...serial tragicomedy

I am one of the slaves in an international organization meatgrinder in the country and somehow that statement seems cold, callous and unpatriotic way of describing our beloved Motherland. So on the risk of sounding overly parochial, I’d say, I work here in our Motherland, the Philippines (and still that statement has an overly dramatic ring to my ear). I wish I lived in the days when Henry Ford’s workers are able to buy what they manufacture with their salaries. Forget that you have similar drab colored cars and always seem to be in a funeral convoy. At least he knew what fueled consumption behaviour. The glory of capitalism.

Fortunately for capitalists and anti-capitalists, we live in an age where the dividing line is similar to sotanghon – thin and translucent - where everything is interpreted on a level of metaphors and everything revolves around the meaning of meanings but oh, Wendt would object and say that ideas, institutions and material capacities would always determine who eventually determines meanings, and in the end, power. Meaning then becomes a non-issue– it becomes a given. My apologies to the constructivists. We no longer discuss metaphors, we bleed ourselves dry to interpret meanings - meaningless and colorless statements become subject of endless debates. And we’re not even on the same dimension. Going back to the context of a workplace, and on the risk offending the sensibilities of avid readers, I’d quit writing disjointed stories and get down to the gist of an ephemeral assault... maybe later?