Counting sleep

The metabolic cost of a late-night bender could be steep. Clinical experiments conducted in the University of Colorado demonstrated that an average person could lose or save at least 135 calories for staying awake or sleeping eight hours at night.  Laboratory tests also showed that when wakefulness was extended to 24 hours, the energy expenditure further increased 7 percent. This loss, however, slowed down by about 5 percent during recovery episodes—which included 16 hours of wakefulness after an entire sleep-denied night, then eight hours of snooze.

In other words, the total displaced or stored amount of calories is equivalent to walking two miles, half an hour of shoveling or bike ride, a 12oz can of soda or a three-egg omelette.  Anyone who has been in the battle of the bulge would know the significance of 135 to 150 calories, and that sleeplessness could be an appealing slimming option.

Sleep deprivation, mind you, compromises your physiological and mental health and not the best method of shedding extra weight. Chronic sleep loss leads to impaired cognition and motor skills, and this fact, I am sure, does not require any further investigation. Some acquaintances of mine who often  render extra office hours tend to become forgetful of online passwords and keys, or on how to button blouses and shirts properly. Further, some are even apt to eat more during the day to compensate for lack of vigor.

The study, however, did not elucidate how sleeping can be non-fattening too. The researchers surmised that stored energy is diverted into other physiological functions.

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“I’ve reached my goal this early in the year,” remarked Brother Goy. One of the deepest dozers in the friary, he can switch on and off anytime his body surrenders to gravity. And he always gets seven hours.

“Good for us, brother,” said Nuckmunn, the friary’s watchman. "How’d you stop snoring?”

“Oh that?  No, no, no—I’m down from 250 pounds!”

“Okay...”

“The mat work and the new mantra worked!”

“I didn’t know you even had a mantra.” An intrigued Nuckmann whispered, “But it must be divine revelation- tell me, what is it?”


Goy stepped back and said emphatically, “I can 210!”

The guard frowned at him. “Say what?”

“I can two-ten!” said Goy.

“I can 210?”

“I can 210!”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

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Researchers have conjectured that the energy wastage could be much higher to those with sleep disorders. I think the study could serve as a baseline guide for those suffering insomnia and apnea, and allow them cautionary measures to offset the lethargic effects via catnaps or by rebooting the sleep cycle completely.

There are probably a hundred ways to go straight to dreamland. A $20 billion industry already addresses such need—from OTC and prescriptive drugs to mattresses and pillows, and from binaural recordings to sleep rental centers.

The friary does not have the best prescription to help anyone catch some Zs. What works for most of us is exceedingly idiosyncratic.  Brother Je, for instance, cannot snooze peacefully without a cutout polyester mosquito net wound around his feet.  Brother Juan can drop off anywhere but he fancies rooms that smell of books and old mattresses with deep body indentations.  Musty, smelly blankets lull Tio Jee to dreams.

Some guests of the monastery have shared their bedtime eccentricities too. One visiting old-timer is severely afraid of going to bed without a black cloth draped over his head. He says the fabric will hide him if Death passes by. Another rags-to-rich caller prefers beach towel than the most expensive blanket in the planet.

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Sue, a vegan, was once sent to a little island in the West Philippine Sea for some community development work.

“The days in the beach were swell,” she sighed, “but the nights were another thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“A lady staying alone in a room, no matter how safe and beautiful, is just dicey.”

“So how’d you sleep every night?”

“I always made sure I go around the neighborhood, called on good folks and bid them good night. I made them  feel I’m one of them so no harm would come to me.”

“That simple?"

“Of course, I have to say my prayers every night.”

“And you slept like a babe?”

“Oh well, a pistol and whip under the pillow aren’t much comfort, but you get used to them.”


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REFERENCE: Sleep mode: The energy cost of sleep deprivation, http://www.physorg.com/news/2011-01-mode-energy-deprivation.html

App for the New Age

Sifting through the cultural flotsam of the past year, the friary came across a novel software that could revitalize the nonreligious spiritual community.

