I am grappling for words to say
To capture my feelings on this day
Words fall out and wither away
Suddenly my world became mute
Mute to tackle despair and despondency
I throb in pain and take them in
I swallow the bitter and the harsh
Digest them and find succor
About their absence and cleansing
Still they are here creeping silently
In the midst of equilibrium they weigh
Equally on both scales
Scale of tranquility, scale of hostility
Scale of tranquility to blight
Scale of hostility to magnify
Now I am wondering how it is painful to be a man
To experience love and its sudden loss
Both cathartic and devastating
Makes me think the process of love is a wheel
It will end up miserably somewhere
After bliss comes melancholy
The cycle will stop, it will
If it won’t then insanity spills
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Monday, March 16, 2009
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Holding Back
Lately, there have been many times I wished I could write down everything that has been happening on my mind. But every time I try to sit down on the swivel chair, open a blank document and start to frame my mind the words the rich thoughts vanish in thin air. I could not point to a specific factor that blocks the stream of thought from my brain to my fingers. . .on to the keyboard and into the screen. Maybe it’s just that I have too many concerns right now, too many problems at hand, too many obligations to perform, too many expectations to meet. I am overwhelmed by the fact that I can’t barely make a scratch or a dent out of all these. I mean I can’t even run the process of figuring out what to do with them. It’s like I am staring blankly at all of them pokerfaced devoid of any emotional attachment. To me, they’re not stars, they’re not a school of fishes whirling around in the water, nor a rainbow. . .they’re just a pale and dull book from the cover waiting perpetually to be read. As I stare at them, they breathe infinite silence and I do not want engage in them.
I wished I had the freedom to mention them here so that I could finally liberate all the hitches inside me but I loath about other people and the world over knowing the details unnecessary for them to know. I mean everything has a boundary, a wall that needs to be fortified, an enclosure that needs to be secured. Every man who does not want to shed all of him would know the feeling of hesitance. There are regrets of deciding not to remain anonymous here in this corner for I am now bound to keep secrets and not write them here. So, I would have to limit and become a rigid writer for days to come not until I decide to leave this refuge which I started about three years ago and have the archive tell the visitor that the last post of the author would be on this day. That has been the case ever since. Back in college, I remember a professor in a writing class tell me that I write in general terms. . .that I hold back too much of me. Not until I had the opportunity to explore in another writing class to tell haunting stories about my childhood and the unexplainable torment I had to go through. Not until I thought about blogging and had the venue to pick up the pieces little by little. However, this I tell you that whenever I end up writing something about my life there’s something inside me which tells me: I wish I could have told you more. . .I wished I could narrate the back stories. There’s still too much to spill to erudite you and myself over.
I have to breathe deeply for most of the time. Heave a sigh. Imagine a scene in my childhood where I stand in a door opening, stolid like a post, watching the shafts of light penetrate the window and hit the floor illuminating the room and creating an incandescent look. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. I could see the sun glimmer. I stood there until the sun was finally lost in the horizon. I stood there alone seeing the sun reflect its last rays of light for the day among the leaves of the trees, on rooftops, on children’s faces throwing cracks of laughter with each other; reflected in a child’s eye who was wondering how could have the sun brought momentary peace to him. I stood there wanting to be with the fading sun forever.
I don’t want this feeling. Experiencing dualities: bliss in the evening, and struggle the morning after and not being able to chronicle such travails here in this corner.
I wished I had the freedom to mention them here so that I could finally liberate all the hitches inside me but I loath about other people and the world over knowing the details unnecessary for them to know. I mean everything has a boundary, a wall that needs to be fortified, an enclosure that needs to be secured. Every man who does not want to shed all of him would know the feeling of hesitance. There are regrets of deciding not to remain anonymous here in this corner for I am now bound to keep secrets and not write them here. So, I would have to limit and become a rigid writer for days to come not until I decide to leave this refuge which I started about three years ago and have the archive tell the visitor that the last post of the author would be on this day. That has been the case ever since. Back in college, I remember a professor in a writing class tell me that I write in general terms. . .that I hold back too much of me. Not until I had the opportunity to explore in another writing class to tell haunting stories about my childhood and the unexplainable torment I had to go through. Not until I thought about blogging and had the venue to pick up the pieces little by little. However, this I tell you that whenever I end up writing something about my life there’s something inside me which tells me: I wish I could have told you more. . .I wished I could narrate the back stories. There’s still too much to spill to erudite you and myself over.
I have to breathe deeply for most of the time. Heave a sigh. Imagine a scene in my childhood where I stand in a door opening, stolid like a post, watching the shafts of light penetrate the window and hit the floor illuminating the room and creating an incandescent look. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. I could see the sun glimmer. I stood there until the sun was finally lost in the horizon. I stood there alone seeing the sun reflect its last rays of light for the day among the leaves of the trees, on rooftops, on children’s faces throwing cracks of laughter with each other; reflected in a child’s eye who was wondering how could have the sun brought momentary peace to him. I stood there wanting to be with the fading sun forever.
I don’t want this feeling. Experiencing dualities: bliss in the evening, and struggle the morning after and not being able to chronicle such travails here in this corner.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Being 27
Another year was added to a growing number of years of a not-so-constant trend in living a life that seemed to be so intricately intertwined now. I was born on Valentine’s Day, 1982, so my mother says and my birth certificate indicates. Foggy memories of an estranged mother always speak about a crammed room full of unmarried women in their late 20s giggling, a traditional birth attendant preparing birthing paraphernalia, boiling water in a kettle shooting hot vapor. The cynic in me always thinks about loose perspectives brought about by excessive infatuation with the idea of a child’s birthday falling on February 14th, of the idea that it is too emblematic of a lover’s fruit so executed in complicity, of the idea that so a relationship may be glorified in the height of its heydays. Maybe it was on the 13th or the 15th or on the 29th and because of the fears of a drought in leap years.
