Sunday, May 20, 2007
Life Lessons No.3,I've Seen The Light
SanMig Light that is. And here are my drunken epiphanies: if someone tells you he loves you but you don't feel it,he probably does not. The tongue can betray what the heart really feels. Call a spade a spade and see things for what they actually are. Forget standards. I used to want someone who was stable, has his own career and goodlooking. I actually met him but turned out, I wasn't really looking for those qualities. Now I'm stuck with H. who satisfies only the goodlooking part. And finally, stop thinking. Don't bother with the variables that you can't control, the scenarios that may not happen but upon which you can make a decision. What will happen will happen. Or as Cheska would say 'burn the bridge when you get there.'
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Page 161
Page 161 of the book "Youngblood 3", that's where my first published work appeared. Entitled "Lonely People", I wrote it using the pseudonym "Matthias" (the reason for such will be best understood after reading the essay). Read it when you have the time.
Matilda, I was told had a boyfriend. But I will not elaborate on the matter considering the gap of both time and space between me and her.
Reading the essay now, almost four years after, had me feeling nostalgic. Nostalgic of the old times and the old me. Wrote it several months before my first same-sex relationship in 2003. And before a lot of other things that have happened in my life. It's nice to have somewhat of a marker in time, tucked in between the essays of other youths, published in a book, preserved in print forever.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
Ma'am Letty
She was our big momma before "Big Momma's House" came along. A sweet loving mother figure for all of us from Quezon High ever since we met her on our third year.
Back in our younger years, respect was something we accord to people who have earned it because it was the kind that stems from love and not just because of authority. She was one of those we truly respected because we loved her.
When I was in Lucena last week, I suddenly remembered Ma'am Letty Salagoste. I asked my Mom how she was but Mom didn't know.
Today she texted me to inform me that she had passed on, on April 10th, several days before I went back to Lucena.
I was shocked. I hoped I had gone back to Lucena a couple of days earlier and paid her a visit in Sariaya where she lived.
In our lives, we have people who affirmed us, who believed us, and showed us what we were capable of. She was one of those in my life. In my third year, she gave me, what I consider now, as a break, via a hosting stint of the school's annual pageant. Before that I never thought I could speak to a thousand people (although back in elementary I joined oratorical and declamation contests, but the size of the crowd was definitely smaller) but she knew better. Looking back, myself in this present job, I smile at the fact that somehow she was part of the whole grand plan to bring me to where I am right now.
When my classmates were then rebellious, little pranksters in high school, she, with her loving care, showed us that it was okay to stand-up for ourselves, but do so only out of love and loyalty, a little compassion wouldn't hurt either.
When we were afraid to go beyond our boundaries, she gave us wings. Because of her we saw a world that was and is limitless.
If we have the confidence that we have now, it was because she was generous with compliments, even our mistakes, she saw not for what they were, but for the lessons we were about to learn.
If we knew love and fraternity amongst ourselves, it was she who showed us that. That high school would last only for four years but the friendships that we could build would last a lifetime.
Even after graduating from college and getting jobs, if we went to Quezon High, she was one who we would fondly look for. If only to remind us of where we have come from.
But now she is gone. Without a single goodbye from either parties. And this I regret. How could someone, who have given you so much, go away unnoticed?
I hope that before her final days, she had seen me in one of my reports on TV. I would have loved to see her be proud of me. I would not be where I am right now, if it weren't for her (and of course, the many others like her).
I hope too, that she had seen, somehow, how successful many of my batchmates have become in their chosen fields.
Ma'am Letty would dearly be missed and fondly remembered: the big mommy with a big heart who never married. We were her family as she was ours.
Back in our younger years, respect was something we accord to people who have earned it because it was the kind that stems from love and not just because of authority. She was one of those we truly respected because we loved her.
When I was in Lucena last week, I suddenly remembered Ma'am Letty Salagoste. I asked my Mom how she was but Mom didn't know.
Today she texted me to inform me that she had passed on, on April 10th, several days before I went back to Lucena.
I was shocked. I hoped I had gone back to Lucena a couple of days earlier and paid her a visit in Sariaya where she lived.
In our lives, we have people who affirmed us, who believed us, and showed us what we were capable of. She was one of those in my life. In my third year, she gave me, what I consider now, as a break, via a hosting stint of the school's annual pageant. Before that I never thought I could speak to a thousand people (although back in elementary I joined oratorical and declamation contests, but the size of the crowd was definitely smaller) but she knew better. Looking back, myself in this present job, I smile at the fact that somehow she was part of the whole grand plan to bring me to where I am right now.
When my classmates were then rebellious, little pranksters in high school, she, with her loving care, showed us that it was okay to stand-up for ourselves, but do so only out of love and loyalty, a little compassion wouldn't hurt either.
When we were afraid to go beyond our boundaries, she gave us wings. Because of her we saw a world that was and is limitless.
If we have the confidence that we have now, it was because she was generous with compliments, even our mistakes, she saw not for what they were, but for the lessons we were about to learn.
If we knew love and fraternity amongst ourselves, it was she who showed us that. That high school would last only for four years but the friendships that we could build would last a lifetime.
