Come Undone - Duran Duran

Mine, immaculate dream, made breath and skin, I've been waiting for you,
Signed, with a home tattoo, Happy birthday to you was created for you.


(Can't ever keep from falling apart.. At the seams)
(Can't I believe you're taking my heart.. to pieces)

Ahh, it'll take a little time, might take a little crime to come undone
Now we'll try to stay blind, to the hope and fear outside,
Hey child, stay wilder than the wind
And blow me in to cry.

Who do you need?
Who do you love?
When you come undone.

(chorus)


Words, playing me deja vu, Like a radio tune I swear I've heard before,
Chill, is it something real, Or the magic I'm feeding off your fingers

(Can't ever keep from falling apart.. at the seams)
(Can I believe you're taking my heart.. to pieces)


Lost, in a snow filled sky, we'll make it alright, to come undone,
Now we'll try to stay blind, to the hope and fear outside,
Hey child, stay wilder than the wind -
And blow me in to cry.

(chorus)

Ordinary World - Duran Duran

Came in from a rainy Thursday
On the avenue
Thought I heard you talking softly

I turned on the lights, the TV
And the radio
Still I can't escape the ghost of you

What has happened to it all?
Crazy, some are saying
Where is the life that I recognize?
Gone away

But I won't cry for yesterday
There's an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive

Passion or coincidence
Once prompted you to say
"Pride will tear us both apart"
Well now pride's gone out the window
Cross the rooftops
Run away
Left me in the vacuum of my heart

What is happening to me?
Crazy, some'd say
Where is my friend when I need you most?
Gone away

But I won't cry for yesterday
There's an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive

Papers in the roadside
Tell of suffering and greed
Here today, forgot tomorrow
Ooh, here besides the news
Of holy war and holy need
Ours is just a little sorrowed talk

And I don't cry for yesterday
There's an ordinary world
Somehow I have to find
And as I try to make my way
To the ordinary world
I will learn to survive

Every one
Is my world, I will learn to survive
Any one
Is my world, I will learn to survive
Any one
Is my world
Every one
Is my world

"Everything looks interesting until you do it. Then you find it's just another job."
- Terry Pratchett, Moving Pictures

Ain't No Rest for the Wicked - Cage the Elephant

I was walkin' down the street
When out the corner of my eye
I saw a pretty little thing approaching me
She said I never seen a man
Who looked so all alone
Oh could you use a little company
And if you pay the right price
Your evening will be nice
You can go and send me on my way
I said you're such a sweet young thing
Why you do this to yourself
She looked at me and this is what she said

Oh no there ain't no rest for the wicked
Money don't grow on trees
I got bills to pay
I got mouths to feed
Ain't nothing in this world for free
No I can't slow down
I can't hold back
Though you know I wish I could
No there ain't no rest for the wicked
Until we close our eyes for good

Not even 15 minutes later
I'm still walkin' down the street
When I saw the shadow of a man creep out of sight
And then he swept up from behind
He put a gun up to my head
He made it clear he wasn't lookin' for a fight
He said give me all you got
I want your money not your life
But if you try to make a move I won't think twice
I told him you can have my cash
But first you know I gotta ask
What made you want to live this kind of life

He said there ain't no rest for the wicked
Money don't grow on trees
I got bills to pay
I got mouths to feed
Ain't nothing in this world for free
No I can't slow down
I can't hold back
Though you know I wish I could
No there ain't no rest for the wicked
Until we close our eyes for good

Well now a couple hours past
And I was sitting in my house
The day was winding down and coming to an end
So I turned on the TV
And flipped it over to the news
And what I saw I almost couldn't comprehend
I saw a preacher man in cuffs
He'd taken money from the church
He'd stuffed his bank account with righteous dollar bills
But even still I can't say much
Because I know we're all the same
Oh yes we all seek out to satisfy those thrills

You know there ain't no rest for the wicked
Money don't grow on trees
We got bills to pay
We got mouths to feed
Ain't nothing in this world for free
No we can't slow down
We can't hold back
Though you know we wish we could
No there ain't no rest for the wicked
Until we close our eyes for good

Doesn't Remind Me - Audioslave

I walk the streets of Japan till I get lost
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
With a graveyard tan carrying a cross
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like studying faces in a parking lot
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like driving backwards in the fog
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

[Chorus]
The things that I've loved the things that I've lost
The things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need to forget