But it is, 14th etched indelibly in the registers consistently. All those years when I get to be socially active and was entering the realm of social environments did I come to realize that there are some consistencies, commonalities within the celebration of a birthday so engrossing for people except me. Why aren’t you named Valentino? was a question never to be not asked because it’s a protocol and You must be kulang-kulang because you were born in February was a supposition I can quite vouch? For 27 years I have been rammed up with those conjectures that sometimes distress me for their built-up ordinariness and sometimes elate me because I am a figure or a ¬go-figure elated to have more and more people remember my birthday and be a recipient of all their bright and common wishes of a longer life, many-more-birthdays-come, and wishes of well-wishers of a sumptuous treat at a fancy restaurant (just-kidding).
Yesterday I had a steamed white chicken for breakfast at a Chinese Restaurant, a call from my mom all the way from Oregon, a morning song from my love streamed all the way through my ear canal like a cleaning cotton bud tickling the softest part of me, a dinner treat from my boss at a Korean Restaurant with her lovely daughter seated in front of me were the best gifts I ever had. There are wishes, yes, like enrolling in the Environmental Law Program of the Lewis and Clark Law School, a better economy at the close of the year, bright prospects for this year, my name included in the Rolls, a cure for my sickness, a life with my love still intertwined strongly beyond a boa-constrictor’s capability, purging in the government, more rights for the underprivileged like me, alleviation of poverty, more sincere and true leaders for this country and more aftertastes of coffee from my love.
27 and I am old. Woke up early this morning quite a bit terrified by the documentary on the ice meltdown, the rising sea levels and the cataclysmic consequences. There’s not enough action to stop it, taking out of the picture the role of governments, the fact is that there is really no stopping now the phenomenon because all the efforts to cut carbon emissions today if and when the IPCC’s instruction will be followed without skirmishing sovereign egos, will really never halt anything except only to mitigate the catastrophe. The documentary has a footnote on climate change refugees, its rise and its probable impact on matters of survival, dwindling resources, and state-to-state conflict. There’s a lot ahead really. I may never cross through such events within my time but it keeps me wondering about the future of the world and generations. Sometimes this news really makes you old but the inescapable fact is that you’re part of it.
So here’s my definition of being 27 in this century. It is about thinking, trying to belong to a world of causes making even the slightest of difference, making one’s voice heard, trying to blend love with every issue that comes, trying to live life to the fullest while you can, achieving for others, and just being me, being you.
But it is, 14th etched indelibly in the registers consistently. All those years when I get to be socially active and was entering the realm of social environments did I come to realize that there are some consistencies, commonalities within the celebration of a birthday so engrossing for people except me. Why aren’t you named Valentino? was a question never to be not asked because it’s a protocol and You must be kulang-kulang because you were born in February was a supposition I can quite vouch? For 27 years I have been rammed up with those conjectures that sometimes distress me for their built-up ordinariness and sometimes elate me because I am a figure or a ¬go-figure elated to have more and more people remember my birthday and be a recipient of all their bright and common wishes of a longer life, many-more-birthdays-come, and wishes of well-wishers of a sumptuous treat at a fancy restaurant (just-kidding).
Yesterday I had a steamed white chicken for breakfast at a Chinese Restaurant, a call from my mom all the way from Oregon, a morning song from my love streamed all the way through my ear canal like a cleaning cotton bud tickling the softest part of me, a dinner treat from my boss at a Korean Restaurant with her lovely daughter seated in front of me were the best gifts I ever had. There are wishes, yes, like enrolling in the Environmental Law Program of the Lewis and Clark Law School, a better economy at the close of the year, bright prospects for this year, my name included in the Rolls, a cure for my sickness, a life with my love still intertwined strongly beyond a boa-constrictor’s capability, purging in the government, more rights for the underprivileged like me, alleviation of poverty, more sincere and true leaders for this country and more aftertastes of coffee from my love.
27 and I am old. Woke up early this morning quite a bit terrified by the documentary on the ice meltdown, the rising sea levels and the cataclysmic consequences. There’s not enough action to stop it, taking out of the picture the role of governments, the fact is that there is really no stopping now the phenomenon because all the efforts to cut carbon emissions today if and when the IPCC’s instruction will be followed without skirmishing sovereign egos, will really never halt anything except only to mitigate the catastrophe. The documentary has a footnote on climate change refugees, its rise and its probable impact on matters of survival, dwindling resources, and state-to-state conflict. There’s a lot ahead really. I may never cross through such events within my time but it keeps me wondering about the future of the world and generations. Sometimes this news really makes you old but the inescapable fact is that you’re part of it.
So here’s my definition of being 27 in this century. It is about thinking, trying to belong to a world of causes making even the slightest of difference, making one’s voice heard, trying to blend love with every issue that comes, trying to live life to the fullest while you can, achieving for others, and just being me, being you.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Pursuing Little Stars
On January 23rd we cruised the bay
Calm and still waters
Lying beneath
Silent witnesses of flourishing love
Our eyes meet somewhere
There at the ebbing tide
The moon-shadowed beach
Wind lashed waves
There at the harbour
A lamppost
That illuminates lovers
Regaling a night
Of bliss
Pursuing little stars
That blanketed the night sky
And mirrored in our eyes
In the depth of the waters
Sparkling
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Comeback
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.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Portal at Room 206
It was night at Room 206 when it was day outside,
The drapes in auburn and black fall like veils taunting time.
They fall down deep into the mystique recesses of two souls,
Far, distant they thwart two worlds.
