Unabashed

Ang PDR: 93 on the Ballot!

2010-02-27T02:00:00.002+08:00

Like most, I have come to regard Philippine politics as a pit of corruption, greed and patronage. And like most, I would like to change that.

Ang PDR (Ang Partido Demokratiko Rural) is a party list group that presents a real and honest alternative.

For 10 years I worked alongside its nominees: Omi, Ka Jimmy, Melot and ‘Nong Jun, and on occasion, even marched with them in the streets of Manila. Through their passion and commitment to justice and equity, I found my own social conscience; my own sense of commitment to working toward a more just society.

Please check out Ang PDR's platform on Facebook and Multiply. I’m hoping that the ideals that you find there will resonate with you.

For those living abroad, please encourage your friends and families to look at Ang PDR’s webpages as well.

Let us effect change.

Let us own our future.

Let us use our votes to build a better Philippines.

Snowbound

2008-04-10T00:14:00.002+08:00

tintin and cat

2007-04-24T09:43:00.000+08:00

for Tintin

2007-02-16T02:07:00.000+08:00

thank you for giving me cummings (and the root of the root and the bud of the bud)

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

child with no name

2006-12-05T18:08:00.000+08:00

"Do not be afraid of the road ahead of you;
Set a goal to see yourself through;
What you have lost will come back;
It is never gone; Find your happiness,
Go on, Move on... "

Tropang Makulay

2006-11-21T14:03:00.000+08:00

view from a plane

2006-10-05T12:55:00.000+08:00

sunrise from the window of a plane; so breathtaking in its sheer beauty. oranges that bleed into the remaining dark of dawn make for a brilliant topaz. at last it makes its appearance; teasing at first, with rays that draw faint lines across the window. and then finally, it reveals its glaring roundness; blindingly so, over a sea of white.

a piece of heaven

2006-09-14T11:08:00.000+08:00

I’ve been dreaming of you constantly. But I couldn’t fathom what you were trying to tell me in my dreams. I remember being happy though, just cradling you in my arms. You felt so soft and your hair seemed like wisps of smoke emanating from your tiny head. Your skin was as luminous as porcelain. Holding you felt much like holding a piece of heaven.

Untitled

2006-09-07T16:55:00.000+08:00

SEDUCE MY MIND AND YOU CAN HAVE MY BODY. FIND MY SOUL AND I'M YOURS FOREVER...from Aeryana's blog.

Compostela Valley

2006-09-01T17:10:00.000+08:00

spikes

kababaihan

snowflake

pompom

posporo, cotton buds, atbp

glisten

Sadness atbp

2006-08-31T11:31:00.000+08:00

Sadness. Freaking sadness threatening to overwhelm me. Pushing me onto the verge of shedding copious tears while having coffee and a sausage croissant at one of those airport establishments that charge an arm and a leg for providing temporary comfort while waiting for your flight to be called.

A flight that could very well be delayed because the airline wants to cut costs by squeezing two flights to one. Or for some other reason. Who knows? I do know that the temperature is making me shiver as I write on the sheer paper napkin that came with my food.

There was a time when food establishments used thick and fluffy napkins that absorbed soda spills like diapers.

That was also when Wendy's had double iced tea for only P15, and if you were fortunate to have somebody to split the amount with, your P50 could also buy you a cheeseburger and a movie ticket. But of course, even though movies were cheap then, they were not nearly as worth every peso as the double features shown in provincial theaters. The ones with wooden seats and missing nails and floors that were so sticky your rubber soles made loud smacking noises with every step.

Now movies offer every convenience money can buy. There's the lazy boy, the digital surround sound, and of course, unlimited popcorn.

Hmmm...butter popcorn. If they served that during this flight, this would be the best I've ever been on. Everything else is: the warm blanket, the sunlight streaming through the windows. Even my seatmate is perfect---an older woman who sleeps a lot. I hope my luck doesn't run out. Otherwise, I'd be seated with a middle-aged man who relentlessly tries to breach my self-absorbed stupor. And no popcorn.

Forgiveness

2006-08-23T16:56:00.000+08:00

Forgiveness is not forgetting an injustice done; it is the understanding that allows us to set aside the emotional impact of that injustice pertaining to ourselves. When we no longer hold those emotions, and have understanding for the person, we have forgiven them.
--Moon Singer

Easier said than done. It will always be hard to understand what made the other person commit the injustice when that injustice signaled the collapse of everything you held dear. At best, we could learn to live with it. We could acknowledge that an injustice was committed and get rid of the anger that consumes us everytime we remember. But we could never go beyond that. The injustice will always serve as a painful reminder of what is in store for us once we agree to rebuild fractured relationships. It will insinuate itself in the most benign of conversations; in situations that have the barest parallel to the one in which the injustice was done. And then we understand; it was never meant to be. It’s not worth it.

silence

2006-08-16T13:43:00.000+08:00

deafening silence. no word from my muse. i lie in wait; every fiber of my being attuned to the whisper of leaves against my window. the fluttering of birds' wings i play over and over in my mind, hoping to mine a message of hope, or despair. anything. just a word, a sign. that i live. that i'm breathing. that after this desolation, i'll find the words to write again.

Saranggani

2006-08-12T15:22:00.000+08:00

"travels with charley"

2006-08-02T14:40:00.000+08:00

shoes in a row..their owners are salesmen of inexpensive beauty products who travel to outlying areas on their motorcyles to hawk their wares.
my trusty backpack...it's seen me through many climbs and trips.
bangka with a broken outrigger...also desolation, poverty, corruption, patronage politics, inept bureaucracy, grandstanding, vultures and crocodiles in legislature and local government, fake presidency, rigged elections, country for sale...

Davao Oriental

2006-07-21T13:47:00.000+08:00

Davao Oriental. View from the second floor of the barangay hall were we met with IP leaders of the Mandaya tribe. It is distressing to discover how corruption can penetrate even the smallest of towns, and how the people suffer for it.

The river meets the sea. Forty-five minutes from this tranquil view, a local government unit perpetuates illegal logging by receiving money from a logging company. It is no wonder then that despite government posturing, forests will continue to be razed to the ground; thousands will continue to die due to flashfloods.

Zidane my man

2006-07-08T17:35:00.000+08:00

The world cup final between France and Italy may be shown at an ungodly hour (2 am, Philippine time) over at Solar, but I'm definitely watching it, even if I still have to catch a 7:45 am flight from Davao. To say this guy creates pure magic does not even begin to describe how he is on the field. But it's a fitting start.

Mantra

2006-06-29T18:04:00.000+08:00

“Inside each one of us are powers so strong, treasures so rich, possibilities so endless, that to command them all into action would change the history of the world.”

I keep repeating that to myself. I need to believe that. I’m deathly scared of opening myself up to failure. But then, I’d never know if I were good enough to dance unless I go out there and audition. I suppose if it were any other audition, I’d not be spending so much time worrying about it. But it’s something I’ve always wanted to go back to and the thought of failing scares me to death.

But like I said, I’ll go anyway. The worst thing that can happen to me is be unable to do all those bone-breaking floor exercises (I have always hated having to go through that). But I’ll live nonetheless.

You are the one who makes me happy
When everything else turns to grey
Yours is the voice that wakes me mornings
And sends me out into the day
You are the crowd that sits quiet
Listening to me
And all the mad sense that I make

You are one of the few things
worth remembering
And since it's all true
How could anyone mean more to me
Than you

Sorry if sometimes I look past you
There's no one beyond your eyes
Inside my head wheels are turning
Hey, sometimes I'm not so wise
You are my heart and my soul
My inspiration
Just like the old love song goes

You are one of the few things
worth remembering
And since it's all true
How could anyone mean more to me
Than you

And I keep singing that. Damn sentimentality.

woman in bliss

2006-06-28T14:35:00.000+08:00

media launching of Unveiling Pieces From Bliss at newsdesk last saturday. we're gearing up for the second leg of the series of launches this saturday, july 1. i'm having a case of jitters as i've been called on to emcee. that's not something i have in my toolbox, thus the jitters.

Bangaan

2006-06-23T16:20:00.000+08:00

I wish I were here right now; where everything is so pristine and the whole village is blanketed with fog; where life seems to stop to a standstill and you no longer feel the need to rush off to work, or beat a deadline; where the shy smiles of children coax an answering smile from your frozen lips; where you see people trying to go about their daily lives nonchalantly while others, seemingly from another world, poke their heads into their inner sanctum; I wish I were here right, where I could see life clearly, through the fog that clouds my sight.

the inane and the frightening

2006-06-21T18:32:00.000+08:00

Here I go again—editing my thoughts even before I start writing. I am my worst critic; my worst enemy. This blog was supposed to be my creative outlet; the repository of my thoughts and sophomoric writing. This was supposed to be my personal history---something to which I could go back from time to time; something from which I could extract little bits of wisdom when life becomes much too complicated and I no longer know how to maneuver.

But instead of confronting this debilitating habit, I fold.

Until I start to suffocate against the onslaught of reality. It is then I find other ways with which to breathe. Then I write.

Then I write about situations that anger me: like listening to somebody talking about “these poor people” as if they were mere instruments with which we could feel good about ourselves. That speaker had the gall to exhort others to give “these poor people” dignity yet robbing them of the same by labeling them as perennial recipients of the generosity of others.

I also write about the inane: like water pipes bursting and having to bathe using the last jug of mineral water in the kitchen; or bingeing on junk food and conveniently forgetting about dieting (it’s a lost battle).

And the ones that excite yet frighten me at the same time: like auditioning for Powerdance. I love dancing and I miss performing on stage yet I’m also scared that I’d flunk the auditions because I haven’t danced in a very long time. And at 33, I’m afraid my bones will fail me, and I’d be a klutz on the dance floor. Besides, if I can’t remember to bring my glasses to work, how can I manage to remember complicated dance steps?

But what the hell, I’m going.

Women in Bliss

2006-06-20T12:47:00.000+08:00

Join the Women In Bliss Writers’ Circle as they celebrate the publication of their anthology, “Unveiling: PIECES FROM BLISS”, at NewsDesk Cafe located at No. 8 Scout Madrinan cor. Scout Tobias Sts., South Triangle, Quezon City on the following dates and themes:

June 24, 2006 - Erotika: Living the “L” Life (Part 1)

July 1, 2006 - Lovers and Revolutionaries

July 8, 2006 - Love, Loss and Healing

July 22, 2006 - Erotika: Living the “L” Life (Part 2)

Macel Aguilar * Alpha Gracias Allanigue * Trisha Andres * Aleli Bawagan * Erlyn Caliñgo * Irene Daguno * Geiah Homeres * Germaine Leonin * Ayel Leyesa * Rebecca Desiree E. Lozada * Danicar Mariano * Aimee Mendoza * Amparo Miciano * Lizel Mones * Liberty Nolasco * Clara Rita Padilla * Lilian Pimentel * Luz Lopez * Sam Sumaray * Frances Santiago * Sandra Torrijos * Angie Umbac * Riza Faith Ybañez

For more information, please contact Alpha Allanigue at 0916.707.1622 or email womeninbliss@gmail.com.

of this and that and everything else in between

2006-06-01T18:38:00.000+08:00

On volunteering. I had selfish motives for volunteering. I wasn’t filled with a raging desire to serve; I merely wanted to make more productive use of my weekends (but let’s not get into why I no longer have anybody to go on hikes and long-weekend travels to out-of-the-way places with). But after meeting the deaf and mute kids at a local parish (we taught them how to make Polvoron*---I didn’t exactly teach them; they were more adept at the task than I was), I knew I was going to keep on doing this because I want to.

On venturing out of my comfort zone. It feels awkward at first; like taking your first baby steps. But once you get the hang of it, you feel liberated, refreshed; much like feeling the rush of wind against your face while standing on top of a mountain.

On having a godchild named after you. A humbling experience; I wanted to tell my childhood friend to think things over before she did anything of the kind. I suddenly felt unworthy of the honor.

On reconnecting with family. It’s like coming home after being estranged for years. All of a sudden, calling home is not so much a chore as a need to validate who you were before and what you have become.

*arts and crafts as well

fiction writer

2006-05-23T18:56:00.000+08:00

Someone once told me I was a fiction writer.

She was referring to the journal entry that I wrote for our anthology. In it I said that I was finally moving on and saying goodbye to the relationship and the memories that I had with Che. But in reality, we were still seeing each other.

I was finding it hard to say goodbye. I had an excuse though; it’s never easy turning your back on six years of loving your friend and lover. But eventually I did, but not on account of any decisive action on my part. Something happened---and then we stopped talking after that.

Not exactly the best way to tie loose ends. There’s the thing about closure too. But I’ve been mulling this business of moving on that I achieved closure long before I got to the moving on part. Now I feel at peace; as cliché though as that may sound. And I’m relishing not being in a relationship.

I’m not even tempted to get into one (despite the none-too-subtle hints from exes who are too puffed up with their own machismo they can’t get the fact that their attentions are unwanted), except of course if it’s with Romi Garduce.

