Thursday, January 29, 2009

Remembering Fewer Things

I didn’t remember that I’ve been here for two weeks, lethargic it may seem.

I didn’t remember that I’ve taken the Bar almost six months ago.

I didn’t remember that I’ve lived in a room alone for six months starting April of last year with only thick books and litters of papers, photocopies, mixed-up post-its of different colour plastered on the wall near the reading table almost devouring the half space of the wall.

I didn’t remember the fascination of reading on the uppermost floor of the UP Law Library looking through transparent glass windows giving a view of blooming acacia trees and a looming thunderstorm far distant.

I didn’t remember how Eunika always remind me to hear mass at the dome-church after the review classes and early in the morning right after the break of dawn during Saturdays together with veiled matrons.

I didn’t remember that I had stomach cramps every eve of the Bar exam and how I have clung to Maalox for temporary relief.

I didn’t remember how a person intruded my life, my privacy, too bluntly, and how I liked the idea of exchanging vows rather than marriage.

I didn’t remember how the time ran after September of last year, how quick events took place and how near the results would be released.

I didn’t remember why I cried last night.

I didn’t remember why I had this stiff neck today.

I am trying to remember the good things in life that had happened and relishing the memories. Like bubbles they burst in an instant, have ephemeral life but lingering aftertaste. They jolt the eerie landscape and disfigure it for a better view.

I am trying to remember those days when I sit on the dike of the pond watching the sun set finding comfort in rages of red, the fading light, and the softness of the breeze, trying to think while ripples continue to disturb the water below how the little fishes living within will survive another day of heat in summer.

I am trying to remember how time and one’s life progressed and how they reconcile each other.

I am trying to remember how astonished my friend was when I showed her my own version of Scream by Edward Munch in oil pastel crayons.

I remember the two cans of putty from Lydia and how it relieved my stress.

I remember the dinner two nights ago, the tenderness of the steak and the great gravy.

I remember that I have a home to return to and dogs waiting for me.

I remember my plans before the tempest and the drive to bring it back to consciousness again.

I remember that only two days are left for this holiday and I am back to work again.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Thursday, 3:00 pm

Since I have no motivation to continue my work on the glass ceiling phenomenon (a research on the problem of women climbing up the corporate ladder and tracing such problem on the case of women who experienced such phenomenon and ended up becoming entrepreneurs) , alone in the room with nothing to do in mind, I just have to talk to you. Yes, you.

You know, I don’t feel like as in okay today. I feel so very unproductive lying on bed almost all day punctuated only by the call of nature, the call of my stomach, and other calls of what have you. Of course, I don’t spend all day lying only because that would be transgressing the desires of the mind. So from time to time my friend and I watch DVDs of all sorts. The one that made me broke into thunderous laughter is Marley and Me. And who’s not, the Labrador is just so adorable his masters just can’t throw him away with all the wreck that he is causing the family. It made me so envious. The dog brought prosperity out of all the shards he left each day of his existence. He brought materials for the writer to pen in his column, a bond to keep the love in the family, and a lot of guffaws and licking that warm the heart. Marley’s a horrific mad dog minus rabidity. Perfect.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button may be some kind of a lullaby that keeps on weighing down your eyelids forever. But it has definitely a unique story: a man who’s born to grow backwards, literally. The plot is quite worth the guess at the start. Okay, yes, your guess is as good as mine: two lovers . . .one’s growing backwards (counter-clockwise) the other growing, ah ,normally (clockwise). Of course, you might say like me that they would surely meet at one point in time where they both have the same age. They surely did, hah. The periods close or near that meeting point are cloud nine. But imagine a wife nursing his husband at old age. . .quite terrible. Terible. But of course if love really matters, faithful and forever. . .as Kenny Rankin has proposed. . .then that isn’t quite a problem except that the baby-husband should be bottle-fed now. Seriously, what I like about the film is its different take on the problem of time. . . love is blind, age doesn’t matter neither height, ah-ah. Benjamin might have changed his mind he wanted to become a Dracula instead than to look old, clueless. F. Scott Fitzgerald might have other reason why such portrayal. Better read.

Still with me? Just had cheesecake doughnut for snack. The fan’s spinning since last night because it’s hot as hell inside. The beach is a perfect getaway. We might dip ourselves tomorrow. A siren could be heard from here. A piano’s being played slowly. Then just the sound of the fan. . .A framed picture of two lovers in front of me. A soul who would like to be freed. . .Bye for now.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Living out of a Duffel Bag

A throbbing pain in the head, clammy feeling over my whole body, oily hair that shines until now because of the wax I put on yesterday, empty thoughts, load of writing engagements in the wait, hushed overtones of a bad day ahead. Had doughnuts and two bananas over milk as breakfast alone because my friend had just left me here in his flat. I wasn’t able to sleep last night because I watched the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America. Had to stay up until past three in the morning to watch the whole coverage of CNN of the event at Capitol Hill. My friend told me that he’s been there and said that the space underneath where the podium stands lies a fountain . “What’s the statue at the top of the dome?, “ he asked me. I said I have no idea. He said that it is Lady Freedom and that there is a policy in Washington that there will be no other structure that will be built in the state that will be higher than Lady Freedom. “But it seems that the Washington Monument is taller than it?,”I asked. He said that it is not. I don’t believe him (but I never told this so as not to embarrass him). I just have to google it. He was fascinated by the frozen pond and the people walking on it. It seemed (it actually is) that everybody’s freezing but the news feed just showed that the people we’re feeling like it was 17 degrees. With the hordes of people that must be because they produce body heat that could higher the temperature around the area. At least one million people have shown up to hear Obama at Capitol Hill. The world has watched him speak of global unity and a new era in US leadership. Obama’s rise to politics and his election as President will be an inspiration and a mark of a new dawn in history if he will be able to deliver his mission to win global cooperation in response to the pressing needs and problems of the global community only a leader as charismatic as him may be able to achieve.

As for me, hah, don’t feel well now. I have to eat my lunch and pack my things in a duffel bag, laundry (lot of it) caused by my days of stay here in southern Philippines. It’s been a blissful week that ended with, well, learning that every day is a growing battle, not fought, not won over neither lost, but a battle that stretches to infinity only I could imagine. A friend has a good idea of how our personality becomes a hero and anti-hero at the same time. She said that in the process of finding ourselves we become protagonist and sometimes antagonist clinching in a battle deep inside us. It is a painful process she says and then abruptly, “I hate you.” “For what?”, I asked. “I don’t want to read you, it keeps me nostalgic.” Cannot do anything about that.

By the way, to you who’s reading this, I will bitterly miss the aura of a French villa, the chirping of caged birds, and the quiet solitude of a flat which you told me to treat as my mi casa. Baguio, here I come.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


I am hundred miles away from home. I have come this far to pursue happiness. Never sure if I will really find it here but I am hoping that the journey to it would bring me back to my old self: the secured, content, and vigorous me. I don’t know if my foresight still works for me to plan things ahead. What I do know is limited to the time and space which surrounds my existence at the moment. I am too young they say to think about these things, to think about dark solstice and frozen nights. I myself can’t imagine why I have become the person that I am now; to reach this phase where life seems to weigh down on your being so much: a stomp to the reality that life can never be for those who slack behind and wait till the coming of the inevitable ending.

So here I am trying to make an impression out of things that I am not yet bound to live miserably if I choose not to be. So here I am returning to what I love most: telling you my story.