I like gypsy moths and radio talk
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like gospel music and canned applause
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like colorful clothing in the sun
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I ilke hammering nails and speaking in tongues
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything

[Chorus]
The things that I've loved the things that I've lost
The things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need

Bend and shape me
I love the way you are
Slow and sweetly
Like never before
Calm and sleeping
We won't stir up the past
So discreetly
We won't look back

[Chorus]
The things that I've loved the things that I've lost
The things I've held sacred that I've dropped
I won't lie no more you can bet
I don't want to learn what I'll need

I like throwing my voice and breaking guitars
Cause it doesn't remind me of anything
I like playing in the sand what's mine is ours
If it doesn't remind me of anything

"Language is indeed a machine that continually amplifies the emotions." - Gustave Flaubert, 'Madame Bovary'

The Sneaker Pimps - Six Underground

take me down, six underground, the ground beneath your feet
laid out low, nothing to go, nowhere a way to meet
I've got a head full of drought down here
so far off losing out round here
overground, watch this space, I'm open to falling from grace
calm me down, bring it round, too way high off your street
I can see like nothing else, in me you're better than I wanna be
don't think 'cos I understand I care
don't think 'cos I'm talking we're friends
overground, watch this space, i'm open to falling from grace

talk me down, safe and sound, too strung up to sleep
wear me out, scream and shout, swear my time's never cheap
I fake my life like I've lived too much
I take whatever you're givin' - not enough
overground, watch this space I'm open to falling from grace

Audioslave - Gasoline

House is haunted
I just want to go for a ride
Out and on
Before I set this room alight
Left alone
Forever and for crimes unclear
With my patience gone
Someone take me far from here

Yeah
Burning that gasoline
Yeah
Burning that gasoline

New day yawning
Another day of Solitaire
House is honest
Dealing more than I can bear
Drag me off
Before I set my world on fire
Out and gone
The sun will never set tonight

Yeah
Burning that gasoline
Yeah
Burning that gasoline

No more forests
Only a can of red: says DANGER on it
I have found another way

Burning that gasoline
Burning that gasoline
Burning it all away
Burning it all away

Audioslave - Show Me How to Live

In with the early dawn
Moving right along
I couldn’t buy an eyeful of sleep
And in the aching night
Under satellites
I was not received
Built with stolen parts
A telephone in my heart
Someone get me a priest
To put my mind to bed
This ringing in my head
Is this a cure or is this a disease

Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me life now
Show me how to live

In the afterbirth
On the quiet earth
Let these things remind you
You thought you made a man
You better think again
Before my role defines you

Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me a life
Now show me how to live
Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me life now
Show me how to live

And in your waiting hands
I will land
And roll out of my skin
And in your final hours
I will stand
Ready to begin
Ready to begin
Ready to begin
Ready to begin

Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
Nail in my hand
From my creator
You gave me life now
Show me how to live
Show me how to live
Show me how to live
Show me how to live
Show me how to live

The Smashing Pumpkins - 1979

Shakedown 1979
Cool kids never have the time
On a live wire right up off the street
You and I should meet
Junebug skipping like a stone
With the headlights pointed at the dawn
We were sure we'd never see an end to it all

I don't even care to shake these zipper blues
And we don't know
Just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed to the earth below

Double cross the vacant and the bored
They're not sure just what we have in store
Morphine city slippin' dues down to see

We don't even care as restless as we are
We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts
And poured cement, lamented and assured
To the lights and towns below
Faster than the speed of sound
Faster than we thought we'd go
Beneath the sound of hope

Justine never knew the rules,
Hung down with the freaks and the ghouls
No apologies ever need be made
I know you better than you fake it to see

We don't even care to shake these zipper blues
And we don't know just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
The street heats the urgency of now
As you see there's no one around

Music of the Night

Nighttime sharpens, heightens each sensation
Darkness stirs and wakes imagination
Silently the senses abandon their defences

Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendour
Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender
Turn your face away from the garish light of day
Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light
And listen to the music of the night

Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams
Purge all thoughts of the life you knew before
Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar
And you'll live as you've never lived before

Softly, deftly, music shall caress you
Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you
Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind
In this darkness which you know you cannot fight
The darkness of the music of the night

Let your mind start a journey through a strange, new world
Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before
Let your soul take you where you long to be
Only then can you belong to me

Floating, falling, sweet intoxication
Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation
Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in
To the power of the music that I write
The power of the music of the night

You alone can make my song take flight
Help me make the music of the night

Love Me Tender - Elvis Presley

Love me tender,
love me sweet,
never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
and I love you so.
Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfill.
For my darlin' I love you,
and I always will.
Love me tender,
love me long,
take me to your heart.
For it's there that I belong,
and we'll never part.
Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfill.
For my darlin' I love you,
and I always will.
Love me tender,
love me dear,
tell me you are mine.
I'll be yours through all the years,
till the end of time.
Love me tender,
love me true,
all my dreams fulfill.
For my darlin' I love you,
and I always will.
When at last my dreams come true
Darling this I know
Happiness will follow you
Everywhere you go.