Now that’s my kind of man. Whoever said that there’s a dearth of Filipinos good enough to lead this country from endemic poverty and corruption probably missed this man in the count (but no, there's no signature campaign in the making here).

But I digress.

I’m happy being single. I might miss having someone to watch movies with every other night (I always get harassed inside theaters---males seem to think that women watching movies by their lonesome is an open invitation to harassment), especially when the good ones are on. But I can always watch them weekends with my friend.

And then there’s the reprieve from irrational, gut-wrenching and emotionally draining fights. From where I’m standing now, everything’s definitely serene.

Of course these could all be sour grapes. But nah….I definitely like it serene.

i dreamt of you last night

2006-05-04T13:02:00.000+08:00

i dreamt of you last night

the tempered steel of your arms
wrapped around my malleable form
your cracked lips,
licked into wetness by your darting tongue,
puckered for a drawn-out kiss
the deep valleys of your eyes
shooting liquid arrows of lust into mine
your spindly legs, matted with curly hair
digging a shallow trench across my legs

i dreamt of you last night
i reached for you
and you were not there.

i'd like to see you again

2006-04-30T21:19:00.000+08:00

in the quiet of my heart
where all is still, save for its faint beating
i’d like to lay my head on your heaving breast
and suckle on the comfort coming from within

in the darkest regions of my soul
where lights are nothing but glowing embers
i’d like to meld my body with yours
and be granted a reprieve from the searing cold

i’d like to see you again
but only in the haziest of dreams
where reality cannot pierce me with her brutal lance
and i go on loving you, but only in my dreams.

limbo

2006-04-20T12:44:00.000+08:00

wanting to dance but having two left feet
wanting to sing but being tone deaf
wanting to jump but having stumps for legs

wanting to write but having none of the words
reaching for a hand but finding none close by
loving and being left behind

cursing in the dark and relishing it.

home again

2006-04-07T15:02:00.000+08:00

Old poem; new life…

my heels were cracked, my soles were sore
my feet were unwilling to take another step

i have roamed this wasteland forever
in search of my wandering soul

skulked along tunnels
plumbed the depths of limbo

sucked the blood from vampires
wrenched the wings of elves

my thirst remained unquenched
i had yet to find my soul

slept with leprechauns
flirted with phantoms

ravished saints, devoured angels
my hunger lingered, waiting for my soul

till weariness engulfed me, i let my soul be
‘twas then my soul came back to me.

slow death

2006-03-22T12:55:00.000+08:00

what animal is this
taking hold
of the soul
leaving it
withered
adrift
unanchored

what devilry is this
keeping me
from joy
grinding the heart
to a mournful mound
of powdery gray
ash

what is this

that reduces
words
to grunts and
moans
unintelligible
unspeakable
unfree

the tragedy that is gloria

2006-03-13T18:11:00.000+08:00

Written in response to a friend’s post about the dispersal of a peaceful demonstration last 7 March 2007.

Government's response to rallies and demonstrations is despicable. Yet it remains in power because the people continue to turn a blind eye to what is happening.

Here we have a poseur for a president wielding a chilling proclamation and terrorizing dissidents with warrantless arrests and the takeover of utilities and media organizations. But still we do nothing; for a lot of reasons.

"Who will replace her?"
"Isn't she a better alternative to Noli de Castro?"
"Don't they all cheat at elections anyway?"

When we start asking these questions, and yet blithely gloss over our inability to know right from wrong, then we are doomed as a people.

When we start dismissing demonstrations as mere nuisance and not as a legitimate cry for redress; when we start regarding them as unwelcome deviation from our personal struggle for survival, then we accept all that is wrong with Gloria Arroyo and her ilk.

I shudder to think about the extent to which Gloria Arroyo will go just to keep her grip on power. As it is she is doggedly pursuing charter change----one that will keep her in power at the expense of the Filipino people.

Already, the proposed constitutional changes include deleting high crime and betrayal of public trust as an impeachable offense; the promotion of rural development and agrarian reform; equal access to public service....and prohibiting political dynasties; among others. Deleted too is section 27 of article 16 that says "the state shall maintain honesty and integrity in the public service and take positive action and effective measures against graft and corruption."

Apparently, these sections were deleted because the authors of the majority report found the 1987 constitution too lengthy. We are known to be verbose, in our speech and in our writing, yet we cannot stand for our constitution---the basis of all our rights and freedom---to be lengthy.

As if these were not enough, the economic provisions in the proposed constitution practically sells the Philippines and all its abundant natural resources to the highest bidder.

I can go on and on about why we should rid the Philippines of Gloria Arroyo. In fact, I have barely scratched the surface of the "tragedy that is Gloria."

But all these would not mean a thing unless all of us decide to take a stand. Our fates do not rest on the political opposition (for they also leave a lot to be desired) but on the ordinary Filipino who is still willing to stand for what is right.

a line or two

2006-02-21T17:10:00.000+08:00

write everyday; even if you only manage to write a line or two, that doesn't matter. what is important is that you write. wouldn't you want to get in touch with your soul? to ask her how she is? to revalidate your reason for being? or just think of it as coming home after so many years, and finding all that you find dear waiting for you. i don't care whatever it is that motivates you. just write.

wanting to let go

2006-02-08T16:57:00.000+08:00

A sad thing about life is when you meet someone and fall in love, only to find out in the end that it was never meant to be and that you have wasted years on someone who wasn't worth it. If he isn't worth it now, he's not going to be worth it a year or 10 years from now. Let go.....

...part of a forwarded email a friend sent me. It seemed as if it was meant for me. I'm finding it so hard to let go. I don't know where the resistance to letting go is coming from, or its cause. I can't fathom why I'm loathe to say goodbye.

letters

2006-02-06T17:14:00.000+08:00

Hello Msgr. George,

Thank you too, for responding in kind everytime I reach out to you. As I grow older, I realize the value of keeping in touch with friends who have made a positive impact in my life. I remember when I first came to see you; I was going through an emotional crisis as an aftermath of a relationship gone awry and I was searching for my callling.

I hardly remember now the person who caused me pain back then. What I do remember is the comfort our conversations brought me. Of course I have completely forgotten my illusions of hearing God's call, but I have found myself. And I’m happy now.

A year ago I was nowhere near being happy. I was going through another break-up (I can't seem to have enough of them) and my depression was getting the better of me. But I turned to prayer eventually and that was what pulled me out of my depression. God saved me when I needed saving.

Now I’m trying to get back to prayer. I’ve also been attending mass on Sundays. And everytime I do, I feel this sense of being at peace with myself.

I suppose it also has something to do with my starting the year right. I enrolled in a writing workshop and now I’m taking a German language class. It feels so good being able to break out of my comfort zone and be busy with something other than work.

Though I’m also very excited about my current pursuit. I’m managing a project and I have been given carte blanche in how I’ll be implementing it.

These are what make me happy right now. And I know given the right outlook, I’ll always stay happy. The only thing that's not happy in my life is my relationship with my ex-boyfriend, but that's another story. hehehe

Regarding the retreat, yes I do need a break. In fact, I’m thinking of going on a retreat on holy week in Sagada.

Regards,

C Chronicles

2006-01-24T17:00:00.000+08:00

III

The bugs won. She conceded they had prior claim to the studio apartment, and she was the interloper. She was happy to leave.

They moved into a townhouse at a small village near the office. She loved the house at first sight. It had a bay window in the living room and a compact but functional kitchen. The place was small, but the owners achieved a more spacious look with the use of white paint speckled with green on the walls. The bedrooms were roomy with lots of storage space. She had a perfect house, and a perfect partner along with it.

He did the cooking, the washing-up, and the laundry---chores she never really took a liking to. And even when she cleaned the house (the only task she loved doing), he would still be there to help her out.

But what she most enjoyed doing with him was shopping for groceries. It was a joy just pushing a shopping cart together, deciding what to buy and how much they needed. He was the conscientious shopper---he would compare prices and check labels. She just liked picking whatever caught her fancy.

He was the consummate partner, and she wanted him all to herself. “If only I could put him in my pocket so I’ll always have him near me,” she would tell her friends. She wanted him so much he was almost an obsession.

Along with the seeming obsession came the extreme jealousy. She was jealous of his friends and every other girl who happened to engage him in even the most innocuous conversation. She went to counseling for her jealous fits. “I’m just dreading that some girl might find him perfect after all, and then take him away from me,” she rationalized.

But her jealous fits drove him crazy. “You’re suffocating me,” he bemoaned once. Hearing that was like being doused with icy, cold water. She doesn’t remember exactly how she did it, but she managed to rein in her jealousy.

Yet the fights continued; he still drank too much, and had too many late nights out. At some point, he disappeared for two weeks without telling her beforehand where he was going. He must have been miserable. She felt miserable too.

So she suggested they break up; at least for a while. She wanted to think hard about the future of their relationship. He moved into the spare room. They hardly saw each other in the next three weeks. They still shared a house, but they were already leading separate lives.

Until one Sunday morning. Still groggy with sleep, she went downstairs to find an unknown woman in her kitchen.

“Who are you?” She demanded.

“My name is Lorna,” the woman replied.

“Who are you with?” She could feel her heart beating furiously against her breast.

“Carl.”

She ran upstairs to find him awake in bed. Naked.

She doesn’t remember much of the fight that followed. What remains clear is the overwhelming pain of betrayal. It felt like having her heart ripped to pieces with shards of glass.

“Why?”

She couldn’t believe he was capable of such infidelity. It just wasn’t possible; Carl was her perfect man. The one for whom she discarded her traditional values and friendships.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

She was aghast at his reply. It effectively left her hanging, and unable to move on. Looking back, her need for answers only served to trap her within the relationship.

But after four years, she realizes that’s no longer a prerequisite to her healing and moving on. She knows she needs to put an end to the relationship and the memories. Otherwise, her past would haunt her forever.

skipping ship

2006-01-19T18:14:00.000+08:00

I’m skipping ship; I’m leaving for good. It has become pointless, trying to say. It is a painful fact to admit, but I think I have fallen out of love with you. There’s no more spring in my step as I move towards you; no more glow in my eyes when I think of you. Coming to you each day has become a chore. The passion’s gone; I’m as good as dead.

So I’ll be saying goodbye soon, and this time, it will be for good.

last january 16

2006-01-18T19:05:00.000+08:00

It’s 12 pm, but I’m still lounging in bed, wrapped in a peach towel, and waiting for my housemate to finish her shower. By this time, I should be feeling my muscles aching, but fortunately for me, I have yet to feel the aftereffects of all the packing and lifting of heavy boxes I did when I moved last night.

Anyway, on the way to my new house, my friend Miguel remarked, “so this is your life in a box.” He said it in jest of course, but the question stuck.

Do these boxes represent my life? Is that all I’m worth?

That is a painful question.

puerile attempt

2006-01-17T17:58:00.000+08:00

A puerile attempt at writing an erotic piece; we had to write one during our writing workshop. Everyone did except me. I could never write beyond the dance floor scene. Writing erotic is harder than I thought.

Across the dance floor, our eyes collide; you stun me with your piercing gaze, but I hold my own. Your upper body bends slightly forward, as if a predator ready to pounce on its prey. That excites me.

We move slowly towards each other, weaving in between the other dancers, stopping at intervals, but never losing sight of each other. And then we’re at each other’s arms.

I can feel the strength of your muscles beneath your shirt; the heat of your skin penetrates through my dress. My blood pumps furiously through my veins, and then we start moving to the beat. With each movement, your calloused hand gropes down to my buttocks.

finding myself through a writing workshop

2006-01-16T18:03:00.000+08:00

I recently joined a writing workshop because I wanted to see if I had potential. I had my suspicions, but these were unbiased and uninformed. I also joined the workshop because after writing for our publications for the past eight years, I wanted to know if I had enough creativity left in me to write pieces that did not necessarily motivate readers to action, but moved them nonetheless.

I almost decided against attending the workshop though. I was having the best time of my life in the province, while attending the workshop meant having to plunge into an unknown experience. But I also told myself that the workshop would be a good opportunity for me to improve my writing, and cultivate new friendships.

I’m glad I did. For by joining the workshop, I also found myself.

The following are some of the poems I have reworked during the workshop. Each piece documents a part of my life. One poem still makes me cry whenI read it, but eventually, i'll be able to write a poem about healing, and moving on. In the meantime, i'll keep on writing.

Soulmate

Could you be

the water that quenches my thirst
or the blanket that warms me,
the ink that fills my pen
or the drivel that pervades my thoughts,
the blood that flows through my veins
or the sweat that glides from my neck to my navel,
the hair that feathers my arms
or the skin that melds me together,
the soap that lathers my skin
or the towel that embraces me,
the dust sprinkled over the chapel floor
or the ants marching across the weathered pew,

Could you be the mirror that sees my scars?