Even after graduating from college and getting jobs, if we went to Quezon High, she was one who we would fondly look for. If only to remind us of where we have come from.
But now she is gone. Without a single goodbye from either parties. And this I regret. How could someone, who have given you so much, go away unnoticed?
I hope that before her final days, she had seen me in one of my reports on TV. I would have loved to see her be proud of me. I would not be where I am right now, if it weren't for her (and of course, the many others like her).
I hope too, that she had seen, somehow, how successful many of my batchmates have become in their chosen fields.
Ma'am Letty would dearly be missed and fondly remembered: the big mommy with a big heart who never married. We were her family as she was ours.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
The World According To Cheska
Some words of wisdom from our resident philosopher Cheska (use when appropriate):
"Lookatisthisway... (insert advice here)"
"The nerd!" (say it with dripping sarcasm)
"At's if!" (say the same way as "the nerd.")
"Connect me if I'm wrong ...."
"Life is what make ...."
"I hope you don't mine.... (no typographical errors here hehehe).
"This is getting our hand ...."
"I want to portrait that role ...."
"I'll burn the bridge when I get there."
"Lookatisthisway... (insert advice here)"
"The nerd!" (say it with dripping sarcasm)
"At's if!" (say the same way as "the nerd.")
"Connect me if I'm wrong ...."
"Life is what make ...."
"I hope you don't mine.... (no typographical errors here hehehe).
"This is getting our hand ...."
"I want to portrait that role ...."
"I'll burn the bridge when I get there."
Friday, April 27, 2007
Don't Feed An Emptiness
"Your loved ones across that ocean
Will sit at breakfast and try not to gaze
Where you would sit at the table.
Meals now divided by five
Instead of six, don’t feed an emptiness."
Stumbled upon this beautiful piece of poetry from a New York Times Sunday Magazine article on Filipino OFWs.
Will sit at breakfast and try not to gaze
Where you would sit at the table.
Meals now divided by five
Instead of six, don’t feed an emptiness."
Stumbled upon this beautiful piece of poetry from a New York Times Sunday Magazine article on Filipino OFWs.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Longing
It always makes me cry, those shows on TV where people get reunited.
One such case was this 9-year old kid "Hadi" who was intentionally left by her mother in a mall. When concerned citizens found him, he was clean, and had a backpack filled with clothes. The poor little boy was led to believe that they were out to shop.
Hadi barely even able to talk except for short phrases was lucky enough to have been found and brought to a shelter.
Hadi's grandmother, meanwhile, has been looking for him for days (or was it months). She was inconsolable when the program interviewed her. You could see the pain of losing someone and not knowing where they were and how they were doing.
Luckily, one of their relatives saw the program and got a glimpse of "Hadi's" photo. They were sure it was their "Adie" though his name was spelled differently.
So off they went to the station to check.
Once they saw Hadi's photo, they were definite it was him. So they proceeded to the shelter where Hadi was staying.
There, they were reunited.
Adie looked at her grandmother's eyes deeply, as though reconnecting again. She asked him: "Sino ako?"
"Mama," he responded, still looking at her eyes.
"Sino siya?" his grandmother asked as he pointed to a nephew.
"Tito," he said, smiling.
A hug sealed the bond that was once lost. And all those days and months of longing vanished. Adie hugged his grandmother tightly like a shipwreck survivor would a lifeboat. Her grandmother, silently embraced her, silently with a solemn assurance that she would never lose him again.
Each time, when scenes like this are repeated, I'm powerless against the emotion. The tight embrace, the longing looks, and the sweet smile all say: "I have found you, finally."
Each time, when scenes like this are repeated, I am reminded. Aren't we all, like Adie, just lonely souls wanting to be found?
One such case was this 9-year old kid "Hadi" who was intentionally left by her mother in a mall. When concerned citizens found him, he was clean, and had a backpack filled with clothes. The poor little boy was led to believe that they were out to shop.
Hadi barely even able to talk except for short phrases was lucky enough to have been found and brought to a shelter.
Hadi's grandmother, meanwhile, has been looking for him for days (or was it months). She was inconsolable when the program interviewed her. You could see the pain of losing someone and not knowing where they were and how they were doing.
Luckily, one of their relatives saw the program and got a glimpse of "Hadi's" photo. They were sure it was their "Adie" though his name was spelled differently.
So off they went to the station to check.
Once they saw Hadi's photo, they were definite it was him. So they proceeded to the shelter where Hadi was staying.
There, they were reunited.
Adie looked at her grandmother's eyes deeply, as though reconnecting again. She asked him: "Sino ako?"
"Mama," he responded, still looking at her eyes.
"Sino siya?" his grandmother asked as he pointed to a nephew.
"Tito," he said, smiling.
A hug sealed the bond that was once lost. And all those days and months of longing vanished. Adie hugged his grandmother tightly like a shipwreck survivor would a lifeboat. Her grandmother, silently embraced her, silently with a solemn assurance that she would never lose him again.
Each time, when scenes like this are repeated, I'm powerless against the emotion. The tight embrace, the longing looks, and the sweet smile all say: "I have found you, finally."