The lone window shrouded and now opaque,
Like a fortress, it gave sanctuary for us to revel,
The warmth of nights, without light,
Only a gleam that escapes the drapes,
Glowing there at two corners,
Tamed yet foreboding.
Like a portal to a hostile world,
It speaks no reason against happiness.
We have our own here at Room 206.
Though one departs early than the morning zephyr,
One says I am here.
The other whispers, the memory will live.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Life is a metaphor
My love to moonlight caused this poem. It read:
5:18 in the afternoon
my sunshine,
let me be the wind that gently brushes your face
the melody that echoes through time and space.
let me be your light when the stars in heaven aren't so bright
to walk with you in path's so dimly lit.
your face is like the breaking of dawn
the very promise of a new day,
the dusk that soothes my worried mind
that gives me the best of good nights.
the face that made me glow everyday in our stay,
that makes me smile in every glance i make
the face that i want to see before retiring the day,
the very same to see the morning i awake.
i painted you in my memories,
with vivid colors that i made.
i will treasure you, today, tomorrow and the days to come,
framed with love and sealed by fate .
Early in the day, I made this in response,
For you, moonlight, 6:27 am
you're so far, yet so near.
you seemed to have brought with you
the joys left
in this solitary soul.
but mornings are like
sweet souvenirs.
i remember now
like strings gently swayed,
that your heart kissed mine
and stamped a mark
that glowed together
with the break of dawn
to remind me that
our love springs eternal.
a cycle unbroken
by time and distance
5:18 in the afternoon
my sunshine,
let me be the wind that gently brushes your face
the melody that echoes through time and space.
let me be your light when the stars in heaven aren't so bright
to walk with you in path's so dimly lit.
your face is like the breaking of dawn
the very promise of a new day,
the dusk that soothes my worried mind
that gives me the best of good nights.
the face that made me glow everyday in our stay,
that makes me smile in every glance i make
the face that i want to see before retiring the day,
the very same to see the morning i awake.
i painted you in my memories,
with vivid colors that i made.
i will treasure you, today, tomorrow and the days to come,
framed with love and sealed by fate .
Early in the day, I made this in response,
For you, moonlight, 6:27 am
you're so far, yet so near.
you seemed to have brought with you
the joys left
in this solitary soul.
but mornings are like
sweet souvenirs.
i remember now
like strings gently swayed,
that your heart kissed mine
and stamped a mark
that glowed together
with the break of dawn
to remind me that
our love springs eternal.
a cycle unbroken
by time and distance
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Peek-throughs
A lot of things happened I should say. It has been a very, very long month that has mutated into years. I have waited for six months for the bar to come and another six months for the results. I have been incognito for a long time because the whole process almost sucked the marrow left in my life. I still didn't give up the flat I rented back in the university and I couldn't imagine the feeling when I return there next week to pack my books and my other belongings. The picture of the narrow pathway shadowed by plush acacia trees, the lonely walks there for months rain or shine, the silent houses I pass through, the patio of the nearby hotel where someone plays beautiful pieces on the piano every Friday nights. All of it that has become part of me, I never said goodbye to when I discreetly left.
The exam was truly a heartbreaker, not to mention a shatterer of health, sanity, and well-being in itself. I had ulcer because of stress and the pain caused by it still lingers up to now. I hope it would still be cured through medication. I am quite fearful of the visit to the doctor tomorrow.
Sometimes I am left with the thought. . what would I do next? I know it's a general feeling of most of those who took the bar but what delineates me from them would surely be the quality of support system I have. Loosely I would say, I have myself and the world. All the brunt I take as they come.
And then there was this transient love. A love grown out of peek-throughs. Peek-throughs through the heart. How fond it is to rekindle the experience and live through it day by day. It's one of the reasons I try to exist and live now.Would you believe?
The exam was truly a heartbreaker, not to mention a shatterer of health, sanity, and well-being in itself. I had ulcer because of stress and the pain caused by it still lingers up to now. I hope it would still be cured through medication. I am quite fearful of the visit to the doctor tomorrow.
Sometimes I am left with the thought. . what would I do next? I know it's a general feeling of most of those who took the bar but what delineates me from them would surely be the quality of support system I have. Loosely I would say, I have myself and the world. All the brunt I take as they come.
And then there was this transient love. A love grown out of peek-throughs. Peek-throughs through the heart. How fond it is to rekindle the experience and live through it day by day. It's one of the reasons I try to exist and live now.Would you believe?
Monday, August 18, 2008
Post to Heaven
19th August 2008
Dear Lord,
The last time I wrote to you as far as I could remember was 8 years ago. I remember that I made the letter in one afternoon. I just came from the school empty-handed, troubled, and embattled. I had only 1,50o pesos in my hands and my tuition costs around 4,000 pesos. It was supposed to be my second semester, my first year in college. I had survived the past semester full of hope that the university would finally grant the subsidy I have requested. Unfortunately, it did not.
It was an afternoon. I am resolved to go back to the province to scour every possibility of getting additional money from whomever. I remember that I suggested then to You that my sister in Dagupan help me. I remember telling you that it seemed to me that it was the only possibility. But I came home just the same, empty-handed, troubled and embattled. I kept the letter, slipping it in between the pages of a dilapidated dictionary I left back in my Baguio apartment. It actually survived after so many years. My sister accidentally read it few years ago. She told me that she cried while reading it. It was also read by my little brother, Mark. He asked me later if he could do the same. I told him that yes he could write to You whenever he wants to tell You things he would rather keep to himself.
When I tell my friends now that You work in mysterious ways, I remember the things that happened after I wrote that letter.