So that by the time I shed my veil
we would no longer be strangers.

phantom lover

you came out of the mists of a restless slumber
like a sliver of a unicorn’s horn

you gave me wings with which to fly
and the words to celebrate love

the sky wasn’t just blue; ‘twas infused with specks of silver
arcing across its broad expanse, dethroning the rainbow

and the rain, the rain was not water falling in drops
but your fingers caressing my face and my clothes pooling at my feet

it didn’t matter that i could not hold you, your voice was enough
for that tingling sensation to burst from my soul to my fingertips

but like figments of imagination, you drifted away
as clumps of clouds move interminably across the sky.

for him who makes my heart throb

you ask how deep my love goes
I grope and fumble for words
until my fingers are bloody nubs of flesh
protruding from my palms.
I struggle to find the right cadence
in my speech but my tongue, it seems melded
to the sloping convex of my mouth.
you ask how deep my love goes
I rip my breast apart
see how painfully my heart throbs at the sight of you.
then you know that my love goes far beyond
the deepest scars or the wrinkles
fanning across faces
burrowing deep into your soul
hostaged with constructs
unable to take a leap of faith.

you ask how deep my love goes
if you swear that you love me,
why haven’t you chosen me?

understanding poetry

2005-12-15T16:20:00.000+08:00

Food for thought I’d like to share. There’s really no need to elaborate on each; understanding comes with an open heart.

The New Poetry Handbook
Mark Strand

1 If a man understands a poem, he shall have troubles.

2 If a man lives with a poem, he shall die lonely.

3 If a man lives with two poems, he shall be unfaithful to one.

4 If a man conceives of a poem, he shall have one less child.

5 If a man conceives of two poems, he shall have two children less.

6 If a man wears a crown on his head as he writes, he shall be found out.

7 If a man wears no crown on his head as he writes, he shall deceive no one but himself.

8 If a man gets angry at a poem, he shall be scorned by men.

9 If a man continues to be angry at a poem, he shall be scorned by women.

10 If a man publicly denounces poetry, his shoes will fill with urine.

11 If a man gives up poetry for power, he shall have lots of power.

12 If a man brags about his poems, he shall be loved by fools.

13 If a man brags about his poems and loves fools, he shall write no more.

14 If a man craves attention because of his poems, he shall be like a jackass in moonlight.

15 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow, he shall have a beautiful mistress.

16 If a man writes a poem and praises the poem of a fellow overly, he shall drive his mistress
away.

17 If a man claims the poem of another, his heart shall double in size.

18 If a man lets his poems go naked, he shall fear death.

19 If a man fears death, he shall be saved by his poems.

20 If a man does not fear death, he may or may not be saved by his poems.

21 If a man finishes a poem, he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion and be kissed by
white paper.

4 verses

2005-12-12T18:42:00.000+08:00

I stare at a blank page
My fingers hover tentatively over the keys
The words flow from my hands like water

You stare right back at me
I muffle a startled cry
I remember a painful memory

I shiver in the cold mountain air
The wandering albatross soars in flight
“I raise the glass to my mouth, and I sigh”

The cool wind ruffles my hair
The windmill sings with the west wind
My heart is pierced with a haunting melody

ramblings

2005-12-09T18:52:00.000+08:00

I am at it again. I am writing stories in my head, editing them as I go along, and ultimately dismissing them as worthless. I have written before about this destructive habit, and I have sworn not to fall into the same pattern, but damn, old habits die hard!

Even as I write I am unconsciously doing the same thing. And so to ward off this compulsion, I will just write down anything that comes to mind without any thought to style.

Is the clutter on my desk a symbolism of how complicated my life is? Does the haphazard piling of books, news clippings, old notebooks and photocopied documents mirror what I feel inside? Is my life actually complicated, or do I just wish it to be so in order to avoid feeling much too ordinary?

Am I making sense anyway?

What drives my life? What drives humanity? Is it mere survival, or is humanity driven by love, and fidelity, and the quest for spiritual enlightenment? Is humanity driven by its need to do all that is right and good?

What drives me? Am I driven by love and compassion and a sense of justice? Or am I just an empty shell that’s devoid of any deep feeling but that of love for self? Am I capable of deep love in the first place?

Would I really be happy if I stayed? Or is it time for me to go and cut my losses? Would leaving allow me to grow and develop as a writer and development worker in the way that I want to?

I know I am meant for bigger things, but am I really?

Why do I write? I write in order to make sense of what I feel inside. I write to unclutter my mind, hoping that as I write, the answer to all my questions will come to me between the lines; in the space between the question mark and the first letter of the sentence that follows it. I write so I wouldn't feel so alone. I write to rid my heart of all its sadness and pain. I write to be able to give vent to feelings of injustice and impotence. I write to seek refuge from a world that goes on turning even though I can hardly keep up with it. I write to find myself; to go back to the little girl whose deepest heartache then was not getting what she wanted. I write because it is a compulsion, for without writing, I wouldn't feel as fulfilled, nor lucky, that I too, have what it takes to create something that could either be an inspired work of art, or a testament to human frailty.

Why do I write? I write...just...because.

why i write

2005-12-03T13:16:00.000+08:00

This is an essay of Anais Nin in "The New Woman" (1974). Unlike Anais Nin, I do not have a ready answer to the question of why one writes. I can think of so many reasons, but I can also dismiss them just as easily. In fact, I haven’t really dissected my thoughts on why I write. I don’t think I am ready to. But I do relate to what the writer says about writing, and to quote, “We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely.”

Writing is my refuge.

"Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.............. We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely. We write as the birds sing, as the primitives dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write, because our culture has no use for it. When I don't write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."

what i am...now

2005-11-23T17:55:00.000+08:00

Something I got from my e-group, Poets With a Purpose. All you have to do is supply the answers to the words in bold letters. It took me a long time to get down to it, but this was certainly a great tool for introspection.

I AM happy. I feel extremely lucky that I am. One year and five months ago, I was nowhere near being happy. I was going through another break-up, and my depression was starting to get the better of me. I got despondent over the sight of happy couples with cute babies, and I dreaded holidays because I had nobody to spend them with. I found my salvation though in prayer and God. The church was the one place where I could find comfort and peace. I have stopped going to church (again) since then, but I will always be grateful to God for being there for me when I needed saving.

I WONDER though, if I am meant to be somewhere else, do something else, or whether I should just love the one I’m with, even though he has hurt me so much in the past, and I’m no longer interested in spending the rest of my life with him.

I HEAR myself having conversations with people. I hear myself telling people exactly what I think of them. In my mind, I am not so nice; I am not afraid of hurting other peoples’ feelings and sensibilities. In my mind, I am brutally honest and I love it.

I SEE a people who have become apathetic to the widespread poverty and misery that affects the majority of the population. I see a people who are loathe to make a political stand against a corrupt government because it happens to be inconvenient and impractical, and not because it is the moral thing to do.

I WANT to be able to make the world a better place to live in. I want to rid the world of injustice and cruelty.

I AM at peace with myself. I am not besieged with frustrations and unmet demands now, as I know I would be if I were in a committed relationship.

I PRETEND I have overcome my shyness, but I still have my bout with it once in a while.

I FEEL hopeful about the future. I believe the best is yet to come and that tomorrow will bring more pleasant surprises for me.

I WORRY about my parents’ health. They are already old and I have not been spending as much time as I should with them.

I CRY when I see children on the streets begging for food. I cry when I see old people who have barely enough to eat and are still struggling to make a living.

I UNDERSTAND people more. I try to bear in mind that others carry much more heavier burdens than I, so I should try exercising a little more patience in dealing with others.

I SAY the most embarrassing things. Sometimes.

I DREAM of climbing the world’s most beautiful mountains and walking along the world’s most beautiful beaches.

I TRY to be a good daughter now. I realize my parents wouldn’t be around forever; hence I would try to overlook whatever disagreements we have and just spend time with them when I can.

I HOPE I grow old gracefully; I hope I die a happy death.

I AM thankful.

of boobs and willies

2005-11-18T17:17:00.000+08:00

A friend sent this to me through email. I laughed when I read this; cynical but there’s some truth to these words.

I’ve learned that you cannot make someone love you. All you can do is stalk them and hope they panic and give in.

I’ve learned that no matter how much I care, some people are just assholes.

I’ve learned that it takes years to build up trust, and it only takes suspicion, not proof, to destroy it.

I’ve learned that you can get by on charm for about fifteen minutes. After that, you’d better have a big willy or huge boobs.

I’ve learned that you shouldn’t compare yourself to others---they are more screwed up than you think.

I’ve learned that you can keep vomiting long after you think you’re finished.

I’ve learned that we are responsible for what we do, unless we are celebrities.

I’ve learned that regardless of how hot and steamy a relationship is at first, the passion fades and there had better be a lot of money to take its place.

I’ve learned that 99 percent of the time, when something isn’t working in your house, one of your kids did it.

I’ve learned that the people you care most about in your life are taken from you too soon and all the less important ones just never go away.

i remember noel

2005-11-14T18:09:00.000+08:00

As I was scrolling down the list of fellows of the UP National Writer’s Workshop, I came across the name of a college crush, Noel. He didn’t know I existed, but we were classmates in my Science, Technology and Society (STS) class. I never really took an interest in him until he read “A Peaceful Man” in class. It was a French short story of a man who sleeps through his wife’s death, and other unfortunate events in his life. What made that story unforgettable was its quiet, albeit macabre humor; and the fact that he read it so beautifully.

I borrowed his copy of the story as soon as he sat down in the seat in front of me. “Do you write?” He asked. I remember being taken aback by his question. Until then, my writing was limited to juvenile poems in high school and a column in the school paper. “Juvenile stuff,” I answered. That was all of our conversation, but from then on, I always looked out for him in class.

I kept the copy of “A Peaceful Man” until after I started working already and I would read it again from time to time. It never failed to make me smile. I always meant to return the copy to him but I never did. Back then, my shyness kept me from interacting with the opposite sex, especially if I were attracted to them. Noel was no exception.

Eventually, I did get over the shyness but by then, I had already forgotten about Noel and the deep, sexy voice reading “A Peaceful Man”. Until I saw his name; and then I remembered.

sleepless

2005-11-03T15:09:00.000+08:00

It's the most unsettling feeling being unable to sleep. You toss, and you turn, kick the covers, then pull them back up to your neck again. But you only stay still for a minute, then the restelessness creeps over you once more, and the thrashing starts all over again.

Even as you finally admit defeat by struggling from the bed to turn on the light, restlessness keeps a close watch. Only by picking up your trustee pen and writing about your battle with restlessness do you start to calm down.

But even that is an ongoing struggle with yourself. The same compulsion gnaws at your consciousness---to write in your head, choosing words and constructing sentences carefully, only to toss them aside as worthless.

But now you know better than to give in to the self-destructive pattern that has kept you from writing in the past. You have sworn to yourself to keep at your writing by just picking up your pen, or typing at the keyboard with abandon.

Yet still, so many thoughts flit through your head.

Lying on your belly with a pillow under your chin, you listen to the river raging at God for not being allowed even a minute's rest. "Can I not stop flowing, even for just a moment?" She cries. "I am already bruised beyond recognition from flowing unabated over these sharp and mighty rocks. Can't I stop even for just a little while?"

You listen hard for God's reply, and hearing none, rise to turn off the light. You think of the river raging, and then you sigh.

decimating mario

2005-10-26T23:33:00.000+08:00

right now that is what i'd love to do. decimate him, piece by piece, bone by bone, with my bare hands. the cretin borrowed my office keys, and took the key to my room as well. now i'm stranded at a freaking cafe, trying to get in touch with friends who have his number. unfortunately for me, i have long stopped using a mobile---for reasons i'd rather not get into---otherwise, i'd have already hunted him down and retrieved my blasted key.

damn!

seeing B

2005-10-23T19:42:00.000+08:00

seeing a former boyfriend at a congress last week, a year after our last date, brought back memories of another failed relationship. it made me wonder whether i was wrong in breaking up with him. he is a decent guy after all. and i was happy with him, at least until i started wanting more depth of feeling and commitment. he didn't love me enough; i wasn't willing to wait for our relationship to mature.

perhaps i wanted more than he could give me. i wanted passion and excitement and joy. i got nice and steadfast and quiet companionship. something i'd love to have in my old age. but not just yet.

so i couldn't have made a mistake leaving. i may have yet to find the one with whom i'd share "poetry, and adventure and love". in fact, i might end up not finding him at all, but at the moment, i'm quite happy being with myself.

Just write!

2005-10-22T17:55:00.000+08:00

Lately I have found it extremely hard to write. Not that writing is as easy for me as writing the letters of the alphabet. In fact, when somebody asks about my writing, I cannot help but exclaim that it is an arduous process for me.

I know what causes this difficulty. I just haven’t tried to do something about it. That is, until today. The problem with me is that I’m my own worst enemy. I edit myself even before I start writing. The perfectionist in me rejects half-finished sentences or hanging phrases. They have to be fine-tuned in my head before I’ll write them down. If they don’t pass muster, then I don’t write at all. And that’s the surest way of dulling your writing, and dampening your creativity.

