CLOSE TO YOU
words & music
by mike villegas
there's nothing i won't try
just to make you mine
to get a little closer
would be so divine
and everytime i see you
you make me come undone
i always watch you near me
in you i found the one
CHORUS
oh why don't you smile
my only star
shine on baby
smile my only star
smile my only star (2x)
with you by my side
girl it feels so right and
now that i'm close to you
i could stay all night/
no matter where i go
no matter what i do
in the end your smile
brings me back to you
you shine so true
i can't believe you're mine
and everything
may change but to me
you'll always shine
Monday, January 23, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
Home
Me, Dana Batnag, a former professor, Joyce, and Tina.
Last Saturday, January 14, was a chance to go back to my college, the College of Mass Communications (CMC). It was a reunion of some sort, in preparation for the college's 40th anniversary in 2007.
It's headlined "Tawag Ka Ni Aling Suming!". This proved to be quite effective, at least to those of us who knew about the event and attended it. How could we refuse her?
But, as it turned out, Aling Suming was not there. But there was a short video clip of her message. The event was, at best, nostalgic. I don't think there's ever one masscomm student without an anecdote about Aling Sums. Mine was when I called her way past office hours and at home to check on my average, if it made the laude cut (which it did). To me, it showed her dedication and devotion to the students of the college, to which we are forever grateful.
T.P., a fellow alumni, related how she would remind her of her P.E. subject. L.A., even said, Aling Suming knew of that time when she broke up with her b.f. at that time, D.B., who was also with us during the homecoming.
But seeing Aling Suming again was a bonus. The homecoming was a (literal) trip to memory lane and a chance to relive our days of decadence back when.
P.C., D.B., and L.A. each won a bottle of red wine during the raffle. D.B. thought it would be nice to drink them in the premises of the college. So we did along with O.C.
After dinner at Treehouse at the ISSI, we trooped to the college once again, at around 7 p.m. or 8 p.m. P.C was able to borrow a glass from no less the admin office (a consent to the act, obviously, hehehehe). Music was provided by D.B. via his laptop.
All of us are working in the same station so we seized the time to catch up on the latest what-have-yous.
Between shots (yeah, we had to pass the lone glass around) of red wine, were anecdotes about the college, former professors, and work. It was a good experience to unwind, to find one's bearing again, to be reminded of where we all came from.
It was like returning home. In our life journeys, it's easy to lose sight of what we really had wanted. To lose sight of the ultimate dreams of our lives. It's easier still to be sidetracked, to lose courage, to surrender.
Home, in whatever form or denomination, always reminds us of who we are, and what we are capable of.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Dreams
What is this they say about dreams? That they are your subconscious speaking?
Last night, I dreamt of you. I was watching a European TV news program where you were featured. Wide shot first of your ship. And then various sitners (situationers). Then the camera zoomed in on you. Then you flashed that smile. Ah, that smile: the crinkled nose, the slit eyes, your beaming teeth.
And then the feelings crashed in like tidal waves.
Do I miss you?
I deny and yet manifest it.
Last night, I dreamt of you. I was watching a European TV news program where you were featured. Wide shot first of your ship. And then various sitners (situationers). Then the camera zoomed in on you. Then you flashed that smile. Ah, that smile: the crinkled nose, the slit eyes, your beaming teeth.
And then the feelings crashed in like tidal waves.
Do I miss you?
I deny and yet manifest it.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Suppose
Suppose, I look into your eyes like I did last night, will you discern what is hidden?
Suppose, I stretch out my hand, will you grab it, like a helpless survivor in the middle of the ocean?
I lean back against the wall, supposing, and wait for you, will you sit beside me?
If a shooting star crosses, will you be there to hold my hand?
Suppose, I don't tell you what I want to tell you, will you still know?
Words, sometimes, deny intentions.
Will you be comforted, by my silence?
Suppose, I stretch out my hand, will you grab it, like a helpless survivor in the middle of the ocean?
I lean back against the wall, supposing, and wait for you, will you sit beside me?
If a shooting star crosses, will you be there to hold my hand?
Suppose, I don't tell you what I want to tell you, will you still know?
Words, sometimes, deny intentions.
Will you be comforted, by my silence?
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
Winter
In the winter, I was told in a story when I was little, some Earth creatures hibernate. They prefer to let the harsh winter wreak its havoc on nature. It's neither escape nor surrender.
When the snow thaws and the sun shines, they are back on their feet, resuming and claiming the lives they ought to live.