The day after I arrived in the province, people from the Student assistance Department at the University surprisingly visited and did some interview. The head, Manang Pen Facunla offered assistance right away without any solicitation and told me to go back to Baguio. She would later be You, dear Lord, supporting me all the way until I graduated. She gave me a job, private scholarship. Without her, there seemed to be no silver lining.
As I look back, I wonder if that letter was not written at all. Would You have performed a miracle just the same? I recently bought a handy Bible. A friend reintroduced me to You. One of my favorite passages is Ephesians 3:20. It speaks a lot about what happened. You spoke that You will do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of; infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts or hope.
I am writing on a used paper. I hope You don't mind. I felt the conviction to write again to You about a plea coming from my heart. Few days from now, I will take the Bar exams. The greatest challenge so far and a key to what will I become years from now. Dear Lord, I wouldn't have reached this far without You lifting and carrying me everytime I falter down the road of life. You blessed and showered me your graces more than what I deserve. You gave me this flat with me effortlessly cashing out money. You gave me true friends who supported me up to the Bar review. You gave me a mother who specially sent me a smile from far away just to remind me that there are millions of reasons to pursue this dream and to take the challenge with a mighty heart.I couldn't ask for more.
Thank you Lord. while I continue to hurt You every now and then, please understand that I will always be your Son who always searched and yearned for You at the end of the day.
And while the days are closing in, I want to tell You that I will remember to walk the path You have opened and showed me.
The letter I once wrote was made yellowish by time, moisture has blotted the blue ink. But still it remains Lord and so is your unconditional love and my enduring faith.
Your son
Dear Lord,
The last time I wrote to you as far as I could remember was 8 years ago. I remember that I made the letter in one afternoon. I just came from the school empty-handed, troubled, and embattled. I had only 1,50o pesos in my hands and my tuition costs around 4,000 pesos. It was supposed to be my second semester, my first year in college. I had survived the past semester full of hope that the university would finally grant the subsidy I have requested. Unfortunately, it did not.
It was an afternoon. I am resolved to go back to the province to scour every possibility of getting additional money from whomever. I remember that I suggested then to You that my sister in Dagupan help me. I remember telling you that it seemed to me that it was the only possibility. But I came home just the same, empty-handed, troubled and embattled. I kept the letter, slipping it in between the pages of a dilapidated dictionary I left back in my Baguio apartment. It actually survived after so many years. My sister accidentally read it few years ago. She told me that she cried while reading it. It was also read by my little brother, Mark. He asked me later if he could do the same. I told him that yes he could write to You whenever he wants to tell You things he would rather keep to himself.
When I tell my friends now that You work in mysterious ways, I remember the things that happened after I wrote that letter.
The day after I arrived in the province, people from the Student assistance Department at the University surprisingly visited and did some interview. The head, Manang Pen Facunla offered assistance right away without any solicitation and told me to go back to Baguio. She would later be You, dear Lord, supporting me all the way until I graduated. She gave me a job, private scholarship. Without her, there seemed to be no silver lining.
As I look back, I wonder if that letter was not written at all. Would You have performed a miracle just the same? I recently bought a handy Bible. A friend reintroduced me to You. One of my favorite passages is Ephesians 3:20. It speaks a lot about what happened. You spoke that You will do far more than we would ever dare to ask or even dream of; infinitely beyond our highest prayers, desires, thoughts or hope.
I am writing on a used paper. I hope You don't mind. I felt the conviction to write again to You about a plea coming from my heart. Few days from now, I will take the Bar exams. The greatest challenge so far and a key to what will I become years from now. Dear Lord, I wouldn't have reached this far without You lifting and carrying me everytime I falter down the road of life. You blessed and showered me your graces more than what I deserve. You gave me this flat with me effortlessly cashing out money. You gave me true friends who supported me up to the Bar review. You gave me a mother who specially sent me a smile from far away just to remind me that there are millions of reasons to pursue this dream and to take the challenge with a mighty heart.I couldn't ask for more.
Thank you Lord. while I continue to hurt You every now and then, please understand that I will always be your Son who always searched and yearned for You at the end of the day.
And while the days are closing in, I want to tell You that I will remember to walk the path You have opened and showed me.
The letter I once wrote was made yellowish by time, moisture has blotted the blue ink. But still it remains Lord and so is your unconditional love and my enduring faith.
Your son
Sunday, June 22, 2008
To Slay the Dragon
Therapied. If there's such a word. I'm back determined to slay the dragon. Life's too short for me to make it shorter.
"A Prayer"
(by Max Ehrmann)
Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair
overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me
in the desolation of other times.
May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over
the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of a quiet
river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years.
Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded
moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit.
Though the world knows me not, may my thoughts and actions be
such as shall keep me friendly with myself.
Lift up my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the
stars. Forbid that I should judge others lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my
path.
Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever
burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope.
And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for
life, and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet; and
may the evening's twilight find me gentle still.
"A Prayer"
(by Max Ehrmann)
Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair
overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me
in the desolation of other times.
May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over
the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of a quiet
river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years.
Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded
moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit.
Though the world knows me not, may my thoughts and actions be
such as shall keep me friendly with myself.
Lift up my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the
stars. Forbid that I should judge others lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my
path.
Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever
burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope.