Like my friend told me, I should always remember that the main objective of writing is sharing ideas with others.

With that in mind, I intend to get back to writing with renewed energy and zest.

my friend

2005-10-08T18:06:00.000+08:00

He was a picture of innocence. His emaciated body bore the ravages of hunger and deprivation, but his smile was untouched by suffering. True, his eyes seemed old; they seemed as though they had seen too much cruelty and harshness. But his smile seemed untouched by these.

We communicated by nods and grunts. We could hardly carry on a decent conversation, but our souls understood each other. If was as if I knew he needed a kind word, a gentle touch, a caring hand; his hugs told me just as much. We took to each other like old friends; and for a day, I was his protector and friend. And for a day, I knew what it was like to be accepted without preconceptions and prejudice.

And for a day I knew how it was to be loved just because.

2005-09-21T16:05:00.000+08:00

...and this too.

untitled

2005-09-20T17:03:00.000+08:00

this is what peaceful means to me...

wish i could put this in my resume

2005-09-08T18:06:00.000+08:00

Versatile, intelligent and artistically talented. You love to enjoy yourself and tend to experience a happy domestic life and material success. You have a methodical and thorough mind and are able to organise large projects easily. Charming and likeable and with more than your share of sex appeal you tend to find yourself in the spotlight and much admired by others. Life is more fun with you around.

http://www.bostonuk.com/names/default.asp

on being alone

2005-08-25T17:20:00.000+08:00

i can't be still. i can't just sit alone, thinking, and be at peace. i need to do something with my hands; write my thoughts down on paper, or pick up a book. sitting alone in a kiosk at a resort, i rummage in my wallet for a scrap of paper in order to lend coherence to my thoughts.

and then i am calm.

at a kiosk behind me are two middle-age businessmen talking about seeds and rejects and making a profit out of them. the breeze picks up and i feel it blowing tendrils of fine hair off my face.

the wind creates vertical ripples on the water's surface and makes it look as if an enormous sheet of gray curdoroy was spread out to cover its breadth. a makeshift windmill turns according to its whim.

and i am at peace.

scared and yet...

2005-08-06T16:44:00.000+08:00

I’m going to a malaria endemic place on Wednesday. I’m taking precautionary measures of course (prophylaxis, tons of mosquito repellent) but the prospect of getting infected scares me. The thought of Anopheles (we’re on a first name basis now) piercing through layers of mosquito repellent and thick clothing, thus having a parasite shoot straight for my liver and then being nauseous and feverish (among other thing) afterwards sends chills down my spine.

My mother’s overreacting doesn’t help either. She demands that I take the next available flight home so we can discuss leaving my job. I can imagine the monologue (yeah, I keep mum): it’s too dangerous, it doesn’t pay, it doesn’t fit her idea of a perfect job, etc. She keeps forgetting I’m stubborn to a fault and I have always resisted similar demands from her in the past. But I digress.

Malaria really does scare me but my excitement at doing something new overshadows my fear of getting it. Excitement is what I have been wanting at work; everything bored me. I couldn’t write; I hated meetings. I was just drifting. So then I decided I ought to try another job---one that allowed me to do more writing and editing, and attend less meetings.

But they didn’t accept my resignation when I handed it in. So I asked that I be allowed to shift focus instead. And I did. Now I can barely contain my enthusiasm for my new job. I still find writing tortuous, but that’s something I have long learned to deal with.

What’s important is that my zest for work has returned. And no amount of fear of getting malaria will stop me from enjoying it.

when doing good is tantamount to being stupid

2005-08-05T19:04:00.000+08:00

My flight last July 30 was at 5 o’clock in the morning so I was already shivering under a steaming shower (yes despite that) by 1 am after only 3 hours of sleep. Leaving my place an hour later, I was at the airport by 3:30.

At the pre-departure area, both check-in counters had short queues forming in front of each. I fell in line behind the last guy in front of the counter to my right. “Excuse me, miss, do you have any baggage?” He asked. “No, I don’t,” I replied.

“Could you check-in my baggage for me? You see, I have already paid extra for my excess baggage and I’m wondering if you could claim it as yours so I don’t have to pay another P300,” he explained.

Now any other individual would have turned away such a request from complete strangers, especially if granting it would make you an accessory to cheating (the airline out of a few hundred bucks). But worse than that, the baggage could have contained drugs or terrorist paraphernalia (of course x-ray machines would have detected that, but I’m letting free rein over my imagination) and I could have taken the fall for somebody’s botched attempt at smuggling these.

Yet I never thought of that while agreeing to check-in the stranger’s baggage (it was a box of books, he said). Rather I thought I was just being an occasional Good Samaritan. I only realized the utter recklessness of what I did when the officer at the check-in counter started questioning me whether it really was my baggage I was checking-in (apparently, Stranger had already asked him if he could check-in his additional baggage without paying extra). I tried to lie and told him it was mine indeed but when he pressed me, I buckled and pointed at Stranger.

Eventually, he did allow the box through but not without berating Stranger, and looking at me as if I were the most stupid air commuter ever.

And I did feel really, really stupid after the incident. But I swore I’d never let the same thing happen again. And if there’s one good thing I learned from the incident, it’s that I can’t lie even if my life depended on it. Now if that really is a good thing is still debatable.

sister, sister

2005-07-21T16:47:00.000+08:00

Familiarity does breed contempt, or at least it makes you dispense with common courtesy that you would otherwise grant your friends or even mere acquaintances. People tend to expect certain courtesies or favors from family or significant others without showing the barest consideration or appreciation. This eventually leads to a feeling of resentment.

In my case, it nagged at me until I talked it out with a friend.

On two previous occasions, my sister expected me to drop everything at work just so I could type her report for her. I could have refused of course, but I thought no one else would be able to help her so I took off from work twice in order to get to the Makati Medical Center where she’s on medical clerkship. What’s maddening though is that every time I arrive in Makati (after an hour and a half of dealing with obnoxious cab drivers and jostling for a seat on the train), the report would already be done, or someone else has already agreed to help her out.

Which makes me a mere nuisance, and fuming mad.

I’m not usually as reticent or a pushover (hell no!) with others, but knowing what my sister is going through right now (hmmm…let me see, she’s got a philandering asshole for an absentee husband, she’s been away from her kids for three months already and she misses them terribly, she’s on her clerkship---medical students would know how toxic that is, etc.) makes me want to treat her with kid gloves.

We have never been that close growing up (I was always the pesky brat) but in the past three months, we have become close friends. Now I know her pains and her struggles as a medical student with two young kids to take care of. And I realize how much stronger she is now. She’s no longer the same pushover I used to pester back then.

Now I let her know how much I admire her for her strength and perseverance. And if she slips every now and then---oh yes, by being incredibly inconsiderate---I think I can let that pass. Rediscovering family is after all much more precious than being inconvenienced...on occasion, that is.

Tonight I Can Write by Pablo Neruda (translation from Il Postino)

2005-07-10T14:00:00.000+08:00

Being uncharacteristically maudlin nowadays, i've been listening over and over again to Andy Garcia's rendering of the poem and crying buckets over it. I suppose it's all part of the process of moving on and accepting what can never be. Although it is an uphill battle; one call from him is all it takes for me to backslide. Then I am back again to waiting and hoping that we would end up together. It's a vicious cycle, I know, but I take comfort in what Neruda said: "Love is so short, forgetting is so long."

It's taking me a long time, but I will move on, and I will forget.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example: "The night is shattered,
and the blue stars shiver in the distance."

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I thought of the saddest lines.
And I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, and sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great, still eyes?

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.

To hear the immense night still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is shattered and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance, someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight searches for her as though to go to her.
My heart looks for her and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. Like my kisses before.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me
suffer, and these the last verses that I write for her.

Besieged

2005-07-05T13:38:00.000+08:00

I feel besieged on all fronts; much like a soldier who has run out of ammunition while being surrounded and annihilated by enemy fire. And I can feel my impending doom. Sooner or later I’m going to raise the white flag, or worse have my bullet-riddled body fed to a pack of starving roaches. Roaches that fly and are as big as saucers with teeth so sharp they could tear leather hide in five seconds flat. But in my case, they’d want to go it slow; humans are much more succulent and taste better than the rotting carcasses of animals, so they’d want to savor the moment. First they’d suck the blood off my wounds, then scrape my rotting flesh off my bones with their teeth.

Teetering on the verge of death, I’d still be able to feel how each sharp row of teeth clamps down on my shredded flesh, and the crushing of my bones on impact. Fine, I’m exaggerating, but that’s pretty much how I feel at the moment.

the secret reason

2005-05-31T10:31:00.000+08:00

The Secret Reason

You ask me why I love you with my soul
With all devotion, doveness of desire,
Why I can bleed my heart yet give it whole
Intenser in the whiteness of its fire;
You ask me why you have become the sun
That lights my life, why in your loveliness
You hold the loom whereon my dreams are spun;
Why you can lend me heaven in one caress?
But you perhaps have never asked the rose
The secret reason why it blooms so sweet,
Nor why it bends to a lover-wind that blows;
So let me love you much, this I entreat,
And ask not why my love is warm as flame,
Too bright for words, too beautiful to name.

--Guillermo V. Sison

Vox Femina

If speak you must, speak not where lights are dim,
Nor voice your love in whispers faintly clear.
Call it caprice; say 'tis an idle whim,
But, Love, I hold it sweeter song to hear
Your words ring distinct, bold and unashamed,
Voiced where the day shines full upon your face,
The savagery of cynics thereby tamed,
Silence their taunts before your scornful gaze.

One other prayer, Love. I beg you listen:
If love you must, love me thou openly.
Were it not folly to conceal from Heaven
That which than Heaven is more heavenly?
Call it a whim---caprice---whiche'er you may,
I want your love as plain to all as day.

--Trinidad L. Tarrosa

ha kusina

2005-05-24T16:03:00.000+08:00

ha kusina
hin usa ka aga
may natukdaw nga babayi
nga diri ko kilala

pinakian-han iya ngaran
siring niya hiya hi lorna
nag-aano ka dinhi ha akon kusina?
akon pakiana kan lorna

“upod ko an imo asawa,”
baton niya

dumalagan ako tikadto ha kuwarto
nakit-an ko an akon asawa
nahigda ha higdaan
waray sul-ot, waray alo

kay-ano nga nagsugad ka?
pakiana ko han akon asawa
“diri ako maaram,” baton niya

nag-abri an porta
nakit-an ko hi lorna
sumaka ha hagdanan
tikang ha akon kusina.

Damn Indecision

2005-05-19T17:17:00.000+08:00

I wish I had the ability to see beyond what my narrow vision allows me to see. I wish I could tell beforehand whether or not a crucial decision I am about to make will turn out to be the best decision I have ever made in my entire life. I wish I had an all-seeing bowl of enchanted water that would let me have a preview of the future; one that would warn me when I am about to fall flat on my face and show me an alternative course that would lead me to happiness. I wish life were one of those choose-your-own-adventure books wherein you could always go back to where you started when you make an error in judgment.

I used to be so damn sure of myself and my decisions in life. I practically breezed through life knowing what I wanted and then getting it eventually. Hell, I was even reckless. Of course I paid much for some of that recklessness, but that never held me back from living life to the fullest.

That is, until now.

I don’t know what it is that holds me back. Every pore in my being (and everyone I’ve consulted besides) tells me I should take the opportunity and leave this behind; that it is high time I spread my wings and explored another world. And then asking myself whether I still found fulfillment with what I’m doing now, my heart said no.

So what’s holding me back?

“It’s the low compensation,” is my halfhearted answer. “But what is it that you value more, compensation or fulfillment?” That’s my heart talking by the way. Her name is Antonia. She just got her name now but she represents all the strong characters that come to mind when I utter her name. There’s Antonia of “Antonia’s Line” and Tony in “My Antonia”. Anyway, I digress.

“Of course fulfillment matters more to me,” I reply. Money can never compensate for that sense of fulfillment and accomplishment one normally gets when one loves what one is doing. “Yes, but do you believe that?” Antonia is nothing but persistent.

“Yes.”

“So what other lame excuse have you got?” She asks. “Ummm…if I get reassigned to Dumaguete, then I think I’d like to stay.” “You think?” Such a fine time for Antonia to nitpick; she’s like a bloodhound when she’s on to something.

“Before this opportunity came, I decided that I wanted to relocate to the province. It could have been Davao or Dumaguete, I really didn’t care. I just wanted a change in environment; I wanted another challenge. I’ve been doing this for eight years it has become routine. And it doesn’t motivate me anymore.” Antonia smiled her knowing smile. She really didn’t need to say more.

