Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
The Long, Boring Monologue of Mod’s Dreams
When Sonny woke up, Jaime was gone. So was Rene.
In their place, taped to the wall above the study table, was a small sheet of bond paper with a message written in thick black marker:
THANKS A LOT, GUYS. —Jim
Sonny smiled, rolled onto his side, and hugged his pillow. The morning air was cool. The room, for once, was quiet—much quieter than the chaos of the night before. Still, something felt different.
The faint sour smell of Jaime’s vomit lingered in the air. The drawers that had been yanked open in last night’s commotion were now neatly closed. But it was the fourth bed that caught Sonny’s attention. Once empty, it now held a trunk, a bundle of clothes, pillows, blankets, and a cardboard box filled with novels—classic titles, their spines worn from use.
The fourth roommate had finally arrived.
Sonny felt a flicker of excitement. And a cautious hope.
Maybe this one would be better than the first two. Jaime and Rene were colorful, loud, volatile—too volatile. They carried tempers like loaded guns. Sonny had imagined college roommates who were serious, studious, perhaps even refined. So far, reality had disappointed him.
From the small kitchen area came the hard dragging sound of slippers across the cement floor.
The sound reminded him of Lola Sabel.
Back home, Lola Sabel rose before dawn every single day, determined to “beat” the sunrise. Her wooden clogs were worse than an alarm clock—sharp, loud, relentless. By five in the morning she would already be sweeping, tending the firewood stove, setting water to boil. Smoke would drift through the hut, forcing Sonny to wake up whether he wanted to or not.
She believed people must rise before the sun to receive God’s morning grace—even during typhoon season when the sky stayed dark and swollen. Dawn was her sacred hour. Her shrill voice would join the roosters’ crowing, pigs’ grunting, horses’ snorting, and Sonny’s reluctant groans.
With Lola Sabel, the world felt secure in its repetition—sunrise and sunset, birth and death. A beautiful monotony. The air would be cool and damp, carrying the scent of fishpond water and wet soil.
While the rice simmered, she would step outside with a rake and sweep the yard clean of plastic wrappers, fruit peels, dried mango and guava leaves from her sari-sari store. The pile would grow like a small hill. The yard, marked with neat rake lines, would look reborn—as if its sins had been gathered and cast aside. She would burn the pile in the corner. Neighbors would gather around the small bonfire, trading stories before the day began. By sunrise, her store would be open and the village alive.
“Good morning.”
The voice startled Sonny.
His new roommate stood at the doorway, grinning from ear to ear, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.
For a moment Sonny’s vision blurred with sleep. The young man seemed almost ghostlike, emerging from the kitchen light.
“I’m Mod,” he said.
Sonny gave a drowsy salute and buried his face in his pillow again.
If Sonny was an ordinary provincial boy, Mod was even more so. Rubber slippers. Shorts obviously cut from old trousers. Hair slicked with what looked suspiciously like pomade. The very fact that he had come to Maliwalu City—worse, to the State University—dressed like this made Sonny shiver.
If Sonny, with his bell-bottoms and barrio fashion, already felt out of place at State U, how much more would this boy?
Mod moved calmly, unhurried, as though he were simply passing through. Not nervous. Not excited. Just… present. He looked around the room with dreamy eyes, as if expecting to read invisible graffiti on the walls. And yet, he had clearly cleaned the entire lodging before dawn.
“What are you taking up?” Sonny asked, mostly out of courtesy.
“Literature,” Mod replied.
Sonny instantly regretted asking.
There are people who spend their whole lives waiting for one question. And when it finally comes, they unleash years of accumulated thought.
Mod exploded into speech.
He talked as if delivering a lecture at a symposium. Sonny lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, trapped by politeness. As Mod’s voice droned on, Sonny imagined animals startled into motion above him—snakes slithering, lions pacing, tigers prowling across the ceiling. You don’t startle animals. And you don’t ask certain boys simple questions.
Mod spoke of thoughts gathered like pebbles from brooks. Thoughts formed while riding water buffalo across rice fields. Thoughts carried from muddy barangay classrooms to the concrete towers of State U.
“I’ll write about our country,” Mod declared. “I’ll write stories that come from the heart of the Filipino. Our literature today sucks.”
Sonny’s jaw dropped.
“It’s full of romantic fantasies disconnected from reality. Our nation carries billions in debt, yet our fiction parades rich lovers vacationing in Europe. It insults me. Literature should reflect its time. I can’t write about the past or the future. I can only fix today—this hour, this minute—into words.”
Sonny blinked.
“My goal is to fix time,” Mod continued. “Because tomorrow, today is forgotten.”