Who Will Save Your Soul? - Jewel

People living their lives for you on TV
They say they're better than you and you agree
He says "Hold my calls from behind those cold brick walls"
Says "Come here boys, there ain't nothing for free"
Another doctor's bill, a lawyer's bill
Another cute cheap thrill
You know you love him if you put in your will
Who will save your soul when it comes to the flower?
Who will save your soul after all the lies that you told, boy?
Who will save your soul if you won't save your own?
We try to hustle them, try to bustle them, try to cuss them
The cops want someone to bust down on Orleans Avenue
Another day, another dollar, another war,
Another tower went up, where the homeless had their homes
So we pray to as many different Gods as there are flowers
But we call religion our friend
We're so worried about saving our souls
Afraid that God will take His toll that we forget to begin...
Some are walking, some are talking, some are stalking their kill
You got social security, but that doesn't pay your bills
There are addictions to feed and there are mouths to pay
So you bargain with the Devil, say you're OK for today,
You say that you love them, take their money and run
Say it's been swell, sweetheart, but it was just one of those things
Those flings, those strings you've got to cut,
So get out on the streets, girls, and bust you butts...

Nulum magnum ingenium sine mixtura dementiae
"No great Wit without Madness intermixt." - Aristotle

Goodbye My Lover - James Blunt

Did I disappoint you or let you down?
Should I be feeling guilty or let the judges frown?
'Cause I saw the end before we'd begun,
Yes I saw you were blind and I knew I had won.
So I took what's mine by eternal right.
Took your soul out into the night.
It may be over but it won't stop there,
I am here for you if you'd only care.
You touched my heart you touched my soul.
You changed my life and all my goals.
And love is blind but then I knew it,
My heart was blinded by you.
I've kissed your lips and held your hand.
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.
I know you well, I know your smell.
I've been addicted to you.
Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.
I am a dreamer and when I wake,
You can't break my spirit - it's my dreams you take.
And as you move on, remember me,
Remember us and all we used to be.
I've seen you cry, I've seen you smile.
I've watched you sleeping for a while.
I'd be the father of your child.
I'd spend a lifetime with you.
I know your fears and you know mine.
We've had our doubts but now we're fine,
And I love you, I swear that's true.
I cannot live without you.
Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.
And I still hold your hand in mine.
In mine when I'm asleep.
And I will bare my soul in time,
When I'm kneeling at your feet.
Goodbye my lover.
Goodbye my friend.
You have been the one.
You have been the one for me.
I'm so hollow, baby, I'm so hollow.
I'm so, I'm so, I'm so hollow.

Over Night - Aya

Fly, sway, go all the way.
I'm in the same fate with you.
I feel your beat all around,
wandering the everlasting way.
Chivalry, show me the way to go
Forever...
Tears fall, vanish into the night.
If I'm a sinner,
Chivalry, show me the way to go.
Rise high, just feel alive.
Say a prayer for you today.
I still believe in your love.
Chase the shadow of truth into the dark
Forever...
Tears fall, vanish into the night.
If I'm a sinner,
Chivalry, show me the way to go.
Wandering, my crying soul,
Only you can wipe away my tears.
Wandering, my crying soul,
Only you can wipe away my tears
Forever...
Tears fall vanish into the night.
If I'm a sinner,
Chivalry, show me the way to go.

Mama and Papa's Tears

It’s been almost two years since I left my home and came to Japan to “seek my fortune.” So far, this has been the adventure of a lifetime. I’ve been incredibly fortunate in spite of my brash decision to leave behind a nice, comfortable life and set out on my own as a stranger in a strange land. Nevertheless, there is one thing that saddens me about what I’ve done. In being so stubborn and selfish about this decision two years ago, I made my parents cry.

In the car, on the way to the airport, my mother cried. It was noisy, slimy, and devoid of all poise and pride. There was only pain, pain, and more pain. I was stunned.