And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for
life, and for time's olden memories that are good and sweet; and
may the evening's twilight find me gentle still.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Remains of the Day
For you, moonlight
May 9th, 6:15 am
the remains of the day gently flowed within my longing heart
assuaging the loneliness caused by your absence
your beauty mirrored upon my mind
every minute, every second that passes
you will always be here locked in the warmth of my spirit, the essence my being
the sweetness of your voice, the scent of your body will be carried by the wind that will always reach me here on my bed as i wake up like before
longing to feel you next to me
our body and soul intertwined in a beautiful morning
the wind will reach me here on my bed
as i wake up hoping to hear it whisper that you will be there waiting for me even if it means forever
May 9th, 6:15 am
the remains of the day gently flowed within my longing heart
assuaging the loneliness caused by your absence
your beauty mirrored upon my mind
every minute, every second that passes
you will always be here locked in the warmth of my spirit, the essence my being
the sweetness of your voice, the scent of your body will be carried by the wind that will always reach me here on my bed as i wake up like before
longing to feel you next to me
our body and soul intertwined in a beautiful morning
the wind will reach me here on my bed
as i wake up hoping to hear it whisper that you will be there waiting for me even if it means forever
Monday, May 5, 2008
The Perfume
It's not that easy living alone. I've been trying to live by myself for more than a decade now but the sad fact is that I still find even the narrowest of spaces oblique and cold. I will always be a warrior, a wounded one.
A warrior of light
is capable of understanding the miracle of life,
fighting to the end for something
in which he believes and, then,
listening to the bells that the sea sets
ringing on the seabed.
(Manual of the Warrior of Light)
***
I always find reading a refuge. This is one of those pieces I will never forget and will forever relate with.
Forwarded mail. June, 2001
THE PERFUME
As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of
school,
she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her
students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was
impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a
little
boy named Teddy Stoddard.
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he
did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy
and
that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be
unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in
marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then
putting
a big "F" at the top of his papers. At the school where Mrs. Thompson
taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put
Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in
for
a surprise.
Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready
laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be
around."
His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well
liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a
terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle!"
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on
him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest
and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't
show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he
sometimes sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed
of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas
presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for
Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper
that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it
in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to
laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones
missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she
stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the
bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her
wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long to say,
"Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic.
Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular
attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come
alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the
end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the
class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the
same,
Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her
that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then
wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was
still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things
had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and
would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He
assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher
he had ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time
he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go
a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and
favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer,
the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.
The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter
that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be
married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago
and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the
wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the
groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that
bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she
made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered!
his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs.
Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me.
Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me
that I could make a difference."
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said,
"Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that
I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."
A warrior of light
is capable of understanding the miracle of life,
fighting to the end for something
in which he believes and, then,
listening to the bells that the sea sets
ringing on the seabed.
(Manual of the Warrior of Light)
***
I always find reading a refuge. This is one of those pieces I will never forget and will forever relate with.
Forwarded mail. June, 2001
THE PERFUME
As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of
school,
she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her
students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was
impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a
little
boy named Teddy Stoddard.
Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he
did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy
and
that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be
unpleasant.
It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in
marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then
putting
a big "F" at the top of his papers. At the school where Mrs. Thompson
taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put
Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in
for
a surprise.
Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready
laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners. He is a joy to be
around."
His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well
liked by his classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a
terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle!"
His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on
him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest
and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."
Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't
show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he
sometimes sleeps in class."
By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed
of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas
presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for
Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper
that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it
in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to
laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones
missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she
stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the
bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her
wrist. Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long to say,
"Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."
After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic.
Instead, she began to teach children. Mrs. Thompson paid particular
attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come
alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded. By the
end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the
class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the
same,
Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."
A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her
that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then
wrote that he had finished high school, third in his class, and she was
still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.
Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things
had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and
would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He
assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher
he had ever had in his whole life.
Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time
he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go
a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and
favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer,
the letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.
The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter
that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be
married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago
and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the
wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the
groom.
Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that
bracelet, the one with several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she
made sure she was wearing the perfume that Teddy remembered!
his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.
They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs.
Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me.
Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me
that I could make a difference."
Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said,
"Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that
I could make a difference. I didn't know how to teach until I met you."
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Magistrates at the Forest
Last night was a rather monumental evening. We had dinner at the renowned Forest House along Loakan Rd. at half past 8 with friends having a dismal experience over a research “deadbeat” action. You know, burning-the-midnight-oil-until-there’s-nothing –left-to-be-burned drama for the sake of keeping within the hour of donor moguls right up there. That’s what soon to be discovered donor-driven life is. (Credits for me please!) Hahaha
The resto’s country appeal is reminiscent of the log cabins of the by-gone era-the breathe of Legends of the Fall minus the sepia look on faces. People here come and go for the experience not much for the menu although the cakes are great. So we’re there last night full of gaiety fast approaching until we realized how the political crisis months ago was replaced by the food crisis, what a shocking transition.
We sat by the veranda which is close to a ravine, casually exchanged discourses until someone announced that the SC justices are there sitting at a long table. What they’re feasting I didn’t see; their mumblings I didn’t hear but I did see Justice Chico-Nazario’s face enthralled at being serenaded by angelic voices beside the piano. I thought probably an en banc decision is in the brew right there, that night. Maybe, deliberations in restaurants are becoming the fad again hehe or just maybe they’re just there period.
Personalities are populating the restaurant that night, indeed. After a while, a group of oldies sat beside our table. I recognized that the bald old man was Lumbera and the woman wearing thick glasses was Pantoja-Hidalgo; my cue was, okay, the group was talking about poetry. What do I expect?
After being “star struck”, for lack of term of feeling dumbfounded at the fact that I didn’t know about Tuesday’s being Personalities Night and that Wednesday’s is Ordinary Night, our group remained constant in dealing with the rice shortage. People in the province are lining up in NFA warehouses for 1 kilo of rice while families there in Sagada are much well-off with rations from DepEd. Sec. Yap was quoted as saying that what matters is the sufficiency of rice in the country and that he doesn’t damn mind if the people can’t afford it. Sufficiency, Yap, sufficiency. Being a mere minion, Yap lives true to the faith of his master. Because he don’t damn mind the price of rice, his master approves that the solution to this is to increase the wages of the labor force anew. Yes, and she’s an economist. Thank you Gloria but it’s like this: You want to increase your height, so that you won’t embarrass yourself any more by asking your assistant to put a high stool at the podium every time you address people, and drink Growee.
