos sa kahirapan ng buhay, he's the government's number one (No.1) critic.

"A man could live his life as a slave to earn his daily bread without dignity or hope, or he could will himself to be a man who commanded respect."
-Don Domenico Clericuzio, Mario Puzo's "The Last Don"

The Gospel according to the Rainmaker

Jesus told His disciples a parable of a Sower who went out to scatter seeds in his field

Afterwards Jesus told another story to the people. This time he said: "The kingdom of heaven is like a man who sowed good seeds in his field; but while men slept an enemy came to the field and scattered bad seeds everywhere. These bad seeds are called tares. By and by the good seeds and the bad seeds both began to grow.

And after they became stalks, and heads of grain appeared, the servants of the man came to him and asked, 'Did you not sow good seeds in your field? How then are these tares growing everywhere beside the stalks of wheat?' The man answered, 'An enemy has sown the tares.' Then the servants asked, 'Shall we gather out the tares?' but the master said, 'Wait until the time for harvest, lest while you pull up the tares you also pull up stalks of wheat. When all are ripened together, I will send reapers to first gather out the tares and tie them into bundles to be thrown into the fire. Then they will gather the wheat and put it into my barn.'" When Jesus finished all his stories he sent the people away, and afterwards he left the boat and also returned to the city. Then the disciples asked him to explain the meaning of the story about the tares. Jesus said: "The good seed are the people of God; the field is the world; and the man who sowed the good seed is the Son of man. The bad seed, or tares, are the people of the wicked one, and the enemy is Satan.

The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels. Just as the tares are gathered in bundles and thrown into the fire, so the wicked people will be separated from the good people at the end of the world. Then the good people will shine as brightly as the sun in the kingdom of God, their Father."

(Matt. 13:1-53; Mark 4:1-34)
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I was born a Roman Catholic, raised in Catholic schools, and like those kids who read the Holy Bible daily when they were kids, I once dreamed of becoming a priest. No kidding. In this poor country, not unlike doctors and lawyers, priests are one of those who belong to a vocation which guarantees daily bread and freedom from starvation. And unlike doctors and lawyers, priests do not have to look for work or apply for a job. When a man becomes a priest, he does what a priest does: he officiates masses, administers sacraments, and count the donations of the faithful. The faithful never fails to provide the church of its daily bread. Banks may go bankrupt and governments may sink neck-deep in foreign debt but the church will never run out of money. There is only one catch: a priest may never know the many mysteries behind married life. Probably, there may be some hoodlums who disguise themselves in robes and secretly enjoy the best of both worlds under the cover of night and shadow of convents and nunneries, or even sick and perverse ones who prey upon innocent sacristans to satisfy their hunger for lust, but percentage-wise most priests, IMHO, are faithful to the custom of clergy celibacy and remain content with masturbation or in the alternative, perhaps some serious pillow-fucking.

Anyway, I have been invariably going to church again every Sunday, thanks to my wife, who wouldn't have things go any other way. Usually, we hear mass on the local SM mall, but this morning, due to a series of coincidental events that I rather not describe in detail in this post, she decided that we go to Chapel 1 inside the defunct Clark Air Base. The Bible passage above is the topic of the priest's homily. Common in parish priests are the giving of bland homilies. Unless they are bishops or one of those TV priests, parish priests give sermons that only the slow-witted or those not listening would not know its defects both in logic and in the interpretation of scripture. Also, when delivering their sermons in English, they have the tendency to utilize language cliches like "in the final analysis" (Was there a first one?), "firstly" (not following up with "secondly"), etc., etc.. This particular priest, after telling some stories which are boring enough to make an acute insomiac sleep on the pew, interpreted this Sunday's Gospel to the effect that he's saying that the good grain are the good guys and the weed are the bad guys. I cannot help but explain the ridiculous folly of that interpretation.

Let me try to go and tinker with this priest's interpretation of the 2nd parable of the sower. He said the good grain are the good people (perhaps the faithful of his church, but no innuendo was made by him, or none was needed in a crowd of similar faiths), and they are sown by God. He also concluded that the weeds are the bad guys, sown by the enemy who is the Devil under the cover of night. And, in the end time, the grain shall be separated from the weed and the weed shall be put to fire. Meaning, the good guys will be kept by the Lord and the bad guys shall burn in hell.

If this is the case, then we will all go to heaven. Aren't we all good from the very start of our lives? Does not the holy sacrament of Baptism purge the vile consequence of Adam and Eve's original sin? If we are sown by God as grain, we will not turn into weeds. A grain seed will never become a weed even if it grows amongst weeds. In the end of time, God's angels will reap us all and keep us in God's company away from the evil weed.

What are the weeds? This priest concluded that the weed are evil men who will burn at the day of judgment. If this was true, then he is saying that all men do not come from God's grace--that some men are spawn of the Devil. Further, these evil men, from the moment they were born, are destined to burn in the fires of hell and suffer eternal damnation. If he is correct, then are we God's grain living with those of the devil on this earth? Some people may actually spawn of the devil.

To me, the priest's interpretation of this gospel is pure bullshit. Why, because it contradicts the very foundation of my faith. I believe in God-given free will. In the words of Don Domenico Clericuzio, "You could will yourself as a slave to earn your daily bread without dignity or hope or you earned your bread as a man who commanded respect." No man is ever destined to become a good grain or become an evil weed. No man is ever destined to become a fisherman or a lawyer. He wills himself to become a fisherman, or he wills himself to become a lawyer. Man is not an animal who live only through instincts and reflexes. To those who are familiar with the study of Criminal Law, this is called the "classical school of thought," to those who have been educated by Dominican friars, this is similar to Aquinas' concept of free will, and to those who do not fancy such bullshit, this just means that "every man is responsible for the consequences of his actions." This is the only dogma that I believe in. This is the stuff my faith in God is made of. God is the owner of an aquarium we call the universe. We are but man, we do not and cannot know His nature, just like the fish we have in the tank who cannot know ours.

This is the meaning of Jesus' gospel for this Sunday: God was the sower of the grain. The grain are all men he put in this earth, for no man is a sinner the day he is born. The weed are all the evil in this world--temptations, hardships, and the attractiveness of sin. Since we are good grain seed, having been chosen to be given life by God himself, we have the capacity to live amongst the weed and survive until the day of the harvest. Meaning, we have been given free will, or the capacity to resist evil and avoid sin. Perhaps this is the reason why God forbade His angels to weed out his crops. Those who chose not to shall die before the harvest, and their useless remains shall be burned along with the weed.

"The world is what it is, and we are who we are."