My mother is not the crying kind. In our family, she has always been the stalwart and formidable pillar that holds everything upright when all else is about to fall apart. Never in all my life did I think she’d cry just because I was leaving. The daughter who had caused her innumerable disappointments, who had betrayed her in countless ways, was leaving everything behind to do her own selfish thing. My mother would be free of me at last, I thought. She’d be relieved and happy, I thought. Man, was I ever wrong.

And then one day, while I was home for a vacation, my father admitted to us that sometimes he cried for me, too. He’d cry when he thought of me all alone, with no one to look after me. What if I got sick? What if I needed help? Here, I had no family and no friends. It’s just me.

My father is the most sublimely confident man I’ve ever known. He is candid and honest, never shy of speaking his mind, but knows exactly when to keep silent. And in my eyes he is the strongest of men because he is never afraid of owning up to his weaknesses. He made the great sacrifice of leaving his family for work so he could provide them a more comfortable lifestyle, and he accomplished exactly what he set out to do. A man of faith and purpose, with an iron will like my father, was the last person I’d thought would cry over the idea that his spoiled silly daughter might be lonely. Again, I could not have been more mistaken.

Two years hence, they’ve gotten used to it. Nowadays, they still worry a lot, but I don’t think they cry anymore. And I can only hope that in some little way they feel a bit of pride in me for having been brave enough to test my own limits and see how far I could go. In spite of the worry and pain they had to endure, they let me do what I wanted, and let me make a dream come true. It is because of this that I now know I can go anywhere, do anything, if I so wanted.

When I left home, I told myself that I was doing it to gain that mysterious, elusive thing called “freedom.” And gain it I most certainly did. Only, I realize clearly now that I never gained it for myself. It was my parents who had gifted me with it all along. My freedom is my most precious possession, because my parents paid for it with their tears.

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot that I’ve had my little adventure, and that I ought to be heading back home soon. My life in Japan has been a grand escapade. I’ve made many good friends, seen spectacular sights, and learned so many lessons that I’d have never learned had I not dared challenge myself. But I also have a long list of things to go home to, and first on that list are my parents.

I want to return to that feeling of being whole again. Our family has been scattered for such a long time. Now my parents are home again, and I want to be part of their lives. I don’t want to be just someone they talk to on the telephone every now and then anymore. I want them to see my face, hear my voice, and feel my presence as part of their surroundings. I want to be part of their memories. And I don’t want to wait until we all grow too old and time gets to be too late, and there’d be nothing more that can be done but regret.

There are no words that can describe the agony I feel when I see my parents’ grief. It paralyzes me and makes me feel utterly wretched and unworthy. So I never want to see my parents’ tears again. But if I come home to the sight of them crying because they are proud of me or because they are happy, perhaps then I won’t mind catching a little teardrop or two.

(posted elsewhere 2 Jul 2009)

(not really) turning Japanese

it’s been a week that i’ve been in japan and i’m still in a sort of shock. sometimes it’s still difficult for me to believe i’m actually already here.

some basic info about my stay here so far:
my job. i teach english to little kids from 4 to 11 years old. five to seven classes a day, one hour each class. maximum of six or seven kids in one class. i also have a couple of adult english conversation classes for professionals who want to learn english. the schedule can get erratic, and sometimes i work till 8pm. but so far i’ve nothing to complain about. the bosses (a married couple, australian + japanese) have been very nice to me. driving me around, helping me get acclimated, even treating me to dinner twice already. they want me to have a car so it’s easier for me to get around, but if that’s the case, i’ll have to learn to drive a right hand drive car on the left side of the road. pretty tricky, but the japanese are enormously disciplined drivers.

my place right now. temporarily, i live in a real bona fide house fit for a family to reside in, and it’s tremendously expensive. but in september i’ll be moving to a smaller, more appropriate apartment for a single person trying to blaze her way through her life span, and far more affordable too. you can keep in touch with me through my email or here on friendster. i will try to be online regularly on saturday afternoons. hope to catch you guys on YM.