When the snow thaws and the sun shines, they are back on their feet, resuming and claiming the lives they ought to live.
Monday, January 09, 2006
Read this on New York Times.
All things are ephemeral. We are pained and wounds heal.
'Spell "World" Backward'
By BERNARD COOPER
Published: January 8, 2006
The last place my increasingly forgetful 85-year-old father wanted to be was sitting beside me in the office of a geriatric specialist. The doctor leaned forward at her desk and locked eyes with my father. "Has it been difficult for you to remember things recently, Mr. Cooper?"
"I'm fine," he said.
"I'm sure you are," she said. "But if we test you today, we'll have a base line to compare against
future tests."
"Future tests?" He looked as if he'd tasted something sour.
"I'm going to ask you several questions," she continued, "and I'd like you to answer them one at a time."
"How else would I?"
"How else would you what?"
"Answer them, for Christ's sake!"
The doctor jotted a note. "We'll be working from what's called the Mini-Mental State Examination," she explained, "and I'll score your answers as we go along."
Dad adjusted his Miracle-Ear. "So test me, already."
First she asked my father to tell her the date. I silently answered along. He got it right. I was off by a couple of days. I scooted my chair closer. Now I had something to prove. I felt as if my father and I were opponents on a quiz show.
"What state are we in?" "City?" "Hospital?" "Floor?"
Not until she whispered "Bernard" did I realize that I'd been muttering answers under my breath. But I was sure my father hadn't heard me. And anyway, I got them right. Dad, on the other hand, didn't know what floor we were on. But he probably would have known it was the third if he had been the one to push the elevator button instead of me. The mechanics of recall are delicate, so iffy and contingent.
My father lowered his head and laced his fingers together in his lap. He had the shamed, inward look of a man who knows he has blundered but doesn't know how.
"Mr. Cooper?" she asked. "Are you ready to continue?"
My father nodded. His head seemed heavy, as if with answers that would soon elude him.
"Spell 'world' backward," the doctor said.
"Why 'world'?" Dad asked, peering over his glasses.
Because the world is backward, I said to myself. Laws are repealed. Iron rusts. Logic unravels.
"I suggest you don't overthink the questions, Mr. Cooper. Just try to relax and let the answers come."
Dad deliberated on every letter. "D. . .L. . .O. . .
R. . .W?"
She recorded his score. "Now, please repeat the following list of items in the same order: Apple, penny, table."
My father cocked his head. "Did I get it right?"
"You haven't repeated the items yet."
"Not those," he said. "'World.' Did I get it backward?"
"Ask me at the end of the test."
"Suppose I forget?"
"We should move on to the next question," the doctor insisted. "Now, kindly repeat after me: Apple, penny, table."
"Why can't you tell me now?"
"Apple, penny, table," she persisted
"Apple," he said at last. "The rest I forget." He dismissed his insufficient recall with a wave of his hand, but he looked at me to gauge how he was doing. I smiled noncommittally back.
Next she held up her pen. "Can you tell me what this is?"
"A ballpoint," he said. "Does it have your motto on it?"
The doctor told him that men and women in her profession didn't, as a rule, have mottos. Then she noticed that there were, in fact, words printed on the side of the pen. She held it horizontally and squinted. "Hot Water Management Service," she read. "Where could this have come from?"
Was the question part of the test?
"Pens are everywhere these days," Dad said. "But what the hell is a Hot Water Management Service?"
We hadn't a single answer among us, not a guess or a speculation. The doctor continued to gaze at the pen, turning it as if she might find other phrases. Beyond the hospital window, the sky above the city deepened into dusk. The office walls dimmed, our faces growing vague. A clock ticked on the desk, and I felt in my bones that the three of us, second by second, were being drawn toward a vast and eventual forgetting. Nothing we could do or say would stop it. One day this room wouldn't be remembered by anyone now sitting in it.
Bernard Cooper is the author of the memoir "The Bill From My Father," to be published next month by Simon & Schuster and from which this essay is adapted.
All things are ephemeral. We are pained and wounds heal.
'Spell "World" Backward'
By BERNARD COOPER
Published: January 8, 2006
The last place my increasingly forgetful 85-year-old father wanted to be was sitting beside me in the office of a geriatric specialist. The doctor leaned forward at her desk and locked eyes with my father. "Has it been difficult for you to remember things recently, Mr. Cooper?"
"I'm fine," he said.