From Ji

2005-05-13T15:42:00.000+08:00

I saw this poem again while I was going through my files earlier. He gave this to me back when I was in Sampa and he was in Narra. He wrote this on a folded piece of paper, wrote my name across the back, and clipped it to the revolving note rack. We never really exchanged more than the cursory hello. And I never knew what became of him until years later when I became friends with his wife (the coolest chic I ever met).

Anyway, as the poem is in keeping with the tone of my latest entries (that is, indulging my flair for melodrama), i'm posting this now. I don't believe I ever got the chance to say it, but thank you.

Shadows against white have turned
but still we remain
the tide has replaced its brother
and still we remain
cuddled.

Your wholeness against mine
mindless of the heat
and at night the cold
we cuddle
needless of words
mindless of time.

This magic
of having you with me
pierces my soul
so painful, almost physical
because when reality rouses me
I look, and you were not there
never there.

I Said To Poetry

2005-05-03T15:18:00.000+08:00

I said to Poetry: “I’m finished
with you.”
Having to almost die
before some weird light
comes creeping through
is no fun.
“No thank you, Creation,
no muse need apply.
I’m out for the good times---
at the very least,
some painless convention.”

Poetry laid back
and played dead
until this morning.
I wasn’t sad or anything,
only restless.

Poetry said: “You remember
the desert, and how glad you were
that you had an eye
to see it with? You remember
that, if ever so slightly?’
I said: “I didn’t hear that.
Besides, it’s five o’clock in the a.m.
I’m not getting up
in the dark
to talk to you.”

Poetry said: “But think about the time
you saw the moon
over that small canyon
that you liked much better
than the grand one—and how surprised you were
that the moonlight was green
and you still had
one good eye
to see it with.

“Think of that!”

“I’ll join the church!” I said,
huffily, turning my face to the wall.
“I’ll learn how to pray again!”

“Let me ask you,” said Poetry.
“When you pray, what do you think
you’ll see?

Poetry had me.

“There’s no paper
in this room,” I said.
“And that new pen I bought
makes a funny noise.”

“Bullshit,” said Poetry.
“Bullshit,” said I.

(written by alice walker, an author and activist who wrote "the color purple", among others. it was published in 1982 and won for her a pulitzer prize.)

phantom lover

2005-04-11T10:28:00.000+08:00

you came out of the mists of a restless slumber
like a sliver of a unicorn’s shining white horn

you brought magic into an otherwise mundane existence
and gave me the words with which to celebrate love

the sky wasn’t just blue; ‘twas infused with specks of silver
arcing across its broad expanse, as if dethroning the rainbow

and the rain, the rain was no longer just water falling in drops
but your fingers caressing my face and my clothes pooling at my feet

it mattered not that i could never hold you, your voice was enough
to stoke my quiescent passion and urge me to feverish heights

but like mere figments of imagination, you started to drift away
like the clumps of clouds moving interminably across the sky

without a word, you turned away, and i couldn’t hold you back
but then i realized that you couldn’t have been anything else

but my phantom lover, for I know now that you could never ever be
anything more than a mere figment of my imagination.

Soulmate

2005-03-15T18:36:00.000+08:00

What are you soulmate?
Are you the water that quenches my thirst,
or the blanket that warms me from the cold?
Could you be the ink that fills my pen,
and the drivel that pervades my thoughts?

I can't help but wonder if you could be
the floss that cleans my teeth,
or the strip that waxes my thighs.

Perhaps you could be the dust sprinkled
over the chapel floor
or the ants marching across the weathered pew.
Are you the blood that flows through my veins,
or the sweat that glides from my neck to my navel?

Maybe you are the hair that feathers my arms
and the skin that melds me together.
I wish you could be the soap
that licks my skin, or the towel that dries me off.

Ah, i just hope you were the mirror that sees
my scars.
Then perhaps by the time I shed my veil,
we would no longer have to be strangers
so much as soulmates.

meter for broken hearts

2005-03-10T18:45:00.000+08:00

If there was a meter for broken hearts (like the taxi meter for cabs), I would have busted mine a long time ago from overuse. All my romantic relationships have always failed; and I always had my heart wrecked and shattered like a smashed-up car that had been run over by an over speeding ten-wheeler truck. And much to my chagrin, I still have no idea what I seem to be doing wrong. Apparently, learning a thing or two from previous relationships doesn’t sit well with me.

Because if I just bothered to stop and think of his transgressions in the past, I wouldn’t have been in so much hurry to forgive him and start over. Then I wouldn’t be so freaking hurting right now. But no, I had to go through another broken heart. Just for kicks, mind you.

My highly evolved masochist tendencies induced me to want to experience the torment of knowing he’s been lying to me all along. That instead of being in Australia like he said he is, he was actually staying at his aunt’s house in Mindoro; with a wife on the side.

I have to indulge my instinctive knack for melodrama every so often you know. And having my call and text message ignored by his mother, and then writhing in agony and frustration afterwards, is one dramatic moment indeed.

So while I’m relishing the role of the wronged party, I’m also lubricating my imaginary meter for broken hearts. It has to be in perfect working order you see, to fully approximate the depth of my subsequent theatrical tragedy.

praying like i've never prayed before

2005-03-07T17:54:00.000+08:00

i have been to job interview and skills test this morning. i have actually applied as writer but the organization i'm applying to(another non-government organization; i can't seem to leave development work behind) is in need of a media relations officer, so it is the position that they are offering applicants at the moment.

the entrance pay is somewhat lower than what i am receiving now, but it doesn't really figure in my consciousness. what i'm after is the chance to do something different; to prove to myself that i can still learn new skills and be good at them as well.

besides, after eight years in my current work, i'm ready to seek new challenges. i'm ready to move on and explore the rest of the world. i feel as if i'm at the edge of the abyss, yet i'm not afraid to fall.

for now i know i have the wings to fly.

untitled

2005-03-03T17:08:00.000+08:00

i came across this poem a few years back. it was published in a major daily but unfortunately, the author's name was never mentioned. whoever you are, i'd like to thank you for sharing with us a funny and "unabashedly" sensual poem. i must say, it does work its magic.

I am too embarrassed
to write an erotic poem for you:
suppose my mother read it, or your mother?

What would they think
if I listed the various parts of our anatomies
that work so well together?

What would they think
of this position or that place,
that look on your face just before,
the feeling I have just after?

I think I shall have to wait
until our mothers are gone
and by then it may be too late.
In the meantime, baby,
you turn me on.

happiness

2005-02-24T18:18:00.001+08:00

like the lapping of white, foaming waves against rock
the dripping of raindrops from scraggly leaves to wet earth
the soft, wet sand of beach
the steep rise of a mountain ridge

like fluid movement of calloused feet on dance floor
the uninterrupted flight of fingers over soft keys
the burst of sensual pleasure from urgent, searching hands
the keening joy at being with you.

valentine fuss

2005-02-17T17:41:00.000+08:00

I used to think Valentine’s Day was nothing more than an invention of Hallmark, as are the rest of the other occasions that people so religiously celebrate. But last Monday, I found myself participating in the valentine frenzy that afflicted the gullible majority, albeit one that was for a cause. It was a dance concert benefiting small fishers and farmers and featured the Spirit of ’67, a great band that plays mostly 60s and 70s (and a sprinkling of 80s) music.

Given the occasion, they started out playing love songs, but before long, they were singing dance tunes that had the audience crowding the dance floor. One vocalist, in particular (I call him Mr. Salt & Pepper) sang so beautifully I was in seventh heaven.

It was a beautiful valentine night.

And it was even more memorable because I spent it with friends, and Marcos. He is a pleasant surprise, Marcos. I wasn’t prepared to like him at all. In fact, I was having second thoughts about meeting him even as I walked toward our rendezvous two weeks ago. But I’m glad I showed up.

I find him very refreshing to talk to, candid and loquacious. I immediately felt at ease; and being in his arms while dancing felt right. But admitting to anything more than feeling at ease is as far as I can go at the moment. There are too many loose ends and excess baggage lying about for my “liaison” with Marcos to go anywhere.

But in the meantime baby, yes I’m having fun. A Hallmark-induced valentine isn’t so bad after all.

futile exercise

2005-02-11T19:08:00.000+08:00

last monday, we spearheaded the formation of another coalition on agrarian reform. it's most immediate plan of action is the holding of a press conference on monday, 14 february 2005. one of the demands that will be aired during the press conference is for the secretary to resign his post for failing to make any difference in land redistribution, among others.

it is heartening to see the agrarian reform sector come together in order to push for reforms in the agrarian reform program. but i also suspect that nothing's going to come out of this exercise again. government is too disconnected to what actually ails the peasant sector that it will take more than a press conference to jolt it into acceding to our demands.

we need to stage a more concerted effort to achieve our goals. by this i mean we have to build a critical mass. we have to play the numbers game in order to show government that we matter. all our plans and activities have to be conducted in support of a greater scheme. otherwise, nobody would listen to us.

and that would be the greater shame. we have been at this for so long, a lot of lives have already been sacrificed. let us honor those who have died by making sure that this time, we will be heard.

something to smile about

2005-02-10T18:04:00.000+08:00

my article got printed today at a major daily. it was not on the front page, but it got a pretty large space at the opinion section. it felt good seeing that article in print, and knowing i had a shot at influencing how people think of the issue. if they are even aware of the issue that is.

you see that is the problem with the broadsheets (with the exception of a few) today. nothing remotely pertaining to something as abstract as social justice gets a second look, unless of course (and i've said this already) somebody gets murdered. then it gets front page treatment.

but then as my title suggests, it's still something to smile about. the merging of the three government agencies (department of agrarian reform, national commission on indigenous peoples, presidential commission for the urban poor) has such overwhelming implications on the peasant sector that a little coverage goes a long way.

yes, even though they didn't get my first name right.

fallling out of...

2005-02-05T19:31:00.000+08:00

how does one know one is falling out of love? when you no longer feel as excited as you once were at the prospect to chatting online, is that falling out of love? when his name doesn't even cross your mind throughout the day, is that falling out of love? when you no longer believe his excuses when he refuses to give you his number so you could call him, is that falling out of love?

when you stop wearing your promise ring, is that falling out of love? when you're no longer looking forward to getting married in two years, is that falling out of love? when you start thinking you deserve better than how he is treating you right now, is that falling out of love? when you start planning your future without him in the picture, is that falling out of love? when you start thinking that you have yet to meet the right person for you, is that falling out of love?

surely this is just one of those bumps that come with being in a long distance relationship. but if this isn't falling out of love, then what is?

Undeniable truths

2005-02-01T18:04:00.000+08:00

In the course of my self-examination, I have come across the following undeniable truths:

1. Life is not fair. You will always encounter injustice at every turn; the more
frequently you see injustice done, the more jaded you become.

2. Politicians will always be corrupt; the bureaucracy inept.

3. There is no such thing as a classless society.

4. Prices of commodities will always go up, but salaries will not.

5. Husbands will philander; wives will find excuses for their husbands’ philandering.

6. Mothers will never stop worrying about their kids’ safety; their kids would
resent them for it.

7. Men will stand by their lies even when they are caught in the act.

8. Some friends will be there for you after every failed relationship; some will not.

9. No matter how carefully you plan your life, it never turns out the way you want
it to.

10. All good things come to an end; especially the ones which make you the happiest.

11. In life as in love, there are no guarantees.

Crossroads

2005-01-31T17:37:00.000+08:00

I am at a crossroad. I can’t see far beyond each road though. Everything seems uncertain; especially the things I have taken for granted all these years. I wonder how I could have come to this juncture. There are no easy answers. I have realizations though, but I am not certain whether these will help me know which road to take next.

I only know that…

I have spent the last eight years of my life working for a just cause. For the most part, it was my idealism that prodded me on, even though there were times when I wanted to up and leave. I harbored this hope that my work would someday redound to justice and equity in the countryside. But in the face of brutal realities, idealism wanes, and you become cynical. For how long do we have to take to the streets, buck the bureaucracy, raise our fists in fury, before we finally achieve what we have been dreaming of all these years?

There are no easy answers. I only know that…

I am leaving my dream behind not because my idealism is beyond salvage, and certainly not because I have given up in the face of these brutal realities that I speak of.

I am leaving because I have to.

But I also know that no matter where I go, or no matter what I do, I will always be grateful for all the experiences that have not only enriched my life, but also prepared me for whatever lies ahead.

the law of love

2005-01-26T17:52:00.000+08:00

I just finished reading Laura Esquivel’s “the Law of Love” (she also wrote Like Water for Chocolate). It’s about attaining what the book refers to as the ultimate goal in life, and that is to be united with one’s twin soul. Hence, the book’s central character, Azucena, goes through numerous challenges and obstacles, across different lifetimes, just to finally be with Rodrigo, her twin soul.

I found the book’s contention of love, and by extension, sex, being the medium through which one can divine one’s life purpose much too simplistic and archaic. For instance, Azucena perceives the Divine Light while having sex with Teo, the undercover guardian angel; on the other hand, Rodrigo, in between orgasms, saw “his past coming to light”. Fine, I actually found it stupid.