So we’re there at Forest House last night enjoying the evening with the SC justices and the men and women of letters of the land. I just don’t know but I feel like a scene in Storm in June is brought to life and the macabre in O’Hara’s Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos reenacted. Weird.
The resto’s country appeal is reminiscent of the log cabins of the by-gone era-the breathe of Legends of the Fall minus the sepia look on faces. People here come and go for the experience not much for the menu although the cakes are great. So we’re there last night full of gaiety fast approaching until we realized how the political crisis months ago was replaced by the food crisis, what a shocking transition.
We sat by the veranda which is close to a ravine, casually exchanged discourses until someone announced that the SC justices are there sitting at a long table. What they’re feasting I didn’t see; their mumblings I didn’t hear but I did see Justice Chico-Nazario’s face enthralled at being serenaded by angelic voices beside the piano. I thought probably an en banc decision is in the brew right there, that night. Maybe, deliberations in restaurants are becoming the fad again hehe or just maybe they’re just there period.
Personalities are populating the restaurant that night, indeed. After a while, a group of oldies sat beside our table. I recognized that the bald old man was Lumbera and the woman wearing thick glasses was Pantoja-Hidalgo; my cue was, okay, the group was talking about poetry. What do I expect?
After being “star struck”, for lack of term of feeling dumbfounded at the fact that I didn’t know about Tuesday’s being Personalities Night and that Wednesday’s is Ordinary Night, our group remained constant in dealing with the rice shortage. People in the province are lining up in NFA warehouses for 1 kilo of rice while families there in Sagada are much well-off with rations from DepEd. Sec. Yap was quoted as saying that what matters is the sufficiency of rice in the country and that he doesn’t damn mind if the people can’t afford it. Sufficiency, Yap, sufficiency. Being a mere minion, Yap lives true to the faith of his master. Because he don’t damn mind the price of rice, his master approves that the solution to this is to increase the wages of the labor force anew. Yes, and she’s an economist. Thank you Gloria but it’s like this: You want to increase your height, so that you won’t embarrass yourself any more by asking your assistant to put a high stool at the podium every time you address people, and drink Growee.
So we’re there at Forest House last night enjoying the evening with the SC justices and the men and women of letters of the land. I just don’t know but I feel like a scene in Storm in June is brought to life and the macabre in O’Hara’s Tatlong Taong Walang Diyos reenacted. Weird.
Monday, April 7, 2008
LlB, (Sigh)
“A white briefcase for you my child.”
“What’s inside?”
“Tools for you to beckon when you grow up. Did you say you wished to be a doctor?”
“Yes.”
Nineteen years ago when I was about to turn six, my father gave me a present encapsulated in a med kit complete with stethoscope, syringes, gauzes, matchboxes with Rx imprints on it, sets of syringes again, a pen, and a prescription pad. The tools were very much in place they don’t run about there assigned spaces even when you toggle the med kit. The syringes had a Velcro to secure them, so too are the stethoscope and the others.
I played around that med kit with my sisters, trying to be the astute role-player diagnosing the baby dolls and teddy bears of illnesses I have heard from eavesdrops. Little Ana has cancer. . .Baby has tuberculosis afterwhich I will doodle on the prescription pad like doctors do because I still don’t know how to write.
Eventually, everyone got tired of the new toy until it found its way a feet under the soil. Like old toys do. My mother believed that someone steals our toys but lore has it that at the least, two-year olds are dug deep into a hole at the yard. Chickens would run afoul at the hornet’s nest and would search for feed around the area with all the burrowing until the old toys are uncovered. It would always follow a scream of cacophony. . .from my mother. hehe
A year after that when my father had his vacation again, the same thing was his present to me. Apparently, my mother told him that the first white briefcase was destroyed.
A year after that I had a stethoscope, a real one.
Two years after that, he bought a whole set of medical encyclopedia.
A decade had passed, and I saw myself choosing between economics and mass communication. I chose the former because it sounded money and our family is in dire need of it. Reality bit me so hard I found myself, after earning degrees in economics and psychology, submitting resumes and getting rejected twice.
And then my father wanted to me to enroll to a college . . . of law. Apparently, because he wanted to use me to get back at his second wife for a breach of promise to marry-after all of his fortune went to the drain and it’s better if his son would pursue the case for free.
Four years after, I finally earned this law degree (although million steps closer to being a full-blown attorney in shining armor of his dream). I am consequentially happy. Far from being a law degree holder, I took a leave from self-torture (because there’s still the Bar) and I am waiting for someone to tell me something like: “You did one hell of a high-wire act. Bravo!”
I am consequentially happy, right. Because I never saw myself reach this far. And I want to end my life story with a happy ending the way the story “The Perfume” ended. There’s a million reasons to stay put when all appear to be in shambles. There’s my benefactor for one who remained the anonymous payor to a lot of paychecks. (Please, reveal your identity now!) And friends who dragged me all the way up to here not minding if I sustain bruises, cuts inches deep and all. Thanks to you.
. . And God who responded to a letter I sent Him on a stormy night.
I need nothing but prayers for the Bar. Please pray for me.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Lost Tune
Rush of cold wind pounds heavily on the glass window creating silent noises; the creaking of the dilapidated door, the rustling leaves, the tranquil sound of wind chimes and howls from stray cats. The fusion of these sounds reminds me of a lost tune, melody and lyrics which kept on playing round my mind albeit so soft and low like the sound of a breath. The song which left me imagining about the beauty of a sunset, the smell of moistened hay in the morning, the tiny ripples in the river caused by the breeze coming from the north.