Each time, when scenes like this are repeated, I am reminded. Aren't we all, like Adie, just lonely souls wanting to be found?
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Summer Nights
Though shall not make decisions when drunk.
He should have listened to that tiny voice inside him. But drunk men just won't listen.
He spotted the target: semi-bald, a little shorter than he was, girating alone but for the crowd, tiny beads of sweat glisten upon kisses of the disco light.
Tired of pretending to enjoy the company of a rather ordinary looking guy, he left, and walked towards the semi-bald guy. Courage was not a factor, fear was non-existent. He came up and introduced himself. He told him his name.
"You dance pretty well," he said, as a matter of introduction. "I like it. Are you alone?" he asked.
"I was with my friends. They're sleeping by now," he said.
He came close. His lips nearly kissed his neck. He memorized how long it seemed, like an arch of one of those subjects of Leonardo's paintings. How it seemed to look like from someone he once knew.
He came closer, stared at him, and grabbed his butt. For minutes, they were one with the crowd, like an army, possessed by the pulsating music.
"Let's go somewhere else," the man told him.
He did not protest. The man held him by his hands and scurried away, like a vulture that has just grabbed a prey. But he didn't mind.
"So what do you do," he asked the man as they walk on the beach. He asked so he could look at his face, dimly lit by the moonlight, just to check if he looked good.
"I'm a customs broker," he replied.
He seemed to like his strong jaw. And how his thick eyebrows arched like a man's in combat.
They stopped near the man's resort and sat by the stairs. He leaned towards the man, inviting a kiss. He reciprocated. And their tongues locked. For minutes, they were entangled, like long lost lovers.
Then the man moved away.
"Baka hanggang dito lang 'to," the man said, wryly.
"Huh? What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled.
"Are you serious about this?" he said.
For an acquiantence, the man pretty much had a lot of expectations, he thought to himself.
"I dunno. It's too early to tell," he answered, refusing to elaborate.
"Wait a second," the man said and ran towards their room. When he returned he was carrying a black shawl. "Let's go to the beach," he said.
He followed suit. They sat on the beach. The man talked about how he loved him and how he feared he might lose him.
He didn't say anything else. He held him tight in response. But he was not there. His mind wandered to a scene once before when his former boyfriend had just left for abroad. He went to the beach that time, feeling an emotional nearness to wherever his boyfriend was. One wade at the sea and it would send ripples to his ship.
Or how he hoped the moon would mirror him.
The moon shone brightly that night. He looked at it like he did before but this time he knew there was no one else looking on the other side of the world. The full moon stared blankly at him.
And the man he barely knew.
He should have listened to that tiny voice inside him. But drunk men just won't listen.
He spotted the target: semi-bald, a little shorter than he was, girating alone but for the crowd, tiny beads of sweat glisten upon kisses of the disco light.
Tired of pretending to enjoy the company of a rather ordinary looking guy, he left, and walked towards the semi-bald guy. Courage was not a factor, fear was non-existent. He came up and introduced himself. He told him his name.
"You dance pretty well," he said, as a matter of introduction. "I like it. Are you alone?" he asked.
"I was with my friends. They're sleeping by now," he said.
He came close. His lips nearly kissed his neck. He memorized how long it seemed, like an arch of one of those subjects of Leonardo's paintings. How it seemed to look like from someone he once knew.
He came closer, stared at him, and grabbed his butt. For minutes, they were one with the crowd, like an army, possessed by the pulsating music.
"Let's go somewhere else," the man told him.
He did not protest. The man held him by his hands and scurried away, like a vulture that has just grabbed a prey. But he didn't mind.
"So what do you do," he asked the man as they walk on the beach. He asked so he could look at his face, dimly lit by the moonlight, just to check if he looked good.
"I'm a customs broker," he replied.
He seemed to like his strong jaw. And how his thick eyebrows arched like a man's in combat.
They stopped near the man's resort and sat by the stairs. He leaned towards the man, inviting a kiss. He reciprocated. And their tongues locked. For minutes, they were entangled, like long lost lovers.
Then the man moved away.
"Baka hanggang dito lang 'to," the man said, wryly.
"Huh? What do you mean?" he asked, puzzled.
"Are you serious about this?" he said.
For an acquiantence, the man pretty much had a lot of expectations, he thought to himself.
"I dunno. It's too early to tell," he answered, refusing to elaborate.
"Wait a second," the man said and ran towards their room. When he returned he was carrying a black shawl. "Let's go to the beach," he said.
He followed suit. They sat on the beach. The man talked about how he loved him and how he feared he might lose him.
He didn't say anything else. He held him tight in response. But he was not there. His mind wandered to a scene once before when his former boyfriend had just left for abroad. He went to the beach that time, feeling an emotional nearness to wherever his boyfriend was. One wade at the sea and it would send ripples to his ship.
Or how he hoped the moon would mirror him.
The moon shone brightly that night. He looked at it like he did before but this time he knew there was no one else looking on the other side of the world. The full moon stared blankly at him.
And the man he barely knew.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Tattoo
The battlescar is carved like two waves and new moon engaged, in between, there is a sail. It is red.