But there was this passage in the book that I hold true and its learning not to fear sorrow and pain. Instead, one should learn to accept them as part of one’s life; to welcome them until they have run their course, for after sorrow and pain come happiness and joy.

And then there was this poem by Liliana Felipe that made me cry. Reading the poem was like looking into my pensieve, for it depicted how I felt at one point in my life. Here it is.

What kind of thing is love, it seems so much like pain,
It never touched me, never touched you,
Never knew how to, or wished to, or tried to.
That’s why you aren’t with me…

Because we never even met
And in all the time we lost
Each one of us lived his part
But each one always apart.
Because you can’t extinguish
What has never been ignited,
Because you can’t restore to health
Something that never has languished.
Because you’d never understand
My weariness, my manias,
Because to you it’d be just the same
If I fell into the abyss.
This love you’ve scorned so long
Because you never even looked for me
Where I wouldn’t have been anyway,
Nor would you have loved me.

That’s why you aren’t with me.
That’s why I’m not with you.

Liliana Felipe

he said, she said

2005-01-22T17:50:00.000+08:00

She sits alone at a restaurant, somber and puffy-eyed. And with pen and paper, tries to write down her thoughts. She has a lot on her mind; frustration and disappointment are gnawing at her insides, but she hasn't been able to articulate her state of mind on paper. She knows she has to though, otherwise, she'd never be at peace. Worse, she might implode anytime now, and that would be the bigger tragedy.

Her frustration stems from intuitively knowing that her partner is lying to her about going abroad to study, and being unable to confront him with her suspicions because she has no way of proving them.

Her gut feel tells her she's right. For how else could he explain his leaving so late for the airport on the day of his departure? He said his flight was at 2:30 pm, but he was still with her at 12:30. Considering that it takes two hours to get to the airport from the office, that was really cutting it close.

Too, he wouldn't allow her to see him off. For two people about to get married and who wouldn't be seeing each other for the next 11 months, that was a pretty cavalier way of saying goodbye.

Now he wouldn't give her his phone number. The first time she asked for it, he got angry (she could have asked about his flight instead of wanting to talk to him on the phone, pronto!); after being mollified though, he said his sister (who's financing his education) is still mad at him (and by extension, her) for barely making it to the plane (but how could he have been allowed inside the departure area, much less the boarding gate when he said he left his ticket with his sister?), thus, I should put off calling him for the moment.

The next time she asked for his number (after a waiting period of one week), he said to give his sister more time for they were still not on speaking terms (even though it's just the two of them in a foreign country). Besides, he said, how could she be able to save money if she called him? Of course, after much pleading, he got angry again, resulting to a very succinct letter telling her he was getting tired of her pettiness.

He later apologized for the letter. But now she wonders how long she can keep this up. She's starting to rethink her decision to marry him in 2006. If she proves herself right, how can she marry him knowing all the lies? If he is indeed lying to her now, how can she be certain that he hasn't been lying to her all along?

Her friends tell her to just wait for the truth to come out. But for how long?

Meanwhile, at work, she learned that the management committee evaluated her performance for the last two years as unremarkable because the issues she handled didn't fly. Wait a minute...while you're at it, why don't you blame her for the tsunami that hit Asia as well?

How could that have been taken against her? Agrarian related issues, unless they are in conjunction with say, kinky sex in the rice fields among farmers, or murder and mayhem in sugarlandia, wouldn't merit media attention. Issues like land use and the budget barely get cursory interest among coalitions. Besides, a successful campaign entails the concerted effort of numerous organizations and individuals committed to a cause, not just that of an individual.

Of course, in hindsight, she could have streaked naked along the corridors of congress to draw attention to her causes; which is actually not a bad idea.

But that's beside the freaking point.

whoa

2005-01-13T17:48:00.000+08:00

what just happened here? i'm surveying the remains of our chat fight and i'm aghast. when did you become so quick to anger? why the hurtful words? we never used to hurt each other this much. why start now?

raging mad

2005-01-12T17:47:00.000+08:00

I’m mad at you for leaving. I’m mad at you because you wouldn’t listen to my pleas and stay with me. You had to leave you said, because you have no future here. It doesn’t matter if that means being away from each other. You have to leave and that’s it.

I on the other hand, am left with no choice but to accept your decision. But I am mad. I’d like to scream, and stomp my feet, but that would be too outrageous a behavior for me. And so I am just fuming mad. If I had a friend with whom I could share my angst, I wouldn’t feel this much torment. But I have set my friends aside when we got back together, and now their exacting their revenge. They’re no longer available.

I tried immersing myself in my usual “places of worship”, i.e., the salon, but the relief it brought me was only temporary. Besides, it costs a lot to have one’s hair and feet pampered.

I can’t even bring myself to go back to where we usually have dinner. That would be too emotionally taxing. And there are no good movies showing at the nearest theater tonight.

Damn you! I guess I’d just have to order my favorite pasta from Sbarro and eat it in my room. In the meantime baby, I’m mad at you.

disconnected

2005-01-06T17:45:00.000+08:00

Damn! It’s the start of the year and I’m feeling disconnected already. I don’t know how I’ve come to this juncture. Wasn’t it only yesterday when I was basking in the afterglow of a marvelous vacation in picturesque Banaue spent with the person I’ve committed myself to marry in two years? And now this?

This could be a result of my conversation with my mom last night. She called me up just before quitting time and told me in no uncertain terms that she wants me home in the province where she can watch over me and ensure that I don’t hie off to the highlands at all. If it weren’t my mother I was talking to, I would have told her that wasn’t what I wanted, but a lifetime of conditioning (where making a contrary point is tantamount to being disrespectful) made me keep quiet and not say anything at all.

I guess it is the frustration of not saying what I wanted to say that makes me feel “disconnected”.

I hate feeling this way. It’s like living in paradise and yet failing to appreciate its beauty because I’ve been robbed of all my senses. I can’t even appreciate just being together even if I know full well that he’ll soon be leaving for Australia any day now. This is like being in limbo, only worse because I can’t think of any reason why I should be there; or being in hell and not caring whether I get out of there or not.

We had a fight last night because of my being “disconnected”. We weren’t having a conversation at all. I just wanted to sit and stare ahead, which pissed him off. I went home alone. We both apologized for what happened last night, but the feeling persists. Writing about it though makes it easier for me to put a name to what ails me; or at least it helps me put my thoughts and emotions into perspective.

I haven’t told him about feeling “disconnected” yet, but I will tonight. At least so he’ll understand that this isn’t some bratty stunt I’m pulling (which I have been guilty of in the past).

Damn the human psyche!

starting the year right

2005-01-03T17:35:00.000+08:00

I would like to start the year with something I wrote in July last year (though I have already posted this on my other blog). Child of the Universe was an acceptance of my brokenness then, but it was also an affirmation of my desire to rise above my heartaches through sheer strength of will. I have indeed risen above these painful experiences but Child of the Universe will always serve as a pact with my soul; that I will always be what I say I am, no matter what experiences life deals me with.

Child of the Universe

I am a child of the universe
Complete, intact
I depend on no one for my happiness
My sense of self worth does not
Derive from being with someone

I am a child of the universe
Strong, resilient
No heartache would be too
Fierce for me to overcome
No hardship too tough to deal with

I am a child of the universe
Nurturing, caring
I will nurture family and friendships
And I will extend myself for others
But not to the point of forgetting

Myself.

I am a child of the universe
Scarred, hurting
But that will not stop me from
Living life to the fullest
Nor can past heartaches
Hold me back from loving again

I am a child of the universe
And as long as I have “poetry in my life,
And adventure, and love”, I can
Ride out storms and survive adversity
With as much panache as Cyrano

I am a child of the universe
I hold the promise of a bright future
And I will look forward to tomorrow
With enthusiasm because

I am a child of the universe
And I deserve nothing less than what
Life has to offer me.

twisted

2004-12-22T17:32:00.000+08:00

I have been a very bad girl. I have been neglecting my writing lately because I am so unabashedly (can’t help it) preoccupied with living my love story to care about developing my craft and keeping my pact with my muse. I haven’t even been feeding her for God’s sake (in his book “Zen in the Art of Writing, Ray Bradbury tells writers to feed the muse; i.e., read, read, read)! For the past four weeks, I haven’t so much as lifted the cover of some of the books that I’d planned to read because I always fall straight to sleep everytime my back hits the bed. That’s how lazy I’ve become.

Anyway, I’d like to make it up to my muse by writing at least snippets of my life in the last four weeks. See, I can’t even write a decent, full-length entry. Whatever.

Che and I

…are getting married on December 2006. If I had my way, I’d marry him in civil rites, but my family would raise hell if we didn’t have a church wedding. Being the baby of the family, they’d be mortified to see me getting married without fanfare. Tradition…we have to follow tradition. Oh well…

Work

I have been feeling the blues at work. I just haven’t been feeling inspired enough to attack my workload with a vengeance. I am bored. I can’t even muster enough brainpower to finish a freaking press release. As a result, my backlog has been piling up. Darn, January is going to be very hectic for me. Whew!

Family

I’m not spending Christmas with my family. We have just become more bizarre than the Adams Family and more hostile than feuding warrior clans. My sister and her husband hate my parents and the rest of the family and forbid their daughters to visit their Lolo and Lola. My elder sister and I have a little tiff over her angelic kids now turned young hooligans. And so instead of brushing aside petty misunderstandings and embodying the Christmas spirit, I’ll go backpacking in Banawe instead. Twisted…twisted…twisted.

Should I Marry You?

2004-12-08T17:25:00.000+08:00

There was a time when I thought that marrying you was the most natural thing for me to do. That was when I was happily in love with you and I was so certain that you were the person I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. We even wanted to get married two months after we became a couple. I was just persuaded by friends to think things over and wait until the end of the year before plunging in.

Then we set another wedding date; we said we’d get married in June. Maria even gave us a washing machine as a wedding present. But the conundrum over my birth certificate got in the way, and we had to shelve our wedding plans all over again.

Right after getting back together, I broached the subject of marriage again. But no, I didn’t exactly broach the subject. I wheedled and I eventually needled you into agreeing to get married in January. You see, I was afraid I’d lose you again if I let you leave for Australia without getting married first. You ended up getting pissed; I got frustrated.

You told me you wanted to at least prepare for it. I didn’t see the need for any kind of preparation for a civil wedding. “It’s not that I don’t want to marry you,” you said. “I do, and in fact I was the one who brought it up in the first place. And if I were to marry anyone right now, it would be you. You were the one who hedged about getting married.”

I was hurt but I realized then that you were right. Marriage is something that should not be plunged into without careful thought and consideration. And deciding to marry shouldn’t be so hard in the first place. And it definitely shouldn’t be on account of my wheedling and needling.

When we saw each other last night, I had already decided that I was just going to enjoy what we have right now and be happy with it. So you surprised me when over dinner, you suggested that we get married in January. “I suppose I will have to get dressed up, eh?” You asked. I said yes, people who are about to get married do dress for the occasion.

I should have been delirious with happiness then but I wasn’t. Because now I’m not so certain I want to marry you. I know that I love you, but I am not sure whether I can deal with the drinking again. That has always been our source of conflict before, and I have no illusions that it’s going to go away now just because we’re on our second wind.

Or is it? Will it?

If you can only promise me…right now I feel that marrying you would be a gamble, and I am not sure whether I have what it takes to bet on us.

Between today and 29 November

2004-12-06T17:22:00.000+08:00

A lot has happened between today and 29 November. Sunday, last week, I was telling my friend Manel that I was truly happy with the way things are in my life. We were at Gloria Jean’s in Araneta (after enjoying Bellinis’ Napoletana pizza) and marveling at how much we loved the place because it didn’t draw the seemingly requisite crowd with phony accents and hyena-ish laughter. She agreed. “Except for us.” Ouch! Point taken, but I’m digressing.

Anyway, in between sips of heavenly cappuccino, I told her that I was happy because I have finally moved on and accepted that: first, Roi is now but a happy phantom (words of wisdom from stormwriter he he); second, Che may have been the right person for me but it doesn’t necessarily mean we have to end up together; third, my being single at 32 does not mean I’m missing out on life. I may or I may not meet the person I would like to spend the rest of my life with, but in the meantime, I am going to enjoy my writing, my friends and my dating misadventures.

Monday. It was declared a holiday but there I was at the office, attending a very enlightening forum on the country’s current fiscal situation. What made the presentation very enlightening (and engaging despite the gloom and doom message) was the professor’s use of the movie “The Lord of the Rings” to illustrate how ominous the fiscal crisis is and how it could devastate the entire country if we don’t consolidate our forces and act now before the Nazgul (IMF-WB) swoop in and bring us down to our knees. By then, we wouldn’t even be in a position to beg for leniency.

The forum ended on a bleak note but with the promise of an invigorated advocacy that would hopefully save the agriculture sector from further devastation.