You’re lying in that small hut. Tired and exhausted by the day’s work. You feel the cold wind enter the little openings on the wall soothe your burned skin. The night is silent and you could see the crescent moon and wonder if you could really sit on its tail and fish stars. A blurred sound comes out from an old radio. You could barely hear and decipher the lyrics but the melody resounded a deep thought that crossed boundaries. It broke your heart. A teardrop for a barren and void feeling flowed through the temple into the ear.
The song is being sung by the cold wind. I have just finished reading
“Music is a demanding mistress. You can’t abandon her for four years. When you return to her, you find she’s gone.”
. . .Like a passing glint of a coin submerging in a murky water as it catches the last rays of light? Still, I said to myself that I will be her lover forever even in absence; even in abandonment.
When I was a little child I remember asking my grandmother about a virtuoso she’d known.
“What had happened with your uncle’s violin?”
“It was sold after he got sick and nothing could be spent for his medication. It was the saddest part. To let go of something which became a part of his life.”
“Could we still find it and buy it back?”
“Of course my child, but not now.”
"I have few pesos here. Would this be enough?
A smile made her eyes glitter for a moment.
"If it could only be that easy my child. But, you could always wish for it if you want."
Saturday, February 23, 2008
The Noble Tea Project, On Whoring around and the Best Scandal I’ve Ever Seen
I have finally came to terms with the bouts of depression I have been going through for the past months. Basically, because of the fact that I am officially resigned from my job where most of the root pains come from. To me, it was kind of a graceful exit. There were hurt feelings, okay. But ultimately, I am relying that time will heal it and those scars will find its way to erudition. For in those years where I forced myself to learn a job which required mostly sitting on a chair, fortunately, the grasps of reality providentially poured down right into that finance cave where I lie. Stories from afar that breathed rich exchanges from the grassroots. Stories related by a friend-confidant that compensated clear enough the vacuum I felt while doing an NGO work. Yet, I still have to kill the sentiments of leaving physically the place where I have become attached to. First, the office, of course. Second, the cat. Third, the schizo.
And so now for the meantime I’ll just be working here in my flat during the day and have classes in the evening. A generous friend has got me something to busy myself with. I called it the Noble Tea Project. I was assigned to do web content for a tea site his company will put up soon. The income from that will surely help to augment my savings for the bar review which will start on April at the UP Law Center. Hopefully, my millionaire-friend (gasem!) will be true to his words and sponsor all the rest of the expenses. I am just a bit uncomfortable dealing with him because he speaks in dollars and most of the time when he throws numbers I have trouble doing calculations with the ever fluctuating exchange rates. haha
* * *
The rain is pouring heavily on the roofs this afternoon spoiling the Flower Festival in this mountain city to my delight. A friend of mine asked why I call Baguio a mountain city rather than the infamous portrayals of public officials like City of Pines or City of Character (Yuck!, I want to puke). . .because they’re all lies. I call Baguio a mountain city to depict the barren slopes and the reprehensible land use proffered by the desires of government officials to bring in jobs so they say, to bring in tourists. I’m reading the daily just now and it reported that the Panagbenga will expect 200,000 visitors. Oh my gawd! That’s a gargantuan flock!
You should see how Baguio looks like after the two parades. It’s like a raped city mourning over the stolen puri. In Burnham park where tourists/vandals are allowed to put up tents as early as eve of the main events, garbage including human waste is everywhere. Too grotesque. Water is scarce during these days to accommodate the needs of tourists in hotels and commercial establishments so that water supply is diverted to these b*******s to the prejudice of local households. The local government boasts of the influx of tourists as, allegedly, it will translate to income. Yes, they’re right! The festival will definitely bring in floods of money for loot. Loot by none other than the City Hall evils and bitches to borrow the name-tags being mouthed against the President. A recent report by the Commission on Audit here questions: where has the Panagbenga “Trust” Fund gone??? The hundreds of millions of income generated by the City Government out of corporate sponsors like SMART was reportedly missing. For venturing in another event like this, the City Government could no less than be whoring around at the expense of such a pristine place like Baguio. There is really no such Baguio in Bloom as they advertise and promote to attract tourists. All those flowers used in the festival came from a near-by town. They’re not natives of Baguio. It’s a farce! Just yesterday I have seen these city aides rushing to plant these fancy blossoms along islands in Session Rd. Yes a day before the main event. It’s being pretentious at the extreme level. It’s like a whore trying to dab a make-up to make her saleable after so much drag.
Apathy looms in every corner of the country. Seeing the recent NBN-ZTE scandal grow profusely beyond norms of “clean-corruption” is more than awful. The government stinks. It stinks from within; right here in my place corruption is likewise brazenly executed with impunity. But it’s different when you experience it firsthand. It’s like you want to be a legal murderer for God’s sake because you don’t want those City Officials justify and win over a self-serving resolution allowing the procurement of SUVs to be given to each of them so that they could visit daw their constituents from time to time. Para namang ang lawak lawak ng Baguio! And contrast this vis-à-vis the deteriorating public health system and the exigencies of addressing the concerns of the urban poor. It just sucks. So when I went home one time in the province and caught my father too much engrossed in the proceedings at the Senate I sat at his invitation never minding him asking from time to time what’s my opinion about that conjecture, “how about that objection”. . .I had too much of it. Only to discover after sitting for about an hour in front of the TV screen, Lozada’s face parallel to Atienza’s who is giving his testimony, that I am likewise engrossed already. For the drama and comedy, thanks to the NBN-ZTE scandal.