Available for Android devices, the user-friendly program called Sky Map is being touted by New Agers as the latest tool to carry the Piscean Age to its crest and usher in the Aquarian era. The application developed by Google is a basic interactive starmap that lets users gaze at the heavenly bodies and flick through layers of constellations. It functions basically as a virtual galactic viewfinder by leveraging the device’s internal compass and accelerometer. Point the tablet up and see the stellar chart any time of the day, point down and peek right through Earth and glimpse what people on the opposite side of the globe are seeing.

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"It is a digital telescope,” said the Purest Joy. “Wherever you point the tablet at, the screen displays the corresponding star field.”

“Nifty,” I said, “But just what is this thing good for?”

“Open your mind, my child,” the master enthused. “Take the tablet and this package, meditate on them.

The Enlightened One handed me a moldy tome, smiled, and retired to the inner chamber. “Power to the people,” he bellowed inside the holy room.

I opened the book and muttered under my breath, “Linda Goodman’s Love Signs.”

-----

Visiting a few New Age stragglers in my neighborhood, I found out that Google’s Sky Map could be an empowering tool. The program allows users to construct portents of their own. 

According to a horoscope columnist, one has to simply click the widget, note the present locations of heavenly bodies and superimpose the findings with the astrological charts found all over the Internet. 

I accessed the application and was delighted to see the magnificence of the heavens laid out upon my hands. I searched for my zodiac sign and found several planets hovering near my constellation.  I started constructing my fate based on the notes given me.

According to my source, the celestial bodies are the sole dynamic components in astrology. They can liven up the zodiac signs by generating activity. This is because most astrologers believe that the planets are mirrors of basic organizing principles in the universe and that they reflect the ebb and flow of basic human impulses.  Others say that, similar with other corporeal objects, these massive cosmic matters exert their influence directly through gravitational or other Newtonian physical force.

Planet	Characteristic/areas	Duration
Sun	basic drive, self-identity, ego	1 year
Moon	emotions, longing, memory, maternal instincts	1 month
Mercury	curiosity, communication, transportation, education	1 year
Venus	affection, relationship skills, social values	1 year
Mars	aggression	2 years
Jupiter	luck, philosophy	12 years
Saturn	duty, responsibility, organizational skills	29 years
Uranus	contemplation, rebellion, individuality	84 years
Neptune	fantasy, dreams, visions	164 years
Pluto	catharsis, destiny, power	248 years

The table above shows what forces the planets bring and how long their influences last.  

Next is to match the zodiac and the planetary positions to the astrological houses. Finding the sequence of the houses, I was told, is easy. The next table lists them and the areas in your life that destiny is going to meddle with. Also, there are various websites that will do the calculations for free. Once they are set in order, the interpretation would be easy as ABC. One can go analog, loony or malicious—the stars wouldn't mind.

House	Areas
First (birth sign)	identity, self-projection, physical characteristics, temperament
Second	money, material assets, and attitude towards emotional/financial security
Third	communication, transportation; siblings, cousins and neighbors
Fourth	home, hearth, family, beginnings and endings
Fifth	creative self-expression, pleasures, risks, children, flings
Sixth	health, well-being, pets, daily routine
Seventh	love, marriage, business partnership, networking, alliances
Eighth	rebirth and regeneration, sex, insurance, taxes, death
Ninth	long-distance travel, higher education, new endeavors
Tenth	ambition, career, reputation and status
Eleventh	hopes, wishes, dreams
Twelfth	the psyche and spirituality, secrets, blind spots

One more thing, since the formulation of the astrological system is Earth-centric, some planets will seem to travel backward in the sky. This movement is called retrograde and its effect is a feeble suppression of spontaneous energies.

-----

“A what?” Brother Juan scratched his beard.

“A mercury retrograde is due in the next few days.”