The tattoo artist said it was a moon sign of my astrological sign, Libra.
For three years now since I came out, I have always wanted to get a tattoo, something that could mark the stage to represent the decision.
I finally had it during my tour of duty in Puerto Galera for the Holy Week.
First, Ivan, the tattoo artist, put on a stencil of what would be a lifelong reminder of a decision. Then he had me prepare for the pain.
"Huwag mong labanan ang sakit, breathe in and out ka lang," he told. (Some life advice).
I had earlier told him to ink it red, not the regular black, and he chose a Ferrari red ink.
As he begun, the initial "drilling" of the needle was not as painful as anticipated. After a while, it had a numbing effect that I almost didn't notice, the tattoo was finished.
Ivan covered the tattoo with tissue which he taped unto my skin.
Later that night, intoxicated with vodka, I texted R. and T.P. the real reason why I got the tattoo.
"It's he-who-doesn't-have-a-name," I texted. "I wanted something to represent him, of the memory. I don't want him inside my head," I continued.
R., and later on N., didn't like the reason behind my getting it.
"Why would you want to remember it forever?" R. asked.
Because I probably would, with or without the tattoo.
When I'm old and gray, with a mind too frail to remember, the battlescar will remain amidst the growing unfamiliarity with what once were familiar: people, places, incidents. It's stark redness will bring me back to a place, where once I had loved (and failed as all endeavors in this life are indisposed). Like an oracle, it would speak of the tales of the conqueror and the conquered, however indistinguishable both could be sometimes.
And the warrior would look back, his skin dry and sagging. His eyes, wary but full of wisdom. He would close his eyes and ride with the wind, with dried leaves flying in his wake -- and the tale would be repeated.
The tattoo artist said it was a moon sign of my astrological sign, Libra.
For three years now since I came out, I have always wanted to get a tattoo, something that could mark the stage to represent the decision.
I finally had it during my tour of duty in Puerto Galera for the Holy Week.
First, Ivan, the tattoo artist, put on a stencil of what would be a lifelong reminder of a decision. Then he had me prepare for the pain.
"Huwag mong labanan ang sakit, breathe in and out ka lang," he told. (Some life advice).
I had earlier told him to ink it red, not the regular black, and he chose a Ferrari red ink.
As he begun, the initial "drilling" of the needle was not as painful as anticipated. After a while, it had a numbing effect that I almost didn't notice, the tattoo was finished.
Ivan covered the tattoo with tissue which he taped unto my skin.
Later that night, intoxicated with vodka, I texted R. and T.P. the real reason why I got the tattoo.
"It's he-who-doesn't-have-a-name," I texted. "I wanted something to represent him, of the memory. I don't want him inside my head," I continued.
R., and later on N., didn't like the reason behind my getting it.
"Why would you want to remember it forever?" R. asked.
Because I probably would, with or without the tattoo.
When I'm old and gray, with a mind too frail to remember, the battlescar will remain amidst the growing unfamiliarity with what once were familiar: people, places, incidents. It's stark redness will bring me back to a place, where once I had loved (and failed as all endeavors in this life are indisposed). Like an oracle, it would speak of the tales of the conqueror and the conquered, however indistinguishable both could be sometimes.
And the warrior would look back, his skin dry and sagging. His eyes, wary but full of wisdom. He would close his eyes and ride with the wind, with dried leaves flying in his wake -- and the tale would be repeated.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Wanted Circa '86-'87
This photo is some twenty years old. From my ID when I was in elementary. It looks like a mug shot hehehe. A reminder of the past. Innocent days. Harharhar.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Don't Let The Sun Catch You Cryin'
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
Tonight's the time for all your tears
Your heart may be broken tonight
But tomorrow in the mornin' light
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
The night time shadows disappear
And with them go all your tears
For sunshine will bring joy
For every girl and boy so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
We know that cryin's not a bad thing
But stop your cryin' when the birds sing
It may be hard to discover
That you been left for another
And don't forget that love's a game
And it can always come again so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
Don't let the sun catch you cryin' oh no
This is a very special song that came from the '60s. Heard it in American Idol courtesy of Chris Richardson. Beautiful. Beautiful.
Tonight's the time for all your tears
Your heart may be broken tonight
But tomorrow in the mornin' light
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
The night time shadows disappear
And with them go all your tears
For sunshine will bring joy
For every girl and boy so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
We know that cryin's not a bad thing
But stop your cryin' when the birds sing
It may be hard to discover
That you been left for another
And don't forget that love's a game
And it can always come again so
Don't let the sun catch you cryin'
Don't let the sun catch you cryin' oh no
This is a very special song that came from the '60s. Heard it in American Idol courtesy of Chris Richardson. Beautiful. Beautiful.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Re-energized
It never fails, if I'm low-batt, a sure cure is a trip to the beach.
Back from a three day furlough in Galera. It was my first time to travel alone, as in me-myself-and-Joseph alone. It could be boring admittedly. Although it has its ups and downs.
First day, I nearly fell sick because I don't know why. Perhaps it was seasickness. The boatride to the island was rocky. Had a terrible, terrible headache but I mustered enough courage to bring myself to the nearest bar to get my cure: a glass of vodka. While it did the trick, my tolerance to alcohol went down to something like 300 meters below sea level. I barely made it to my room without vomiting.