"I'm sure you are," she said. "But if we test you today, we'll have a base line to compare against
future tests."
"Future tests?" He looked as if he'd tasted something sour.
"I'm going to ask you several questions," she continued, "and I'd like you to answer them one at a time."
"How else would I?"
"How else would you what?"
"Answer them, for Christ's sake!"
The doctor jotted a note. "We'll be working from what's called the Mini-Mental State Examination," she explained, "and I'll score your answers as we go along."
Dad adjusted his Miracle-Ear. "So test me, already."
First she asked my father to tell her the date. I silently answered along. He got it right. I was off by a couple of days. I scooted my chair closer. Now I had something to prove. I felt as if my father and I were opponents on a quiz show.
"What state are we in?" "City?" "Hospital?" "Floor?"
Not until she whispered "Bernard" did I realize that I'd been muttering answers under my breath. But I was sure my father hadn't heard me. And anyway, I got them right. Dad, on the other hand, didn't know what floor we were on. But he probably would have known it was the third if he had been the one to push the elevator button instead of me. The mechanics of recall are delicate, so iffy and contingent.
My father lowered his head and laced his fingers together in his lap. He had the shamed, inward look of a man who knows he has blundered but doesn't know how.
"Mr. Cooper?" she asked. "Are you ready to continue?"
My father nodded. His head seemed heavy, as if with answers that would soon elude him.
"Spell 'world' backward," the doctor said.
"Why 'world'?" Dad asked, peering over his glasses.
Because the world is backward, I said to myself. Laws are repealed. Iron rusts. Logic unravels.
"I suggest you don't overthink the questions, Mr. Cooper. Just try to relax and let the answers come."
Dad deliberated on every letter. "D. . .L. . .O. . .
R. . .W?"
She recorded his score. "Now, please repeat the following list of items in the same order: Apple, penny, table."
My father cocked his head. "Did I get it right?"
"You haven't repeated the items yet."
"Not those," he said. "'World.' Did I get it backward?"
"Ask me at the end of the test."
"Suppose I forget?"
"We should move on to the next question," the doctor insisted. "Now, kindly repeat after me: Apple, penny, table."
"Why can't you tell me now?"
"Apple, penny, table," she persisted
"Apple," he said at last. "The rest I forget." He dismissed his insufficient recall with a wave of his hand, but he looked at me to gauge how he was doing. I smiled noncommittally back.
Next she held up her pen. "Can you tell me what this is?"
"A ballpoint," he said. "Does it have your motto on it?"
The doctor told him that men and women in her profession didn't, as a rule, have mottos. Then she noticed that there were, in fact, words printed on the side of the pen. She held it horizontally and squinted. "Hot Water Management Service," she read. "Where could this have come from?"
Was the question part of the test?
"Pens are everywhere these days," Dad said. "But what the hell is a Hot Water Management Service?"
We hadn't a single answer among us, not a guess or a speculation. The doctor continued to gaze at the pen, turning it as if she might find other phrases. Beyond the hospital window, the sky above the city deepened into dusk. The office walls dimmed, our faces growing vague. A clock ticked on the desk, and I felt in my bones that the three of us, second by second, were being drawn toward a vast and eventual forgetting. Nothing we could do or say would stop it. One day this room wouldn't be remembered by anyone now sitting in it.
Bernard Cooper is the author of the memoir "The Bill From My Father," to be published next month by Simon & Schuster and from which this essay is adapted.
Saturday, January 07, 2006
The Year for Librans
Libra: Sep. 23 - Oct. 22
Since your amenable Venus ruler visits every sign in 2006, you’ll have a shot at everyone, primarily, for the first two months, a respectable Capricorn. Romance and/or recreation with an Aquarius in March, partnering with an Aries in May, traveling with a congenial companion in June and bonding with your boss in the summer. Save October for your self; that’s when Venus, passionate Mars and the creative sun get together in your sign. As for finances, not to worry; protective Jupiter has your money house covered.
from VillageVoice.
Since your amenable Venus ruler visits every sign in 2006, you’ll have a shot at everyone, primarily, for the first two months, a respectable Capricorn. Romance and/or recreation with an Aquarius in March, partnering with an Aries in May, traveling with a congenial companion in June and bonding with your boss in the summer. Save October for your self; that’s when Venus, passionate Mars and the creative sun get together in your sign. As for finances, not to worry; protective Jupiter has your money house covered.
from VillageVoice.
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