Despondency in Milenyo's aftermath

I'm on the brink of despondency. I'm now at an Internet cafe somewhere in Greenbelt. I decided to log in again after growing tired of wandering aimlessly in the mall, which was preceded by an absent-minded ride at the MRT, which was preceded by an earlier Internet cafe visit at a different mall in Pasay City.

Two more days left and I will soon be commemorating one week since Typhoon Milenyo's ravage. Two more days left and I will soon be one week's worth of an urban wreck, having no respectable clothing and shelter, in danger of losing ability for food sustenance, unemployed full time. I should be relieved that I am excused from doing more work. But I'm not. Technically, I only earn a meager allowance by the day, for every day at work. So, no electricity, no office, no work, no money. Milenyo has removed so much of the functionalities at work and conveniences at home (which for me are two areas dissected by a street); Milenyo will soon wipe out my savings.

Just last week, the only thing in my mind was finishing writing a project proposal for the Asian Development Bank. I've been working long hours again: on day time, most administrative work and meetings with NGO partners, and at night, banging the keyboard for the ADB proposal. Wednesday night's work capped off with a cool breezy six a.m. logoff from the computer. “Brrr-months na talaga,” I even remarked as I luxuriously stretched in bed and fell asleep. But around 9 a.m., my phone rang, my hunny told me about how wild the storm seemed to be like... Storm? I remembered that over last night's dinner, Joel (one of our directors) and I were discussing that incoming storm. I looked at my window and saw an almost mesmerizing feverish Tahitian-like dance of trees and tree branches. I couldn't recall now everything that my hunny and I talked about.

The next few hours would be a whirl, which started with rex's sweat-and-rainwater wet look appearance and announcement that the office across the street has a problem with windowpanes wildly flapping and banging. That would be our office; time to bring in the cavalry. The battle to contain the windows – prevent their impending crashing disastrous endings – would become also a three-stage scientific experimental activity on different kinds of binding strings, precisely, which kind would be strongest and could prevent the fierce storm winds from successfully prying open and ripping windowpanes away.

Around 12 noontime, after the brief peaceful passing of the eye, the clouds changed directions and winds started to howl (literally); for the first time in my life, I witnessed it blowing hard downwards. At the living room window, I was watching the widening pendulum of a building's signage, knowing with wicked surety that it would soon fall and fly off. I grew drowsy from watching, so I went back to my room, took a quick shuteye... the rage and the howls soon tunneled out of my consciousness. And I would have wished to have kept myself asleep until all the nasty events of the aftermath passed. Meralco restoration became the indicator for restoring norms in the Metro – last Sunday, Meralco was around 80-plus percent finished, our neighborhood was in the minority 20-percent; last night, the talk was 97-percent, so now we're in the minority 3-percent? You cannot get luckier than that.

I think I'm passing through the stages of grief, not in discrete stages, but seemingly altogether, one or some varying in degree/s from the others. I knew I was in denial several days ago, every visual of disaster an abstract, interpreted as blanks in my mind. I've lately been angered at any and all I could relate to the typhoon, from the government, to neighbors, to nasty, long-dead, former friends' pets. Since yesterday, I've have started to feel the ugliness of desparation – I was even feeling a bit resigned (that very, very passive and obese cousin-cum-nemesis of indignation) when I lost a precious 500-peso bill in the dark outside. Thanks to a few bottles of beer last night, my mind was numbed from feeling any further. And this morning, itself being a bright, shiny proof that alcohol doesn't offer any sustaining solution to problems, my escalation to despondency continued. Right now, I feel I want to spend everything that I've left and start looking all greasy and smelly, begin prospecting for a likely, homely sidewalk. I wonder if I could sell myself as an idea – one big, fat beggar, who speaks English upon demand? And if anyone would be interested, I could write project proposals too for the ADB.