The second day was better. Although it began damp from the night's downpour, it turned out okay later on. Sunbathed for the most part in the morning. This was the part that was boring. I could've died from heatstroke and no one would even notice. Good thing I had my cigarettes to keep me company.
I hung out at Mendeluke's resort where I had previously stayed in November. Babylyn was still there and so were her other friends whom I've met last year. There were kind enough to entertain a lonely soul like me. hehehehe. Turned out, it has become a favorite spot for the loners, according to the barbecue lady.
During the night, I stayed in Aki's bar. Chatted a bit with Aki who owns the bar (obviously). Found out that their contract with the land owner wouldn't be renewed so it was their last night.
I was happy to drink by my lonesome and I just contented myself with looking at people: the man-peacocks as I would like to call them, those guys who are buff and would like the rest of the world to marvel at their works of arts which were their bodies; the kikay girls, the counterparts of the peacocks, both involved in the display of their bodies which I think was near to becoming a sport; and then of course, the spectators like me.
But as the night grew deeper, it turned out that I was being watched. A decent looking girl would steal glances (and unfortunately I would catch her) at me but did not progress so much as to come forward and ask my name.
A second girl did wave at me, all-smiles, and drunk (I think). And that's the part that confused me that night, and has been confusing me for the most part: do I exude a straight guys aura? And should I wear a loud pink shirt that says, "I'm gay, okay?"
I just nodded in acknowledgment of her courage, drank my last bottle of beer for the night, and left for my room to sleep.
The night was getting more confusing.
Back from a three day furlough in Galera. It was my first time to travel alone, as in me-myself-and-Joseph alone. It could be boring admittedly. Although it has its ups and downs.
First day, I nearly fell sick because I don't know why. Perhaps it was seasickness. The boatride to the island was rocky. Had a terrible, terrible headache but I mustered enough courage to bring myself to the nearest bar to get my cure: a glass of vodka. While it did the trick, my tolerance to alcohol went down to something like 300 meters below sea level. I barely made it to my room without vomiting.
The second day was better. Although it began damp from the night's downpour, it turned out okay later on. Sunbathed for the most part in the morning. This was the part that was boring. I could've died from heatstroke and no one would even notice. Good thing I had my cigarettes to keep me company.
I hung out at Mendeluke's resort where I had previously stayed in November. Babylyn was still there and so were her other friends whom I've met last year. There were kind enough to entertain a lonely soul like me. hehehehe. Turned out, it has become a favorite spot for the loners, according to the barbecue lady.
During the night, I stayed in Aki's bar. Chatted a bit with Aki who owns the bar (obviously). Found out that their contract with the land owner wouldn't be renewed so it was their last night.
I was happy to drink by my lonesome and I just contented myself with looking at people: the man-peacocks as I would like to call them, those guys who are buff and would like the rest of the world to marvel at their works of arts which were their bodies; the kikay girls, the counterparts of the peacocks, both involved in the display of their bodies which I think was near to becoming a sport; and then of course, the spectators like me.
But as the night grew deeper, it turned out that I was being watched. A decent looking girl would steal glances (and unfortunately I would catch her) at me but did not progress so much as to come forward and ask my name.
A second girl did wave at me, all-smiles, and drunk (I think). And that's the part that confused me that night, and has been confusing me for the most part: do I exude a straight guys aura? And should I wear a loud pink shirt that says, "I'm gay, okay?"
I just nodded in acknowledgment of her courage, drank my last bottle of beer for the night, and left for my room to sleep.
The night was getting more confusing.
Monday, March 05, 2007
The Child Re-Emerges
There's a bitch in all of us. Term it "evil" if you like. I've always acknowledge that part of me: it's the me with reckless abandon, the stubborn child that could never be quite satisfied, or the spirit that cannot be contained.
Sometimes I try. Maybe that's why I discovered the joys of writing or sought refuge in drawing when I was little. I write or draw to free it, to give it form, so I can come face to face with it. It's hard to battle something which is abstract. If contained, I manifest it.
Some people may argue that the child is one's true nature. Over time, it is forced to be hidden, or tempered by things that adults call "responsibility" or "maturity" or "prudence."
But every time the child/bitch/evil in me surface (in any form) it always felt good to indulge it. Maybe I am Peter Pan who never grows old because he doesn't.
Over time, I discovered that there's no escaping the child. It gravitates towards the things it really wants.
This weekend I was in Baguio with ALL of my housemates for Randy's exhibit. I've always wanted to be in that kind of world, where expressing one's self is one's profession; not tempering it and hiding it in terms like "objectivity" or "responsibility" or "maturity."
The child has been quiet in recent months, happy to hibernate in seclusion wherever it finds it within myself.
But not today.
Today the child is enraged. It wants to escape. It wants to swim in dark waters only to remind itself that there is comfort in unfamiliar things. It wants to stare into the sun directly as though it has eyes and wants to communicate. If he finds that opportunity, the child has a lot of things to tell him. It has been a while since the last conversation.