He went on about relevance, realism, and truth. He attacked sentimental love stories, elite historical sagas, anti-American novels, obscure poetry. He jumped from literature to film, criticizing actors with foreign features who became instant stars, filmmakers who relied on plastic fantasies, writers obsessed with prestige degrees instead of readers.
Sonny was lost. Literature? Movies? Rizal’s intestines? Tandang Sora’s sex life? A boy making love to a buffalo? A grasshopper turning into Saint Francis of Assisi?
Mod’s ideas tumbled over one another.
“I want to write about ordinary dreams of ordinary people,” he said passionately. “The youth. The streets. The church. The jeepneys. The way we talk and fight and laugh. These are beautiful.”
He spoke of aging, of using his strong arms and sharp mind before they faded. Of refusing to grow old filled with regret.
“Every day I ask myself—did I do something good? Did I write something true? There must be something good in our time. If no one sees it, I will.”
He invoked Dostoevsky, Dickens, Balzac. He compared Maliwalu to Petersburg and London in their suffering. He spoke of poverty as furnace-fire shaping gold. Of hope in hardship. Of gratitude in suffering.
Sonny’s temples throbbed.
Mod’s voice filled the small room like an overinflated balloon.
Finally, Sonny couldn’t take it anymore. He clamped his hands over his ears and shouted,
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Silence.
Mod stopped mid-sentence. He stared at Sonny, wounded but composed, then quietly turned toward the door.
Sonny sat up, exasperated.
“I just asked what your major was,” he muttered. “Wow.”
He sighed deeply.
And just like that, the fourth roommate had arrived.
2026-02-16 13:32:25
4students
Jeremiah 29:4-7
4 This is what the Lord Almighty, the God of Israel, says to all those I carried into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: 5 “Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. 6 Marry and have sons and daughters; find wives for your sons and give your daughters in marriage, so that they too may have sons and daughters. Increase in number there; do not decrease. 7 Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.”
------
Ah, the many stories I want to tell.
Yesterday, I didn’t feel well mentally. I realized it was because I hadn’t been outside much. The Lord knows how much I need the outdoors. It steadies me. It clears my head. When I stay in too long, something in me feels confined.
I stepped outside a few times to check on my garden, this time without a mask, confident that those brief visits wouldn’t trigger anything. How little I understood this city—and this season. At first, I slept a lot. Then I ate my usual simple meals and went to bed early. When I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I felt that familiar discomfort on the left side of my face—the same sensation I’ve had before during allergy flare-ups. My first thought was to blame the window AC. But when I checked the city’s pollen levels, they had been extremely high for days—over 9 on the scale.
I turned off the AC for the rest of the night and felt better. I considered limiting myself indoors again, but that felt like shortchanging my health. My near-daily walks and active lifestyle are the very reasons I’ve remained relatively free of major disease and disability. To suddenly restrict myself out of fear felt unacceptable to my psyche.
So I used Flonase, put on a mask, and decided I would face the outdoors—but wisely. With heavy winds carrying pollen and mold, it seemed like a good day to test my limits. I chose the quieter park instead of the one by the water. Less traffic, easier parking, fewer people. I still feel a little self-conscious walking with a mask when no one else is wearing one, but I went anyway. I started around 9:30 a.m. and finished a little after 11. Long enough exposure, I thought. Now we wait and see.
Back home, I had half a protein drink, three slices of bread, and tea. I took my medications without even checking my blood sugar—I knew it would likely be elevated by that hour. I planned to shower, but my hair needed trimming, so I set up my clippers and took care of that first. Then I showered.
By afternoon I felt better—just sleepy. Some increased nasal drainage, which had started after the Flonase. I paid my mortgage online and did the meditation I had missed that morning.
I burned a lot of calories on that walk, so I allowed myself a few more carbs at lunch, especially since I had taken my diabetes medications. I had planned to read On the Road by Jack Kerouac, but my body had other plans. It was exhausted. I gave in and napped. When I woke up, I had mild sinus congestion and postnasal drip—probably the allergens in the air. At least now I have a reasonable excuse to stay indoors tomorrow and perhaps visit the gym for treadmill work and light weights. I’ve missed my weekly strength training lately because gardening has taken over—and gardening, in its own way, can stress the arms like weightlifting.
I posted my Sunday reel today, pairing it with religious music to reflect the value of walking alone with the Lord. There wasn’t much activity at John Prince Park—probably many people my age are also cautious during allergy season. I saw walkers, but not many playing games. It was peaceful. I wish I could do this daily without consequence, but my respiratory system has its limits. I must be content with what I can do. For many my age and with my condition, even this level of activity would be a lot.