“So?”

“It means don’t buy that new iPad?

“No. I mean, what’s the futility of your research?”

“To please the Purest Joy,” I whispered. “I ain’t even sure it’s accurate.”

“Oh brother, you’re way off again,” he said. “So what’s your reading today?”

“Nada, I still haven’t factored in the 13th sign.”

“Which one?”

“Ophuckus.”

Some apocalypse

One of life’s poignant tragedies is the dissolution of false memory, especially the kind that has innocuously lasted a lifetime.  

A few friends—not chronic confabulists like me—have been carrying exquisite and delightful fibs that sprouted from odd childhood experiences. Unlike those that evolved from traumatic events, my pals’ impaired recollections stemmed from juvenile adventures and raw imaginings. Theirs were neither urban or folkloric legends, nor fantastical errors due to gross deficiencies in fact-checking. They were not planted or indoctrinated during an era of misinformation, which was enabled by a military government and an escapist art scene.

----------------------------

“One way or another, all cities will go under water and sand,” said Tio Jee as he handed me another cerveza negra.

“The remote please.  I’ve lost count of how many times the words tragic and tsunami were mentioned.”

“No, you gotta watch this. How can you tell the complete story to your kid someday? “

“Their robonanny will do that or they can watch it in their e-textbooks.”

“Some wiseass must have said the same thing when the Cagsawa chapel was being buried by Mayon’s lava.”

“It was a church, it wasn’t buried. Please change the channel”

-----------------------------

We all indulge and coddle simulated reminiscences of events to a certain degree. Research tells us that our memories are fluid and changing over time. Recollection is usually prejudiced to circumstances of the past episode and the present moment. Further discussion with another person often leads to some distortion. Thus, bits are surely altered when filed back into the recesses of the brain. 

------------------------------

“Nope, not switching channel. Now, what do you mean not buried?

“The main church was flat-out destroyed,”  I answered.

“Hah, you are most definitely wrong.  Ask your Tio Ver, we went there when we were kids and I swear that that ground where the campanilla stands now is as hollow as--”

“No church. Change the channel.”

“We’ve seen passages going down. Go there, drop a sizable rock to the ground and listen to the echoes. I hope you hear the ghoulish voices of the whole unfortunate town.”

“No, half a town only. Change the channel.”

------------------------------

Many memory-challenged acquaintances of mine recall experiences that are utterly detached from their actual lives. Their tales are impressive that I always feel obliged to indulge in them and be glamoured.

Most of them are quite thankful to have their errors pointed out. A few incorrigible ones, however, undergo a mini-crisis and would come back with skewed poise.

------------------------------

“Oh my, why Japan? Why not China?”

“Sheesh, why not us… oh never mind.”

“Just look at that debris coming inland!”

“Alright… To have a belfry atop a baroque church like that required a technology unavailable in the colony then. Similar to that of Paoay and other baroque churches of the time, the bell tower was erected adjacent to the main church, not on top.  Around  the time of the eruption, new towns have been established nearby and many residents would have already relocated as Cagsawa suffered constantly from heavy water flows.”

I emptied my bottle and opened another one.

“Discovery or National Geographic?” said Tio Jee as he pointed the remote control to the TV.

“America's Next Top Model.”

The last bite

The last mouthful of a good meal is akin to a self-indulgent envoi of an epicure’s gustatory ballade.  Setting it up is similar to reining musical chords into a crescendo and closing them out a piacere. It is, pardon me, the last pop before the breakup.


Crucial in every repast, this culmination is a personal experience that is distinct from the satisfaction derived from the whole served fare. The act can actually intensify the overall quality of the food, while a non-occurrence could dampen the rest of one’s day.

The process, nonetheless, is merely an attempt to imprint residual flavors to the taste buds and the mind. Hit or miss, it remains essential and has frivolously become procedural.

 ------------------------------

“All these because of a tentacle of a grilled calamaro?”