It also wants to play creator and its hands shall be the paintbrushes, the canvas, and the acrylic. It has been a while too since his hands have been stained with color. It looks forward to a rendezvous because it will be both lovely and bittersweet. Lovely because it's good to be finally be doing what it ought to be doing. Bittesweet because it took a long time and the child regrets it.
A fortuneteller once told me that I should pay attention to the things around me. A fortune cookie told me that too and told me that it's where I will find the path to the journey that I should be taking.
There could be happier times in happier places. Sometimes they are hidden. Sometimes they are exposed but we just don't see them. Because we don't want to see them.
Lately, there are signs. I've ignored them before and now they are resurfacing. Sooner, I shall confront them.
And then concede.
Sometimes I try. Maybe that's why I discovered the joys of writing or sought refuge in drawing when I was little. I write or draw to free it, to give it form, so I can come face to face with it. It's hard to battle something which is abstract. If contained, I manifest it.
Some people may argue that the child is one's true nature. Over time, it is forced to be hidden, or tempered by things that adults call "responsibility" or "maturity" or "prudence."
But every time the child/bitch/evil in me surface (in any form) it always felt good to indulge it. Maybe I am Peter Pan who never grows old because he doesn't.
Over time, I discovered that there's no escaping the child. It gravitates towards the things it really wants.
This weekend I was in Baguio with ALL of my housemates for Randy's exhibit. I've always wanted to be in that kind of world, where expressing one's self is one's profession; not tempering it and hiding it in terms like "objectivity" or "responsibility" or "maturity."
The child has been quiet in recent months, happy to hibernate in seclusion wherever it finds it within myself.
But not today.
Today the child is enraged. It wants to escape. It wants to swim in dark waters only to remind itself that there is comfort in unfamiliar things. It wants to stare into the sun directly as though it has eyes and wants to communicate. If he finds that opportunity, the child has a lot of things to tell him. It has been a while since the last conversation.
It also wants to play creator and its hands shall be the paintbrushes, the canvas, and the acrylic. It has been a while too since his hands have been stained with color. It looks forward to a rendezvous because it will be both lovely and bittersweet. Lovely because it's good to be finally be doing what it ought to be doing. Bittesweet because it took a long time and the child regrets it.
A fortuneteller once told me that I should pay attention to the things around me. A fortune cookie told me that too and told me that it's where I will find the path to the journey that I should be taking.
There could be happier times in happier places. Sometimes they are hidden. Sometimes they are exposed but we just don't see them. Because we don't want to see them.
Lately, there are signs. I've ignored them before and now they are resurfacing. Sooner, I shall confront them.
And then concede.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Letter To The Wind
"Profound disorientation," was how the movie "Little Children" described the first encounter between the two protagonists of the films.
"... like being abducted by aliens and returned a few hours after," the movie continued to describe Kate Winslet's character.
I remember feeling the same thing with you. It all happened so fast it felt like a dream sequence, it was unreal. But waking up beside you told me otherwise. Or so I remember.
Like a dream sequence, too, it was over. And soon I discovered, though accidental (but aren't all discoveries?), that it was impossible for us to have anything beyond and more than what happened.
Or so I thought.
But right now I don't know. Truth to tell is, I still haven't figured despite very categorical statements uttered. But words are merely words and actions more often than not, contradict them.
And so I wonder now, like I wondered before, what that last hand-kiss meant. Or the stare during the longest taxi ride of my life to never-land. I was so caught up with the questions then that I wasn't able to act appropriately (defined as not having to do anything considering the factors).
And so I am left with the questions.
Sometimes, I try to forget them. Sometimes, I even try to discourage them. But nothing I guess will make them go away. Even the conviction that it is not right, will not make things right.
If I could, I would tell you of these things I keep inside. Of how that last letter meant only a fraction of the original that I didn't send. That I was, and am, perhaps still enamored by your character, like a piece of art which I would like to make mine just because it is beautiful.
"I was prepared to fall in love with him," I recall having told Ruth, like I have come to a decision but was holding back.
If I could, I would tell you that I think of you at night. Fondly. No pun intended. Of that night you slammed against the gate because you tried to run but was too drunk. Of that kiss. That kiss that put all my past memories of the same kind to shame. Or of how we just slept, side by side, unmindful of the world.
If I could, I would ask you, was there something I should have said or did, that could put your questions to rest. I would ask you too if I am not alone in all these misery of missing you and wishing I don't.
If I could, I would.
But I know, I couldn't.
"... like being abducted by aliens and returned a few hours after," the movie continued to describe Kate Winslet's character.
I remember feeling the same thing with you. It all happened so fast it felt like a dream sequence, it was unreal. But waking up beside you told me otherwise. Or so I remember.
Like a dream sequence, too, it was over. And soon I discovered, though accidental (but aren't all discoveries?), that it was impossible for us to have anything beyond and more than what happened.
Or so I thought.
But right now I don't know. Truth to tell is, I still haven't figured despite very categorical statements uttered. But words are merely words and actions more often than not, contradict them.