lifestyle. everything and i do mean everything is more expensive here than in manila. internet rental alone is P140 or so an hour. however, this internet cafe is open 24hrs, has la-z boy seats, and top of the line computers. the only thing that gets in the way is the japanese language, haha. the keyboards are truly a conundrum. speaking of the japanese language, it’s very very difficult since very very few people speak english and my japanese is pathetic at best. i’ve gotten lost many times! i try to laugh it off, but when you’re in that moment of perplexity, it’s really not funny. the japanese are at least quite helpful to foreigners who get lost or have no idea how things are done or what the heck things are. but so far, i guess i’m doing ok. i eat whatever’s cheap or free, surviving mostly on cup noodles and canned goods. by the way, how do you operate a microwave oven? i’ve no idea. please tell me how, i’ll be forever grateful. the oven toaster is a big help right now; at least i know how to operate that one.

these two weeks are the summer holidays. last saturday, there were so many people walking around in kimonos and yukatas - traditional japanese costumes. beautiful creations, if i do say so, and the japanese are justified in wearing them proudly even in modern times, whatever that means. most interesting is how they managed to look clean and fresh in those clothes even if it’s very warm here. yes, the japanese summer is quite hot. nothing like pinoy summer, but still nothing to take lightly.

I’m so homesick i want to puke. i can’t understand anything the people say or what’s written around me, i.e. signs, tv, labels on food stuffs, labels on consumer products, etc. i miss everything and everyone at home. but i’m trying my best to be very brave. i hope i’ll learn the japanese language soon. in the meantime, the busy schedule actually helps keep my mind off the numbing loneliness.

so i guess that’s about it for now. please update me on what’s going on there with you guys. i’ll try to be online as often as i could. wish me luck. till next time =D

(posted elsewhere 6 Aug 2007)

To the Debate Team

Let us never forget the long hours of hard work and study.

Let us never forget the people who held us up, inspired us, and who pulled us down, belittled us.

Let us never forget our victories and our defeats.

Let us never forget that none of the three mentioned above matters in the very least.

Let us never forget that we were more than a team. We were friends.

Good luck to you.

Wish me luck, too.

Of all the people I could possibly have been given the chance to have on the team, I got the best. Thank you very much.

(posted elsewhere 6 Jul 2007)

A Book Hunter's Guide to Book Hunting

NOTE: What you are about to read are meant for literature lovers, book collectors, voracious readers, and those who are just beginning to discover the magic hidden among the pages of books. If you are not any of those mentioned previously, the author will not be held accountable for any occurrences of migraine, nosebleed, epileptic seizure, heart failure, deteriorating posture, or extreme onset of boredom. Read at your own personal risk. The advice given here is based purely on the author's personal experiences. Happy book hunting!

Attempt at Definition: Book hunting is an activity that involves spending enormous amounts of time at book stores looking for good books to read but not necessarily knowing which particular books; and going through a great deal of selecting from books you don’t like until you think you’ve found what you’re looking for. Book hunting can best be compared to hitchhiking. You have a goal in mind, but you don’t know exactly how to get there. It’s a very risky endeavor – sometimes you get something good, but sometimes you get the equivalent of fecal matter. What you end up with will always be completely random, so you’d better be prepared. And it’s always, always a bit of an adventure.

Tips for the Beginner:

Know what you like. Don’t just go for any book that seems interesting. When you go book hunting, you will be bombarded by all sorts of fascinating material. Pick only those you are sure will be worth your time – unless you have a bottomless financial resource and unlimited shelf space, of course.
Go for bargain book shops, second-hand book shops, and the like. The books are open and waiting for your perusal. Peruse at your leisure. This is extremely important especially if you find a book that you’ve never heard of before or something written by an author you’ve never tried before. Many of the things you find in such shops aren’t worth a teaspoon of salt, but more often than not, gold dust is mixed into the pile – for the price of a teaspoon of salt!
Wear your most comfortable pair of shoes. Book hunting means intense extended periods of time walking around, standing on your feet while perusing books, tiptoeing to get to the highest shelves, and squatting or even kneeling down to get to the bottom shelves, in an effort to find the perfect needle in the haystack.
Clear your schedule. Interruptions during book hunting can be very irritating and will soon ruin a perfectly perfect day. Make sure you’ve got nothing more important to do than hang around in the book store; and tell everyone in your phone book that you don’t want any unnecessary interruptions that day so please keep your text messages to yourselves thank you very much.
When you find something that interests you, hold onto it. Don’t be lazy about carrying a stack of books around with you while you comb through the book store. Don’t do the “I might find something better I’ll just come back for that later” routine. When you return to it much later, you’ll most likely find it gone – taken away by another intrepid book hunter. Ah, the tragedy.
Procure a sufficient amount of plastic cover. After you have purchased your precious new bunch of books, make sure that you have enough plastic cover and adhesive tape to cover them with. The practice of covering books in plastic will add years to the books’ life span and ensure that the books will endure the test of time and rough handling. Plus, they’ll look brand-spanking-new.
A coffee shop in close proximity to the book store would be a blessing. You can go through your new acquisitions in peace and quiet with the blissful background aroma of good coffee brewing while resting your aching feet. Oh, joy.