As for the coming week, I’m setting gentle goals. I was tempted to post more online, but what’s the point when there’s hardly an audience? And truthfully, I prefer it that way. I want to focus on finishing On the Road within three days. I’ll work on my health blog and edit a few meditative pieces for my fiction site—read by only a handful, but that handful matters. I checked the site today and was surprised to see more countries accessing it, even a few engaging. The health website gets traffic but little interaction. That’s fine.
This morning, I completed a short poem. Yesterday, I finished a book review. In other words, I am more productive than I sometimes give myself credit for.
One lesson I am finally learning is to rest when my body asks for it. When fatigue comes—yawning, drifting, losing focus—I now see it as wisdom, not weakness. In the past, I fought it. I would drive somewhere, force activity, try to outrun the tiredness. Until last year, when my body broke down and I was fortunate it was only a minor illness. It could have been worse.
Now I pace myself. I rest when needed. I no longer feel compelled to post on social media as though my life must be performed for an audience. I am returning to a quieter measure of accomplishment—personal, authentic, unseen. If I share my walks, it is only to encourage movement, especially for people my age. Beyond that, there is no need to broadcast my life like a reality show.
Today’s Scripture felt especially close to home:
“Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce.”
That is exactly what I’ve been doing. I live in my modest home. I tend my garden. I’ve harvested okra before, and recently I thought I saw an eggplant beginning to form—even after I had nearly given up on those plants during the cooler months.
My tropical ornamentals are thriving: monsteras, philodendrons, colocasias, aglaonemas, pothos. I’ve had success with propagation—even after rodents destroyed some of my elephant ear bulbs and young angel wing plants. My dracaena cuttings are rooting. New trinettes and copperleaf cuttings are showing signs of life. Bougainvillea and hibiscus planters are maturing after surviving their cutting phase.
These are small victories, but they are deeply satisfying. Gardening gives me something to anticipate each day: a new leaf unfurling, a cutting taking root, a plant surviving another night. It is accomplishment without performance. The plants perform quietly—for me alone.
And that, perhaps, is enough.
2026-02-16 13:25:32
blog
Four Students 7
The Long, Boring Monologue of Mod’s Dreams
When Sonny woke up, Jaime was gone. So was Rene.
In their place, taped to the wall above the study table, was a small sheet of bond paper with a message written in thick black marker:
THANKS A LOT, GUYS. —Jim
Sonny smiled, rolled onto his side, and hugged his pillow. The morning air was cool. The room, for once, was quiet—much quieter than the chaos of the night before. Still, something felt different.
The faint sour smell of Jaime’s vomit lingered in the air. The drawers that had been yanked open in last night’s commotion were now neatly closed. But it was the fourth bed that caught Sonny’s attention. Once empty, it now held a trunk, a bundle of clothes, pillows, blankets, and a cardboard box filled with novels—classic titles, their spines worn from use.
The fourth roommate had finally arrived.
Sonny felt a flicker of excitement. And a cautious hope.
Maybe this one would be better than the first two. Jaime and Rene were colorful, loud, volatile—too volatile. They carried tempers like loaded guns. Sonny had imagined college roommates who were serious, studious, perhaps even refined. So far, reality had disappointed him.
From the small kitchen area came the hard dragging sound of slippers across the cement floor.
The sound reminded him of Lola Sabel.
Back home, Lola Sabel rose before dawn every single day, determined to “beat” the sunrise. Her wooden clogs were worse than an alarm clock—sharp, loud, relentless. By five in the morning she would already be sweeping, tending the firewood stove, setting water to boil. Smoke would drift through the hut, forcing Sonny to wake up whether he wanted to or not.
She believed people must rise before the sun to receive God’s morning grace—even during typhoon season when the sky stayed dark and swollen. Dawn was her sacred hour. Her shrill voice would join the roosters’ crowing, pigs’ grunting, horses’ snorting, and Sonny’s reluctant groans.
With Lola Sabel, the world felt secure in its repetition—sunrise and sunset, birth and death. A beautiful monotony. The air would be cool and damp, carrying the scent of fishpond water and wet soil.
While the rice simmered, she would step outside with a rake and sweep the yard clean of plastic wrappers, fruit peels, dried mango and guava leaves from her sari-sari store. The pile would grow like a small hill. The yard, marked with neat rake lines, would look reborn—as if its sins had been gathered and cast aside. She would burn the pile in the corner. Neighbors would gather around the small bonfire, trading stories before the day began. By sunrise, her store would be open and the village alive.