I went back up to my cubbyhole to finish my blog entry. I was playing around with words; finding the right phrase or sentence to illustrate how my roller coaster ride ended. Suddenly, the door creaked loudly as it swung from the doorway. I got up from my chair and saw Che, the one person who taught me all I needed to know about “loving and living and everything else in between”.

“Where’s Bing?” he asked. “My mother told me she was looking for me”. Except for the long, braided hair and the ferocious scowl, he didn’t look any different since the last time I saw him six months ago. He was still wearing black, and his ears were still studded with silver.

“Oh, she left already. She was looking for you about a layouting job though,” I replied. We were standing four feet apart; I could feel my heart beating against my chest as I fiddled with my pen.

“I’m just going to call her later then.” He paused. “What are you doing here?”

I had to look away before answering as my eyes were already brimming with tears. “I had to attend a forum on the fiscal crisis, ” I croaked in reply. He stood resolutely still, the scowl giving no indication that he heard me at all.

I didn’t think. I just ran to him and held him tight as I sobbed on his shoulder. It felt right.

“Why are you crying?”

“I missed you,” I managed in between sobs.

The next hour passed much too quickly. We talked about what we’ve both been doing since we broke up. I told him I‘ve been writing and frequenting the theater; he said he’d been climbing and painting again. I told him I still loved him. He said he didn’t want to believe me as I might just break up with him again. But the twinkle in his eyes as he said it told me he felt the same. I was home again.

Dream Series

2004-11-29T17:10:00.000+08:00

Roller Coaster Ride

There is rioting everywhere. Bullets are flying all over the place. But still, people are not hiding inside their homes for safety. Rather, they are outside, running in all directions.

I am one of them. I am running with the mob, trying to escape a band of terrorists. I go into a half-deserted building. I see a girl; a slim, long-haired stranger and ask her if she would like to exchange clothes with me. She agrees. She wears my pink tank top and denim jeans; I wear her malong. I feel safer wearing it.

We leave the building, and the next thing I know, we’re passing through Rustan’s Makati on our way to the Ayala train station. But instead of the slim, long-haired stranger, I’m now with my friend, Joanna who’s five months pregnant. I follow her through several corridors until I find myself crawling along the railway tracks. I ask her why we’re on the tracks and not in the cars above us. She says she doesn’t want to pay the train fare. Besides, she has done this many times already without being caught.

The tracks start moving and I hang on for dear life. It was exhilarating. I don’t get to enjoy the ride for long though. In the next two minutes several mean looking (the don’t-fuck-with-me-or-I’ll-throw-you-into-solitary kind) cops stop the train’s engines and gesture for us to get down.

My friend and I get down from the tracks. I am extremely disappointed we didn’t get to finish the ride. But as we walk away from the cops, I think that as roller coaster rides go, the one I just had was the best.

C Chronicles

2004-11-24T17:40:00.000+08:00

II

“I have never loved anybody as much as I love you. I have never known love, as it should be until I met you. You are one blessing I shall forever treasure.”

She wrote this on the tiny white gift tag that came with the cake she bought at a bakeshop. It was Valentine, his birthday. He was surprised to see the cake, but she could see from the way his eyes shone that he was happy.

In retrospect, she suspects he must have found the line cheesy then, and knowing how averse he was to anything cheesy, it must have been all he could do to keep his thoughts to himself. But keep them he did.

Those were extraordinarily happy times.

“I’m so happy I have finally found the person I’d like to spend the rest of my life with.” That was her standard reply everytime someone asked her about her relationship with Che. “I feel as if I’m finally home. I have no doubts at all about what we feel for each other,” she would add.

Sometimes she would even ask herself if the kind of exquisite happiness she felt everytime they were together was just an illusion. But she knew it was real. He was for real.

Especially when they had their fights. The pain was so incredibly excruciating it was almost physical; it brooked no doubt in her mind that what they had was far from being an illusion.

And then they moved in together. Their studio apartment was cramped and was on its way to becoming decrepit. It looked like it was infested by bugs beneath the floor and most of the time, these would crawl out of the woodwork and make her squirm in revulsion. But that wasn’t enough to dampen their spirits. They must have spent more time making love and having quiet conversations than stressing over the bugs having run of the place.

She got stressed over the drinking though. Some nights he would go out with his climbing buddies and not come home until 3 in the morning, dead drunk. On some, he wouldn’t come home at all. She tried to compromise. “You can drink all you like, but please be home when you say you’ll be home,” she would plead. He always promised he would keep his word; but then he’d break it again.

Once, after failing to come home for the third time, she packed some clothes and went back to the dorm. She stayed away for two days. But being miserable as hell, she made up with him and went back to the house.

They ceased fighting over his drinking for a while.

And then there were the climbs. She felt that climbing was a spiritual experience---it never ceased to amaze her how close she felt she was to God every time they went on a trek. It was like worming her way into nature’s belly and then reaching it, felt at peace.

Ten things to do when you’ve got a press release to write (on a Saturday) but can’t think of a thing to say:

2004-11-20T17:39:00.000+08:00

1. Scan all news items regarding the issue. Given the inordinate amount of press the issue has been having lately, it won’t be long before you pick up on a great way to start your release.

2. Read the ones already written by other organizations. Hopefully, you’ll learn from their mistakes and avoid writing crap like “the President appears to be to following the compromising path of her predecessors.”

3. Start planning where to shop for that perfect pair of shoes: one that’s sexy yet funky and comfortable enough to be worn most days.

4. Ask your friend if she’d like to go with you to Makati. It would be fun if you had a friend along with you while you bitch about everything from Oprah, to the kind of trash people are watching on TV nowadays.

5. Listen to Earl Klugh and Chuck Mangione and hope the music would get your juices running. If Klugh and Mangione don’t do it for you, there’s always the DMB.

6. Play around with your blog’s layout and design. Or install the template you’ve requested from one of those sites offering free templates. But being the HTML moron that you are, you might find it hard to follow simple instructions. In that case, just use the ones on blogdrive.

7. Or you could play Sarah Vaughan’s MP3. It’s a surefire way to start your fingers flying over the keyboard.

8. Hmmm…it's working eh? But before you get cracking...

9. Write ten things you could do when you’ve got a press release waiting to be written (on a Saturday) but can’t think of a thing to say.

10. Post them in your blog.

C Chronicles

2004-11-19T17:37:00.000+08:00

I

She met him at work six years ago. He was the publication’s layout artist. He looked every inch the Goth-inspired artiste---with the requisite black garb and studs lining his ears. But he would tell her later that he just liked wearing black, and not because he was indulging some artistic temperament. “You can only stretch your artistic license so much,” he would say.

He was into painting and performance art. At one performance, he spun meters upon meters of string around his naked body, much like a spider spinning its web. He did so while puffing on a cigarette.

A biker and mountaineer, he was a fixture along the academic oval on his yellow bike he named Lazarus. He blazed his own trails and went on climbs by himself for days on end.

He also wrote poetry. His was the kind that was both humorous and gut wrenching at the same time. At the start of their relationship, she wrote him a poem about the all-consuming passion she felt was running high between them. The look in his eyes as he read it told her he wanted her just as much.

She didn’t always feel that way though. He hardly appealed to her the first time she saw him. He was wiry, almost scrawny---she liked muscled men who look as if they’d eat her up when they get the chance.

But that soon changed when they climbed Mt. Banahaw with a group of friends. She found that he was a good conversationalist---and patient too. He didn’t mind waiting for the stragglers to catch up with the rest of the group. Besides, it allowed him to stop and enjoy the scenery, and of course, puff on his Marlboros.

From then on, she would make it a point to speak to him at work, or have him layout articles or invites to several fora she happened to organize. It was just an excuse to be near him.

One day he invited her and her friend to climb Mt. Makiling with him. He said they’d be doing a traverse; their jump-off point would be Sto. Tomas, Batangas and then exit through U.P. Los Baños. She said yes immediately. She didn’t want to pass up the chance to climb with him again.

A day before the climb though, her friend decided not to go. It would just have to be the two of them after all.

Saturday. She was at the bus station by 4 am. He didn’t arrive until three hours later though. Apparently, he had been drinking until very late and hadn’t had much sleep yet. She was clearly annoyed with him but decided to go ahead anyway. They were on board the bus and on their way to Batangas in a matter of minutes.

The weather was fine when they got there. But fours hours into the climb, the rain started pouring in earnest. They got lost a couple of times; her arms were lined with angry scratches from the scraggly branches along the trail. It hardly looked like one. They had to twist and duck in order to see the thin patch of earth that told them they were still walking in the right direction.

It was getting pitch black and they had no choice but to stop and set up camp. They found a space along the trail that was big enough for his tent. They were set for the night.

She doesn’t remember the conversation that followed. She’s not even sure they had dinner that night. All she could remember was the yearning; she had never wanted anyone before with the same fervor. It excited her.

And there was the interminable wait. She remembers being up the whole night and waiting for him to make the first move. “Darn, it’s close to 6 in the morning and nothing’s even happened yet!” He must have sensed her frustration for in a flash she was in his arms.

It was worth the wait.

“We shouldn’t have done what we did,” was her faint attempt at coyness. “Yeah, I know. It was the moment,” he replied. “That’s bullshit! So why did we let it happen then?” She asked. “Because I’ve been wanting you for a very long time now,” he confessed. “And you?” “I’ve wanted you since Banahaw,” she admitted.

“I’m afraid to ask, but are you ready for a new relationship?” She knew he had just been through a traumatic relationship and she was unsure if he was willing to plunge into another one. “Yes, I am,” he said firmly. “Why don’t we try it then?” He added.

That was the beginning of the three happiest years of her life.

from Hellion

2004-11-18T17:35:00.000+08:00

(Seems like a fitting end to a beautiful affair)

LOVE FOREVER by Robert C.O. Benjamin
And though ne'er again I see thee,
Nor can clasp thee to my breast,
Yet my soul is ever near thee,
And with thee will find its rest.

Though my absence be forever,
And the seas between us roll,
Yet our love, ending never,
Is beyond the world's control.

Though we love, yet we must part, dear,
And 'tis perhaps best thus to be;
Whilst you keep with you my heart, dear,
Leave your own in charge of me.

overwhelmed

2004-11-17T17:33:00.000+08:00

I stand here in front of my desk and I am overwhelmed by the huge number of documents and data that have piled up on it. There are countless minutes of meetings attended weeks before, copies of press releases submitted to the major dailies but which unfortunately, didn't see print, hence were rewritten as letters to the editor, books that need to be read before I can write my module on the history of agrarian reform, research materials for the long-overdue paper on rural workers.

This on top of the position paper I need to write, and the meeting with a legislative staff tomorrow regarding the National Land Use Act.

Oh God, I hardly know where to start!

To have or not to have...

2004-11-16T17:20:00.000+08:00

casual sex, that is. I never had to weigh these two choices before in my mind. And even while Moose was asking me to spend the night with him, my gut reaction was to say no. Because despite my very sexual nature, sex for me still has to be within the context of a loving and committed relationship. For me, the sense of well being I get after making love is just as important as my reaching orgasm. And I don’t think I can have that with a stranger.

But after talking to a friend about doing casual sex, I wondered if I would have indeed felt any misgivings had I gone ahead and did it. Would I be necessarily throwing my values out the window? Would I have felt any remorse at eschewing all that I have held to be right and wrong all these years?

Or would I have tried to rationalize my actions and accepted my friend’s argument that each person’s view of what is right and wrong is largely dependent on his own value system? And that there is no such a thing as universal truth after all; that everything is relative.

I don’t accept what she said about there being no such thing as universal truth (I don’t think anyone would, for that matter). And I don’t think I could readily grant that everything in this world is relative. But I do know that at this particular juncture, I’d be perfectly happy loving the next guy I have sex with.

out of limbo

2004-11-15T17:30:00.000+08:00

limbo

being in limbo is like wanting to dance and yet having two left feet;
or wanting to sing but being tone deaf;
or wanting to jump but having stumps for legs.

limbo is wanting to write but having none of the words;
or reaching for someone's hand and finding none close by;
or finally meeting your one great love and having them turn away when you least expect it.

limbo is cursing in the dark and finding yourself relishing it.

I wrote this in my other blog last July. Yes, back when I was, well…in limbo over my tumultuous relationship with Roi and indulging my flair for melodrama. It’s incredible how people can be sucked into a vortex of real and imagined despair when they allow themselves to lose touch with reality. Reading this, I realize I must have been close to being sucked in, if I didn’t get a firmer grip on myself.

I can’t even remember now how I did, but I guess the most important thing to remember when you do get into one of these emotional ruts is to look beyond your self-absorbed stupor and see how others are getting a much shoddier deal than you are. It’s a foolproof way to make you realize how inconsequential your troubles are compared to others’. As my friend likes to say, “the world doesn’t revolve around you. And it wouldn’t stop turning just to console you in your grief.”

Now I can only marvel at how far I’ve come. I’m no longer pining for the past and all its what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. Now I’m living in the present and loving it.