(posted elsewhere 26 Jul 2007)

I am missing

I am missing
you who claim me-
a ward,
a follower. Lost,
I find myself
amidst these other
nameless faces.
I am missing
you whom I cannot keep
up with, live up
to, claim as sun
to flower, as moon
to tide. I lose
myself and wonder, wander
whichever way to walk,
to face, to turn. Away
from here, anywhere
else is near.
I am missing
you who pull me
and push me. Away
from here, anyone
else is near. By
and by, these faces
will pass by-
blank as my own,
lost as I am.
Let me pass by.
Let me pass.
Bye.

The First Cut is the Deepest - Sheryl Crow

I would have given you all of my heart
But there’s someone who’s torn it apart
And he’s taken just all that I have
But if you want I’ll try to love again
Baby, I’ll try to love again but I know
The first cut is the deepest
Baby I know the first cut is the deepest
But when it comes to being lucky he’s cursed
When it comes to loving me he’s worst
I still want you by my side
Just to help me dry the tears that I’ve cried
And I’m sure going to give you a try
And if you want I’ll try to love again (try)
Baby, I’ll try to love again but I know
The first cut is the deepest
Baby I know the first cut is the deepest
But when it comes to being lucky he’s cursed
When it comes to loving me he’s worst
I still want you by my side
Just to help me dry the tears that I’ve cried
But I’m sure gonna give you a try
‘Cause if you want I’ll try to love again
Baby, I’ll try to love again but I know
The first cut is the deepest
Baby I know, the first cut is the deepest
When it comes to being lucky he’s cursed
When it comes to loving me he’s worst
The first cut is the deepest baby I know
The first cut is the deepest

[For Conch]
(posted elsewhere 14 May 2007)

The Book of Love - Peter Gabriel

The book of love is long and boring No one can lift the damn thing
It’s full of charts and facts and figures and instructions for dancing
But I I love it when you read to me
And you You can read me anything
The book of love has music in it In fact that’s where music comes from
Some of it is just transcendental Some of it is just really dumb
But I I love it when you sing to me
And you You can sing me anything
The book of love is long and boring And written very long ago
It’s full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes And things we’re all too young to know
But I I love it when you give me things
And you You ought to give me wedding rings
And I I love it when you give me things
And you You ought to give me wedding rings
And I I love it when you give me things
And you You ought to give me wedding rings
You ought to give me wedding rings

In memoriam - Gerard

Being a teacher is perhaps the most difficult job next to being a mother. There is a kilometer-long list of complaints I could air out but the fact of the matter is, for me, the hazards of being a mother is just about the same as that of a teacher - you lose and forget yourself. In the end, the self doesn’t matter in the least. Nearly everything will boil down to them - to the kids. I feel this now more than ever before, for I have lost one of my students. And, so help me, it feels a hell of a lot like some part of me has been lost and defeated as well.

When he was in second year, Gerard was one of those students who recited sometimes, made himself noticeable sometimes, groped for something in answer to a question he didn’t really hear when you catch him off-guard, and kept moving to another seat when you turned your back on him for a short while. However, he was also one of those students who made sure the class wasn’t too boring, will keep challenging the teacher, and will never miss a greeting when he sees the teacher outside the classroom. And he was passionate about basketball. He was a typical teenage boy trying to have fun while trying to get through high school.

I never felt that he had begun to grow on me. I never suspected that my student would mean anything to me other than just another student who will eventually graduate and leave the school and forget my name in a year’s time. Just one face in a sea of hundreds of eager, young faces, whose names I will eventually grope to try to remember as I grow old.

And now that he’s gone, he is making himself known to me again, making sure that I never forget his face and his name. He is teaching me that the hundreds of faces that I see before me when I am doing my job have names, and they constantly make sure that I never forget them. He was my student - they are all my students. They are the reason why although I abhor waking up early in the morning I still force myself to; why although I just want to go home and rest after classes I still stay behind to try to finish more work. I am a teacher and I must work for my students. In this way, the student becomes the teacher’s reason to move, to think, to exist, to live. And slowly but surely, the student has become part of the teacher’s heart and her mind and her life. And the teacher realizes, "What would a teacher be without a student?"