And so I wonder now, like I wondered before, what that last hand-kiss meant. Or the stare during the longest taxi ride of my life to never-land. I was so caught up with the questions then that I wasn't able to act appropriately (defined as not having to do anything considering the factors).
And so I am left with the questions.
Sometimes, I try to forget them. Sometimes, I even try to discourage them. But nothing I guess will make them go away. Even the conviction that it is not right, will not make things right.
If I could, I would tell you of these things I keep inside. Of how that last letter meant only a fraction of the original that I didn't send. That I was, and am, perhaps still enamored by your character, like a piece of art which I would like to make mine just because it is beautiful.
"I was prepared to fall in love with him," I recall having told Ruth, like I have come to a decision but was holding back.
If I could, I would tell you that I think of you at night. Fondly. No pun intended. Of that night you slammed against the gate because you tried to run but was too drunk. Of that kiss. That kiss that put all my past memories of the same kind to shame. Or of how we just slept, side by side, unmindful of the world.
If I could, I would ask you, was there something I should have said or did, that could put your questions to rest. I would ask you too if I am not alone in all these misery of missing you and wishing I don't.
If I could, I would.
But I know, I couldn't.
A Parable of Truths and A Lesson Learned
To an eagle, a forest can look like a vast expanse of greenery from above. A tree is indistinguishable from the other. In other parts, the foliage may rise or subside but it remains that, each one a part of the other.
To a snake, the forest is refuge, where there is a tree that presents an opportunity to hide in, a patch of dried leaves to camouflage in, while it waits in the wings until it launches an attack.
A hare sees it differently, it is an endless maze where one must avoid danger at every turn.
To each of them, a forest is different: distant to one, an enemy's ally to another, or the enemy itself to someone else.
Our truths are what we accept and deny. And one must be careful when presented with a truth. It is quite ironically, not always truthful.
To a snake, the forest is refuge, where there is a tree that presents an opportunity to hide in, a patch of dried leaves to camouflage in, while it waits in the wings until it launches an attack.
A hare sees it differently, it is an endless maze where one must avoid danger at every turn.
To each of them, a forest is different: distant to one, an enemy's ally to another, or the enemy itself to someone else.
Our truths are what we accept and deny. And one must be careful when presented with a truth. It is quite ironically, not always truthful.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Valentine's Love
I didn't know Mom sent me a little something for Valentine's Day until she texted and asked if I had received it.
Not yet, I said. But I had a hunch she sent it to my former address so I told her I had transferred already.
But she said she addressed it to my office ... (ok...) in Diliman, Quezon City. Ayayayay! My office is along EDSA.
So goodluck to the gift but nevertheless, I appreaciated the act and the thought.
Talking about Valentine's, some of my friends and I spent it partner-less but not loveless.
Had dinner and then went to a bar to listen to some love songs. We were basking in a different kind of love: the platonic, almost holy love, amongst friends, which to my mind is longer-lasting than romantic love.
And hence, my Valentine's was still about love but of a different kind: the kind that enriches ... after which, all my succeeding love(s?) shall be patterned after.
Not yet, I said. But I had a hunch she sent it to my former address so I told her I had transferred already.
But she said she addressed it to my office ... (ok...) in Diliman, Quezon City. Ayayayay! My office is along EDSA.
So goodluck to the gift but nevertheless, I appreaciated the act and the thought.
Talking about Valentine's, some of my friends and I spent it partner-less but not loveless.
Had dinner and then went to a bar to listen to some love songs. We were basking in a different kind of love: the platonic, almost holy love, amongst friends, which to my mind is longer-lasting than romantic love.
And hence, my Valentine's was still about love but of a different kind: the kind that enriches ... after which, all my succeeding love(s?) shall be patterned after.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Happy Valentine's
Not Even Death Can Separate Them. The pair, buried between 5,000 and 6,000 years ago in the late Neolithic period, was unearthed by archeologists on the outskirts of Mantua during construction work. The site is located just 25 miles south of Verona, the city where Shakespeare set the story of "Romeo and Juliet".
Happy Valentine's Day to most of you.
Tomorrow has different meanings for each of us. For me, it's my Dad's 2nd death anniversary. So celebrating romantic love is totally out of the question, pretty much for the rest of my life. Hehehehe. But I have 364 other days to choose from. For tomorrow, for the meantime, I have a convenient excuse to forget. Hehehe.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Fragments
The glistening glitters
are shattered glass falling
each one reflecting
a singular memory:
a night at the dome,
a glass of vodka,
a thousand hundred dreams.
I shall watch each one fall
as though they are leaves
at the bottom until
each one is indistinguishable from the other
a mirror will be left of what once
were glass shattered.
And I will look
and I will see
not each memory
nor dream
but myself looking back;
I have become each part
each memory, each dream.
I am whole because of
and not despite
the fractures.
are shattered glass falling
each one reflecting
a singular memory:
a night at the dome,
a glass of vodka,
a thousand hundred dreams.
I shall watch each one fall
as though they are leaves
at the bottom until
each one is indistinguishable from the other
a mirror will be left of what once
were glass shattered.
And I will look
and I will see
not each memory
nor dream
but myself looking back;
I have become each part
each memory, each dream.