Moose

2004-11-13T17:20:00.000+08:00

I don't know if I'm behind the times or I'm just not sophisticated enough, but are people supposed to go to bed on the first date? Am I misreading anything here?

I went on a blind date tonight. I went out with Moose---yes, the guy who cancelled the first time we were supposed to go out. He wasn't what I expected him to be though. He was very urbane and intelligent. And for a while I thought we were getting along fine---I knew more about his family history in an hour than the guy at work with whom I've worked for the last seven years.

Okay, so he was a motormouth, and I could hardly get a word in edgewise but he was interesting. And I was enjoying myself despite walking along the academic oval on wedge shoes (if you have no idea how painful that is, just think walking barefoot on shards of glass).

Until it rained and we had to decide where to go next. "Do you have to go somewhere else?" I asked. "No, I don't. Unless you do," Moose replied. I assured him I had no other plans. We didn't want to go to another restaurant, and he didn't want to go for coffee. He suggested we go to Makati and stay at his hotel. I told him I wasn't prepared to stay anywhere overnight.

A cab came by and I hailed it. "You know Makati seems like a good idea," I relented. His face brightened up. "Yes and we could just hang around in my room and watch tv. You plan to stay the night then?" Moose asked. "No, I'd still be coming back here to Quezon City," I said. "Oh, I don't really like the idea of you going back alone." replied Moose. "You know maybe we could just call it a night and I'll drop you off somewhere," he added.

Huh?

"This is the first time I've ever been on a blind date," he offers. "Well it's kind of a hit or miss thing; you either get along or you don't," I said. "And most of the time, you don't," Moose concluded.

Okay Moose, I can take a hint.

the sound of angels singing

2004-11-12T17:18:00.000+08:00

I wasn’t late this time. The performance of the Loboc Children’s Choir was scheduled for 8 pm but I was already at Figaro across the CCP by 5:45 pm. Earlier yesterday, I attended a public hearing on EO 364 mandating the merging of the PCUP, NCIP and the DAR into the Department of Land Reform (DLR) at the Senate. It was very interesting how presidential appointees become deaf to their stakeholders’ sentiments when they’re on the brink of being sacked.

I always get to see politics making a mockery of a now seemingly obscure term as social justice, but it never fails to astound me everytime I get to witness it firsthand. Yesterday was no exception.

Hence it was with a sense of manic anticipation that I looked forward to watching the choir. I felt like I needed a shot of guilelessness and innocence.

And the Loboc Children’s choir didn’t disappoint me. The performance, entitled Calenda de Loboc showed how people’s lives in Bohol revolved around religious traditions, and consequently, how religion shaped their way of life. All the songs were beautifully performed, as if by veritable angels who decided to appear from out of nowhere on a lark and sang.

The most applauded number was their version of Sister Act. But what I found most haunting and poignant was their rendition of Lucio San Pedro’s Sa Ugoy ng Duyan. I wasn’t even aware I was holding my breath until the final note. It felt like being transported to a deeper consciousness, where nothing else mattered except the music.

I just wish though that theater audiences were more mature. The people behind us kept talking and snickering even during each number, distracting everyone within hearing range. Were it not for the unwelcome distraction, the sound of angels singing would have been a perfect end to an otherwise stressful day.

messages on my mobile

2004-11-11T17:17:00.000+08:00

(These are rough translations of messages I haven't yet deleted from my inbox. The names of the senders have been changed of course lest they get mad at me for betraying confidences.)

Lucy:
I forgot to tell you last night, thanks for being my friend. You were asking if we've gone beyond the superficial, and I believe so, definitely!

Lucy is my closest friend at work. Now. We weren't always close though. Rather, we were more officemates than friends. We'd have lunch along with others at work and exchange personal stories, but it never went beyond the perfunctory. Until we went for coffee one evening and realized that we shared the same observation about relations at work---they were superficial. Since that night we went on regular dates which we called "walls". Within our walls, I could talk to her about my innermost thoughts---even my boyfriend's premature ejaculation. Our friendship's gotten better but not my relationship with my boyfriend.

Diane:
Thanks, I'm touched. Don't forget that whatever happens, I'll always be here for you.

Diane is a childhood friend. She sent this message in response to one I sent her telling her she was one of the few friends I can count on one hand. Our friendship has remained steadfast through the years. We only see each other at least once a year but when we do get together, it's always as if we've never been apart. She would listen patiently to my meandering stories and circuitous explanations. She'd even laugh at my silliest jokes---I can't emphasize the word silly enough.

Jane:
It's a good thing you went by the adoration chapel. My sister says you're much thinner now; and she loves all your sporty outfits. I told her the pair of shorts you were wearing today was the most decent.

Guffaws! That's Jane for you. I met Jane at the dorm seven years ago; we've become very close ever since. We're both mall rats---we'd be perfectly happy spending the day in the mall. You won't believe the kind of stuff you get to waste your money on in malls. At the dorm, we used to stay up all night talking. And on weekends, we'd rouse ourselves from bed so late that we'd still be having lunch at 4 pm. Hedonists, us. We have long moved out of the dorm but we have managed to keep our weekend dates. Oh, and the pairs of shorts? They're my weekend gear.

Amy:
Happy birthday!

This terse birthday greeting came from Amy a week late. She must have been dead on her feet when she wrote this. I met Amy at the dorm too. She's as crazy as I am. She works as a nurse in Texas. I wonder how her patients are faring under her care. Hmmm...

Ford:
Just keep the documents. The congressman will be asking for an investigation into the status of the ARF. Will you be free on Monday for a briefing?

Oh well, this has to something to do with work. Ford wanted me to brief the congressman on our advocacy regarding the ARF. I agreed to go but on the day itself, I never got a message confirming the time and venue of the proposed meeting. I learned later that he was expecting me. Right!

Mark:
Hi, who was the fool that stood you up?

I know Mark through...gulp...friendster. He was asking about my date that cancelled at the last minute. It was an inconsiderate thing to do and I told myself I'd never ever speak to the cad again. But he did call to apologize and I softened up. I'm malleable. Anyway, I digress. Mark seems genuinely nice but then again, I've always been such a poor judge of character, and I seem to break more friendships than I keep them, so I'll be keeping my fingers crossed.

Mark:
Sorry, I couldn't stay awake

He fell asleep on me while chatting. Something wrong with them old bones.

Mark:
Breakfast at 6 pm, lunch around 12 to 2 am. The heck with dinner, I'm tired by 10:30 am.

Such are his regular work hours. He says he works the graveyard shift at some biotech company in CA. Poor guy...

Moose:
Want to meet today?

This from the guy who stood me up; too bad, I had a date with the PPO.

Moose:
How about this weekend?

He's nothing but persistent. But I had to make a courtesy call to my mother.

Moose:
How was your day? Do you want to meet sometime this week?

Alright, Friday then.

Moose:
Sounds good

Hmmm, sounds ominous. He hasn't called yet to confirm, so I'm betting our date is cancelled again. Oh well...

Dream Series

2004-11-10T17:14:00.000+08:00

White wedding

It’s evening and I am walking down the University Avenue. Out of nowhere, the sight of preparations for an outdoor wedding reception catches me by surprise. Everything is in white---the flowers, chairs, tables, and floral arc by the presidential table. Even the candles are white. It is beautiful.

Then I see my friend. I go to her and hug her tight. I ask how she is holding up and she tells me it’s so hard nowadays to know what to cook for her husband. Her husband passed away just weeks ago. And then she takes out my green tubao to wipe her tears. I wonder how that got to her and I remember I must have left it at her husband’s wake.

My gaze turns back to the wedding preparations underway and I wonder. “How can they be absolutely sure that it’s not going to rain?”

friday night madness

2004-11-09T17:12:00.000+08:00

The program indicated that the concert would be starting at 8 pm but I was nowhere near the Cultural Center of the Philippines (CCP) when the Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra (PPO) started playing.

Rather I was stuck in a horrendous traffic jam along Taft Avenue in Manila. Had I known that Kalaw Avenue was but a block away (I am a geographical idiot), I would have walked the rest of the way and got a cab there. But I didn’t get off the FX (glorified jeepneys with air-conditioning that charge an arm and a leg for granting you reprieve from the smog) until much later and by then, it was already 8:15 pm.

I had to stand for another 20 minutes on the corner of Taft Avenue and Finance Road to wait for a cab. And by the time I got one, I was already 35 minutes late for the concert. It was a good thing though that the cab driver drove like a maniac; we got to the CCP in five minutes flat.

At the entrance, I had to linger while the guard inspected my backpack and asked if my mobile had a camera. “How I wish,” I muttered. Running up the grand staircase, I went to the subscribers’ table to get the ticket that my friend left for me. Tick-tock, tick-tock, they couldn’t find my ticket. Tick-tock, tick-tock, were they going to ask for an ID? Oh good, they finally located my ticket.

“Go, go,” urged the well-dressed dame at the table. I needed no further prodding. I was inside the back of the main theater in a flash. Thankfully, I was able to catch the orchestra ten minutes before the intermission.

It didn’t matter that the guy two rows ahead of us kept rising from his seat and leaning over to whisper to the girl in front of him, thus blocking our view of the orchestra below. I didn’t care that I didn’t know Charles Ives from Adam.

My soul was deep in conversation with music and that was all that mattered to me.

phantom lover

2004-11-08T17:09:00.000+08:00

I am a glutton for punishment. I had already been told that we have no future together. But I persist. I still think of him everyday. I think up scenarios of us meeting and then play these in my mind over and over. I am a freak.

I got to know Roi last year through my girl friend Pam. At that time, I was trying to get out of a beautiful relationship gone awry (I seem to have had plenty of these) and he seemed like a good excuse to finally break up with my ex (mercenary). It didn’t matter that he lived in New Jersey. The moment I saw his sinewy biceps (sheepish grin) I was instantly attracted.

And then we started writing and talking on the phone. I found him funny and intelligent and very interesting. He took me by surprise. I never expected him to be nothing more than a temporary relief from my anguish. But there he was, suddenly morphing into my very own Cyrano. He understood me; with him I never felt the need to explain myself. We were attuned to each other. And we shared the same interests---we both loved Ayn Rand and cried over “An Affair to Remember”. He even encouraged me to venture from my jazz-induced stupor and experience rock like I never had before (now I love DMB). It was like finding my soulmate, only better.

For five incredible months, I was deliriously happy (damn, should have taken that as a sign); the long talks and the emails more than made up for the freaking miles between us.

But alas, one day he just withdrew; without a word or a call I couldn’t do much but try to make sense out of his leaving (or disappearing, to be precise). And yet I couldn’t. I slipped into limbo---it was a welcome respite from the raging questions in my head.

And then for a while, I did forget---but only for as long as my relationship with Bob lasted (I never learn). We split up after three months (duh!) and the questions came rushing back.

I don’t know exactly when I eventually let got of my need for answers but let go I did, if only to achieve a certain degree of closure. And when he did write, I never asked why. I was just happy we were talking again.

Well, that is, until his birthday two months ago. He called me up and told me we could never have a future together, and that he wasn’t good for me, or anyone else for that matter (bull!). He might as well have kicked me in the belly until it burst and my guts spilled out.

Between sobs I thanked him for telling it to me straight. It was the kindest thing he had ever done for me. I was hurting but I knew then that I could finally move on.

And I was starting to move on. Up until he all but shoved in my face the fact that he is in a new relationship. It stung. I certainly didn’t want to know. I didn’t need to know at all.

Now I am once again deluged with questions but this time, I’m asking myself if Roi was indeed real, or if he was in fact a phantom lover; a figment of my imagination borne out of a need to make sense of a previous loss I never had time to grieve over.

Am I freak? Or am I no different from Celine (Before Sunset---she was thirty-two and liked Nina Simone too! Ha!) who never really got over the men in her past relationships because each one possessed certain qualities no other person did. I’d like to think I’m one of those women who will always remember the good out of each relationship and then eventually learn to move on.

p.s.

I realize that must have been a long-winded and circuitous retelling of a simple affair gone…yes, awry. And if I were writing that for our publication, this cathartic exercise would have been reduced to a plain: “I fucked up. I’ll get over it!”

And I will. In fact, I believe I already have.

you

2004-10-30T16:07:00.000+08:00

I didn't know the song You (Carpenter) could be so heartbreaking. My friend sang it at the memorial service of her husband this morning. It was all I could do to stop myself from bawling.

Death is so much a part of life and yet, having a loved one die is so difficult to accept. It takes such an enormous amount of trust and faith in a power so much greater than our own for it to be easier to swallow. Somehow, just trusting that there's a reason for everything--- even though your reasoning tells you that his death was so needless---makes death more bearable.

I can only imagine the real extent of my friend's pain, but I just wish that she gets even more stronger in the days to come for the sake of her kids. I was watching them earlier and my heart went out to them, seeing that they looked forlorn.

If I can just literally take some of their pain away, I would. If would if I could.