“Good morning.”
The voice startled Sonny.
His new roommate stood at the doorway, grinning from ear to ear, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.
For a moment Sonny’s vision blurred with sleep. The young man seemed almost ghostlike, emerging from the kitchen light.
“I’m Mod,” he said.
Sonny gave a drowsy salute and buried his face in his pillow again.
If Sonny was an ordinary provincial boy, Mod was even more so. Rubber slippers. Shorts obviously cut from old trousers. Hair slicked with what looked suspiciously like pomade. The very fact that he had come to Maliwalu City—worse, to the State University—dressed like this made Sonny shiver.
If Sonny, with his bell-bottoms and barrio fashion, already felt out of place at State U, how much more would this boy?
Mod moved calmly, unhurried, as though he were simply passing through. Not nervous. Not excited. Just… present. He looked around the room with dreamy eyes, as if expecting to read invisible graffiti on the walls. And yet, he had clearly cleaned the entire lodging before dawn.
“What are you taking up?” Sonny asked, mostly out of courtesy.
“Literature,” Mod replied.
Sonny instantly regretted asking.
There are people who spend their whole lives waiting for one question. And when it finally comes, they unleash years of accumulated thought.
Mod exploded into speech.
He talked as if delivering a lecture at a symposium. Sonny lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, trapped by politeness. As Mod’s voice droned on, Sonny imagined animals startled into motion above him—snakes slithering, lions pacing, tigers prowling across the ceiling. You don’t startle animals. And you don’t ask certain boys simple questions.
Mod spoke of thoughts gathered like pebbles from brooks. Thoughts formed while riding water buffalo across rice fields. Thoughts carried from muddy barangay classrooms to the concrete towers of State U.
“I’ll write about our country,” Mod declared. “I’ll write stories that come from the heart of the Filipino. Our literature today sucks.”
Sonny’s jaw dropped.
“It’s full of romantic fantasies disconnected from reality. Our nation carries billions in debt, yet our fiction parades rich lovers vacationing in Europe. It insults me. Literature should reflect its time. I can’t write about the past or the future. I can only fix today—this hour, this minute—into words.”
Sonny blinked.
“My goal is to fix time,” Mod continued. “Because tomorrow, today is forgotten.”
He went on about relevance, realism, and truth. He attacked sentimental love stories, elite historical sagas, anti-American novels, obscure poetry. He jumped from literature to film, criticizing actors with foreign features who became instant stars, filmmakers who relied on plastic fantasies, writers obsessed with prestige degrees instead of readers.
Sonny was lost. Literature? Movies? Rizal’s intestines? Tandang Sora’s sex life? A boy making love to a buffalo? A grasshopper turning into Saint Francis of Assisi?
Mod’s ideas tumbled over one another.
“I want to write about ordinary dreams of ordinary people,” he said passionately. “The youth. The streets. The church. The jeepneys. The way we talk and fight and laugh. These are beautiful.”
He spoke of aging, of using his strong arms and sharp mind before they faded. Of refusing to grow old filled with regret.
“Every day I ask myself—did I do something good? Did I write something true? There must be something good in our time. If no one sees it, I will.”
He invoked Dostoevsky, Dickens, Balzac. He compared Maliwalu to Petersburg and London in their suffering. He spoke of poverty as furnace-fire shaping gold. Of hope in hardship. Of gratitude in suffering.
Sonny’s temples throbbed.
Mod’s voice filled the small room like an overinflated balloon.
Finally, Sonny couldn’t take it anymore. He clamped his hands over his ears and shouted,
“SHUT THE HELL UP!”
Silence.
Mod stopped mid-sentence. He stared at Sonny, wounded but composed, then quietly turned toward the door.
Sonny sat up, exasperated.
“I just asked what your major was,” he muttered. “Wow.”
He sighed deeply.
And just like that, the fourth roommate had arrived.
2026-02-16 13:32:25
4students
Meditation and Gardening
Jeremiah 29:4-7
4 This is what the Lord Almighty, the God of Israel, says to all those I carried into exile from Jerusalem to Babylon: 5 “Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce. 6 Marry and have sons and daughters; find wives for your sons and give your daughters in marriage, so that they too may have sons and daughters. Increase in number there; do not decrease. 7 Also, seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile. Pray to the Lord for it, because if it prospers, you too will prosper.”
------
Ah, the many stories I want to tell.
Yesterday, I didn’t feel well mentally. I realized it was because I hadn’t been outside much. The Lord knows how much I need the outdoors. It steadies me. It clears my head. When I stay in too long, something in me feels confined.