“Mantle, not tentacle,”

“A mantecle?”

“Oh c’mon! You took the last slice and it’s part of my last bite.”

 Beat.

“Oh my gosh! Are you mad?”

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The last bite can be typically divided into four phases: the reveal, the jamboree, the drum roll, and the pledge or the deed itself. (The first step was probably called a reveille but my source insists it is not.)

The reveal begins during the windup of the meal or when the plate is half-empty. At this stage, the remaining contents are taken into account to approximate the size of the last spoonful and the balance of the possible combination of flavors. For instance, there should be just the right amount of sauce to cover the last slice of meat, or enough steamed rice or bread to absorb the extra zing of a complementing dish.

-----------------------------

“Could be half-full?”

“That glass conjecture doesn’t apply now.”

“Why not?”

“One, this is a not a case of perception.”

“It is! It may not be about determining optimism …”

“Two, when I reach three you won’t hear the rest of it”

“or pessimism. But in all intents and purposes……”

“Two and a half--”

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The jamboree and the drum roll follow after the survey of what will be ultimately consumed is completed.

All the pieces are readied for one dig during the jamboree. The food is carefully set on the side of the plate and is loaded onto the spoon.

The drum roll is when a moment is taken to compose the self to relish the experience.  

-----

“Too trivial. You’re crazy.”

“Everyone does this.”

“On every meal?”

"Some make the sign of the cross 'fore eating without actually imagining the crucifixion."

------------------------------

The dominant school of thought claims that the last bite should always be a good honest mouthful. Others contend it is one teaspoonful more.

------------------------------

“I wish I could take a picture of you now. That look on your face is priceless”

“It’s not funny. I’ve programmed my mind to that last bite!”

“Hahaha, oh you’re so easy. “

“Not funny.”

Beat.

“Here it is, pet. It’s still here on my plate.”

Another beat.

“Nah, you can have it.”

“Hmm, take it pet, you know I won't ruin it for you."

"Ok, thanks."

"I’ve just emptied your soda glass anyway.”

------------------------------

Finally, the pledge. 

Raison d'être

Walking home last night, she pointed to the sky and sang faintly, “The moon is like a boat, my love.”  She looked at me, giggled and held my hand tightly. I intoned softly what was left of the song. 

...

Of lemon peel afloat, my love

And with a sail of gauze, my love.

She seems to slightly pause

Upon her silent way,

All on her silent way.

I see her pearly decks, my love

Set in with twinkling specks, my love.

I see her pearly mast, my love

Far from her seashell past.

And gently does she sway

All on her starry way.

------

My urban existence has never been reminded with unreserved sadness until I heard Donovan's Voyage of the Moon once more. The song does not sound excruciatingly forlorn but somehow sends a feeling of abandonment, a sense of dislodgment. What was supposedly a utopian pining seems like a sore memory of a distant age.

“Oh the drama,” she says, “you are and forever will be a small-town boy.”

-----

I took out the garbage, stood in the sidewalk and regarded the roaring street hung for miles with fierce electric fire, which to Somerset were hostile and menacing. The city is not merely a concrete jungle but a human zoo, says Desmond. To Jean Jacques, an abyss.

There are worse places.

And miles of nicer ones.

-----

“Wash up.”

“Oh I’m fine. The trash was bagged well.”

“And suit up.”

“What for?”

“We’re goin’ out.”

-----

And there will come a time, my love,

O may it be in mine, my love,

When men will proudly rise, my love,

And board to sail the skies.

Moonships from all the spheres,

Moonships from all the spheres.

And on some distant sand, my love,

The ships will gently land, my love.

Fair folk will meet them there, my love,

With golden flowing hair

And great will be their joy,

And great will be their joy.

The moon is like a boat, my love,

Of lemon peel afloat, my love,

And with a sail of gauze, my love,

She seems to slightly pause.

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Hang in there.