I am whole because of
and not despite
the fractures.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Gym For Better Times
I enrolled in a gym, again. This is the 3rd time I'm attempting it. But maybe this time I'd be able to sustain it. I hope. There's a 1-year contract that binds me to it, which is good.
I think that's what I need, healthier lungs and heart for more beer and yosi. Wahaahaha.
I think that's what I need, healthier lungs and heart for more beer and yosi. Wahaahaha.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
A Gift Of A Festival
There's something about festivals that I like: maybe it's the spirit of revelry, of reckless abandon in the name of fun, or being able to touch, feel, and taste culture.
Dinagyang in Iloilo was no exception. I didn't mind being sunburned from around 7 in the morning 'til after lunch.
The costumes were fantastic. And the choreography, too. Each troop dressed to the nines so to speak, in all their ethnic revelry. They were like fully-made up armies, each troop surging forward accompanied by what sounded like a hundred drums. And then, each of the dancers would shout on the top of their lungs, or raise their arms in devotion, pirouette, or jump, and run forward; all of these, each one did, with so much power and synchronicity with the others, but each one like a troop unto itself.
And to think Dinagyang started with a simple birthday gift from a Cebu priest to a parish priest in Iloilo. There's nothing metaphysical or mysterious with its beginnings but something somehow tells you, God intervened, to have it reach this magnitude of a celebration.
In 1968, Father Sulpicio Enderes of Cebu gave then San Jose, Iloilo Parish priest Ambrocio Galindez an image of the Sto. Niño. I had the fortunate chance to interview Father Galindez, now 76 years old and is now based in Bohol.
It was during the Fluvial procession which ushered in the start of the religious festival that I finally encountered the man who started it all.
"Were you surprised that it has gotten this big, father?" I asked him, with me being more amused that he was.
"All for the Niño," he smiled.
"Why did you ask for an image of the Sto. Niño?" I inquired.
"I was asked what gift I wanted, so I said an image of the Niño, because at the time, I was thinking of starting a confradia de Santo Niño in Iloilo," Father Galindez said.
Dominador Rivera, was one of those who organized the first-ever Dinagyang Festival. They held it in the town of San Jose, a couple of minutes ride from the city proper.
The reception then was of ridicule.
"We only had bottles to provide us sounds, we didn't even have costumes like they do now. They thought we were crazy," Rivera recalled with amusement.
I first met Rivera at the Sto. Nino parish where they keep the 1968 image of the Sto. Nino. Met him again during the Ati Competition, Sunday.
"This is beautiful," I told him, referring to the tribes performing.
He simply nodded. Already aware of the obvious fact.
In front of the stage, sitted amongst a crowd of VIPs, Father Galindez sat inconspicuously. If I had not known prior the relevance of this man, I would not have noticed him.
"Thank you, Father Galindez, for giving us such a gift," the emcee announced after she had introduced him.
Indeed.
Dinagyang in Iloilo was no exception. I didn't mind being sunburned from around 7 in the morning 'til after lunch.
The costumes were fantastic. And the choreography, too. Each troop dressed to the nines so to speak, in all their ethnic revelry. They were like fully-made up armies, each troop surging forward accompanied by what sounded like a hundred drums. And then, each of the dancers would shout on the top of their lungs, or raise their arms in devotion, pirouette, or jump, and run forward; all of these, each one did, with so much power and synchronicity with the others, but each one like a troop unto itself.
And to think Dinagyang started with a simple birthday gift from a Cebu priest to a parish priest in Iloilo. There's nothing metaphysical or mysterious with its beginnings but something somehow tells you, God intervened, to have it reach this magnitude of a celebration.
In 1968, Father Sulpicio Enderes of Cebu gave then San Jose, Iloilo Parish priest Ambrocio Galindez an image of the Sto. Niño. I had the fortunate chance to interview Father Galindez, now 76 years old and is now based in Bohol.
It was during the Fluvial procession which ushered in the start of the religious festival that I finally encountered the man who started it all.
"Were you surprised that it has gotten this big, father?" I asked him, with me being more amused that he was.
"All for the Niño," he smiled.
"Why did you ask for an image of the Sto. Niño?" I inquired.
"I was asked what gift I wanted, so I said an image of the Niño, because at the time, I was thinking of starting a confradia de Santo Niño in Iloilo," Father Galindez said.
Dominador Rivera, was one of those who organized the first-ever Dinagyang Festival. They held it in the town of San Jose, a couple of minutes ride from the city proper.
The reception then was of ridicule.
"We only had bottles to provide us sounds, we didn't even have costumes like they do now. They thought we were crazy," Rivera recalled with amusement.
I first met Rivera at the Sto. Nino parish where they keep the 1968 image of the Sto. Nino. Met him again during the Ati Competition, Sunday.
"This is beautiful," I told him, referring to the tribes performing.
He simply nodded. Already aware of the obvious fact.
In front of the stage, sitted amongst a crowd of VIPs, Father Galindez sat inconspicuously. If I had not known prior the relevance of this man, I would not have noticed him.
"Thank you, Father Galindez, for giving us such a gift," the emcee announced after she had introduced him.
Indeed.
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