And so now for the meantime I’ll just be working here in my flat during the day and have classes in the evening. A generous friend has got me something to busy myself with. I called it the Noble Tea Project. I was assigned to do web content for a tea site his company will put up soon. The income from that will surely help to augment my savings for the bar review which will start on April at the UP Law Center. Hopefully, my millionaire-friend (gasem!) will be true to his words and sponsor all the rest of the expenses. I am just a bit uncomfortable dealing with him because he speaks in dollars and most of the time when he throws numbers I have trouble doing calculations with the ever fluctuating exchange rates. haha
* * *
The rain is pouring heavily on the roofs this afternoon spoiling the Flower Festival in this mountain city to my delight. A friend of mine asked why I call Baguio a mountain city rather than the infamous portrayals of public officials like City of Pines or City of Character (Yuck!, I want to puke). . .because they’re all lies. I call Baguio a mountain city to depict the barren slopes and the reprehensible land use proffered by the desires of government officials to bring in jobs so they say, to bring in tourists. I’m reading the daily just now and it reported that the Panagbenga will expect 200,000 visitors. Oh my gawd! That’s a gargantuan flock!
You should see how Baguio looks like after the two parades. It’s like a raped city mourning over the stolen puri. In Burnham park where tourists/vandals are allowed to put up tents as early as eve of the main events, garbage including human waste is everywhere. Too grotesque. Water is scarce during these days to accommodate the needs of tourists in hotels and commercial establishments so that water supply is diverted to these b*******s to the prejudice of local households. The local government boasts of the influx of tourists as, allegedly, it will translate to income. Yes, they’re right! The festival will definitely bring in floods of money for loot. Loot by none other than the City Hall evils and bitches to borrow the name-tags being mouthed against the President. A recent report by the Commission on Audit here questions: where has the Panagbenga “Trust” Fund gone??? The hundreds of millions of income generated by the City Government out of corporate sponsors like SMART was reportedly missing. For venturing in another event like this, the City Government could no less than be whoring around at the expense of such a pristine place like Baguio. There is really no such Baguio in Bloom as they advertise and promote to attract tourists. All those flowers used in the festival came from a near-by town. They’re not natives of Baguio. It’s a farce! Just yesterday I have seen these city aides rushing to plant these fancy blossoms along islands in Session Rd. Yes a day before the main event. It’s being pretentious at the extreme level. It’s like a whore trying to dab a make-up to make her saleable after so much drag.
Apathy looms in every corner of the country. Seeing the recent NBN-ZTE scandal grow profusely beyond norms of “clean-corruption” is more than awful. The government stinks. It stinks from within; right here in my place corruption is likewise brazenly executed with impunity. But it’s different when you experience it firsthand. It’s like you want to be a legal murderer for God’s sake because you don’t want those City Officials justify and win over a self-serving resolution allowing the procurement of SUVs to be given to each of them so that they could visit daw their constituents from time to time. Para namang ang lawak lawak ng Baguio! And contrast this vis-à-vis the deteriorating public health system and the exigencies of addressing the concerns of the urban poor. It just sucks. So when I went home one time in the province and caught my father too much engrossed in the proceedings at the Senate I sat at his invitation never minding him asking from time to time what’s my opinion about that conjecture, “how about that objection”. . .I had too much of it. Only to discover after sitting for about an hour in front of the TV screen, Lozada’s face parallel to Atienza’s who is giving his testimony, that I am likewise engrossed already. For the drama and comedy, thanks to the NBN-ZTE scandal.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Funambule
He’s no stranger to dead silence
Lights beam on this lone performer
Lights beam in a grandstand
To lift those strangers’ spirits high
To lift all their glares right into his balancing act
Life for a night
Captured by the tightrope walk
Spreads his arms into the air
And mind an immeasurable end
Press his weight on the middle of nowhere
Importune everyone’s uproar
Slip and fall!
They fear for him,
And water will pour.
He would seek life on the thin line.
Leave it only to find,
That forever he will be crowned
So that comfort he may find.
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
There was an Earthquake Here!
There was an earthquake here past
So life for this day went on but, of course, not without shoo-in roundabouts that slowly surfaced memories of a tragedy more than a decade ago. One shared something like her friend who happened to be pregnant at that time feared that her baby would be like a rotten egg. Another shared about trapped survivors eating their excrements for food and urine for water. Those were the last survivors of a ruined hotel who managed to hang on with their lives for weeks until rescuers found them deep in the rubble. Still, another shared how antipathy works among Filipinos even in times of catastrophes as when foreign relief like quality sleeping mats and tents are malversed and transformed into local banigs and mosquito nets instead. More than a thousand were killed in this city alone on that fateful day,
On a more personal level, I remember Murakami’s stories in After the Quake; on how the earthquake in Kobe became a subtlety to the different wrought directions mustered by the lives of different lonely and pervert individuals; on how such a devastating quake proved to be less than devastating compared to a person losing his sanity with a mammoth worm and a super frog in mind and another Komura who’s too engrossed with live TV footages on the shattered Kobe unnoticing the abandonment meted on him by her not-so-beautiful wife. I remember myself as a grade-school student being prodded by the teacher outside because of lack of fear and too much interest in solving a math problem on my notes. As we were crouched on the wide open space right next to our classroom where the flag ceremony is being held, I noticed that most of the pupils were looking up in the skies as if waiting for some kind of manna. In our small village, talks about a relative wailing for her daughter who was then billeted at the Hyatt Hotel together with a Japanese became an overbearing news much like a television series where every scene is sumptuously awaited and devoured. The teleserye ended abruptly days after because of a news which mentioned a Japanese sounding name as one of the survivors together with the relative’s daughter. They were apparently enjoying at the
Earthquakes are occurring regularly, so too are ineffable discomforts rooted on tragic memories, and like a seismologist so opined, most of them no longer pass our thresholds of feeling.
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