I stepped outside a few times to check on my garden, this time without a mask, confident that those brief visits wouldn’t trigger anything. How little I understood this city—and this season. At first, I slept a lot. Then I ate my usual simple meals and went to bed early. When I woke up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, I felt that familiar discomfort on the left side of my face—the same sensation I’ve had before during allergy flare-ups. My first thought was to blame the window AC. But when I checked the city’s pollen levels, they had been extremely high for days—over 9 on the scale.
I turned off the AC for the rest of the night and felt better. I considered limiting myself indoors again, but that felt like shortchanging my health. My near-daily walks and active lifestyle are the very reasons I’ve remained relatively free of major disease and disability. To suddenly restrict myself out of fear felt unacceptable to my psyche.
So I used Flonase, put on a mask, and decided I would face the outdoors—but wisely. With heavy winds carrying pollen and mold, it seemed like a good day to test my limits. I chose the quieter park instead of the one by the water. Less traffic, easier parking, fewer people. I still feel a little self-conscious walking with a mask when no one else is wearing one, but I went anyway. I started around 9:30 a.m. and finished a little after 11. Long enough exposure, I thought. Now we wait and see.
Back home, I had half a protein drink, three slices of bread, and tea. I took my medications without even checking my blood sugar—I knew it would likely be elevated by that hour. I planned to shower, but my hair needed trimming, so I set up my clippers and took care of that first. Then I showered.
By afternoon I felt better—just sleepy. Some increased nasal drainage, which had started after the Flonase. I paid my mortgage online and did the meditation I had missed that morning.
I burned a lot of calories on that walk, so I allowed myself a few more carbs at lunch, especially since I had taken my diabetes medications. I had planned to read On the Road by Jack Kerouac, but my body had other plans. It was exhausted. I gave in and napped. When I woke up, I had mild sinus congestion and postnasal drip—probably the allergens in the air. At least now I have a reasonable excuse to stay indoors tomorrow and perhaps visit the gym for treadmill work and light weights. I’ve missed my weekly strength training lately because gardening has taken over—and gardening, in its own way, can stress the arms like weightlifting.
I posted my Sunday reel today, pairing it with religious music to reflect the value of walking alone with the Lord. There wasn’t much activity at John Prince Park—probably many people my age are also cautious during allergy season. I saw walkers, but not many playing games. It was peaceful. I wish I could do this daily without consequence, but my respiratory system has its limits. I must be content with what I can do. For many my age and with my condition, even this level of activity would be a lot.
As for the coming week, I’m setting gentle goals. I was tempted to post more online, but what’s the point when there’s hardly an audience? And truthfully, I prefer it that way. I want to focus on finishing On the Road within three days. I’ll work on my health blog and edit a few meditative pieces for my fiction site—read by only a handful, but that handful matters. I checked the site today and was surprised to see more countries accessing it, even a few engaging. The health website gets traffic but little interaction. That’s fine.
This morning, I completed a short poem. Yesterday, I finished a book review. In other words, I am more productive than I sometimes give myself credit for.
One lesson I am finally learning is to rest when my body asks for it. When fatigue comes—yawning, drifting, losing focus—I now see it as wisdom, not weakness. In the past, I fought it. I would drive somewhere, force activity, try to outrun the tiredness. Until last year, when my body broke down and I was fortunate it was only a minor illness. It could have been worse.
Now I pace myself. I rest when needed. I no longer feel compelled to post on social media as though my life must be performed for an audience. I am returning to a quieter measure of accomplishment—personal, authentic, unseen. If I share my walks, it is only to encourage movement, especially for people my age. Beyond that, there is no need to broadcast my life like a reality show.
Today’s Scripture felt especially close to home:
“Build houses and settle down; plant gardens and eat what they produce.”
That is exactly what I’ve been doing. I live in my modest home. I tend my garden. I’ve harvested okra before, and recently I thought I saw an eggplant beginning to form—even after I had nearly given up on those plants during the cooler months.
My tropical ornamentals are thriving: monsteras, philodendrons, colocasias, aglaonemas, pothos. I’ve had success with propagation—even after rodents destroyed some of my elephant ear bulbs and young angel wing plants. My dracaena cuttings are rooting. New trinettes and copperleaf cuttings are showing signs of life. Bougainvillea and hibiscus planters are maturing after surviving their cutting phase.
These are small victories, but they are deeply satisfying. Gardening gives me something to anticipate each day: a new leaf unfurling, a cutting taking root, a plant surviving another night. It is accomplishment without performance. The plants perform quietly—for me alone.
And that, perhaps, is enough.
2026-02-16 13:25:32
blog