When I saw so many of my students at Gerard’s wake, I thought to myself, "It could have been any one of these boys." It just happened to be Gerard’s time - it was Gerard’s turn to teach me the lesson. And for the first time in a long time, I saw their faces, and I remembered their names, and I realized that these students are so much more to me than items in a class list. They are parts of my life.

And though it splinters my heart to have lost my student, Gerard, I thank him deeply and remember him dearly for what he has taught me. The student has taught this teacher a lesson she will never ever forget.

(posted elsewhere 8 May 2007)

Lite's Out

I don’t know when it happened, but my favorite radio station just disappeared.

For the past couple of years, I’ve been listening only to KLite 1035. The dials of my low-tech radio have been stuck to the frequency. Then, I started hearing these brief little announcements about changing the format and so on and so forth, but chose to ignore them. All that mattered was I was hearing the music that I liked, with DJs whose language, views, and culture I could understand and relate to.

I don’t want to spend money on an MP3 player, I’ve no computer from which to pirate songs, anyway. I have a CD player, but prefer to use only original CDs, since the pirated ones damage the player itself. And original CDs cost such a pretty penny, so never mind that, too.

KLite was the only fm radio station that played what I wanted to hear. Everything from Jimi Hendrix, Bob Marley, to the Dave Matthews Band, Sting, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers; light alternative, often jazzy, and, sometimes not-so-light rock music. The other radio stations, filled mostly with nothing but the monotonous and redundant beats of hip-hop and pop music, just could not appeal to my taste. I wanted to hear good songwriting and good voices singing – real truths and real emotions. No offense to anyone, but pop and hip-hop to me sound so – unoriginal. They tend to recycle what had been good before and are still good now and try to make them theirs, but just don’t compare. There’s nothing new in the genre – only more bling and more skin and more fake body parts – in other words, nothing that seems worthwhile to me. I don’t want my head filled with bouncing hydraulic-powered pimped-up rides, or fur-lined coats (which should be made illegal all over the world) and women wearing a tissue paper and trying to pass it off as “clothes” while I’m listening to a song. Music is the smooth coming together of sounds – instruments and voices; and what they seek to teach us about life. These are what should matter most.

In vain I’ve been trying to surf the stations for anything similar to KLite. All that’s there are the ones solely appealing to the greater masses, the pop/hip-hop stations, the soft/sentimental/mellow music stations, one or two for the oldies but goodies, and hard rock NU107. So goodbye, light alternative. Goodbye, good times with good music in my ears. Goodbye, KLite.

And now the dials of my low-tech radio are stuck to “off”.

(posted elsewhere 28 Feb 2007)

My Lucky Dog

How do you measure the value of eleven years? He came into my life in 1995. I knew I would love him for the rest of my life from the very moment I laid my eyes on him. It was simply that kind of magic.

My dog, Axel, died recently. The eleven years he’d been my dog don’t seem to have lasted very long. I can still remember him as a puppy, arriving at our house in a cramped wood box with tape around his little snout to silence him, and smelling of nervous puppy pee. He probably peed himself on his flight to Manila from Masbate. Yes, he had to be flown here from the provinces. Pretty radical way to get a puppy, but I guess he’s a lucky little dog; or maybe I’m the lucky dog to have had him flown to me from so far away. We named him partly from Axl Rose and partly from a comic book character from Funny Komiks.

The best times were when we’d sit under the porch light, he and I, and that’s it. Most of the time, I’d have a book in one hand while the other one ran through his soft fur. Whenever I had to take back my hand so I could turn the page, he protested – swatting at my hand with his paw as if saying, “Hey, why’d you stop?” He never got tired of being with me even if we weren’t doing anything, just sitting there spacing out. That is how I’ll always remember him.

Towards the end, he’d stopped eating as enthusiastically as he used to. His fur started falling off in places. His wounds didn’t heal as fast as they used to, but festered and bled often before they scabbed and scarred. His obsessive scratching made them worse. He became deaf, and his eyes clouded. He was old and aging by the minute and everyone could see it. I guess toward the end, I’d already been preparing myself, hardening my resolve, readying to accept the inevitable.

I’ve had other dogs before, equally as loved and special to me, but Axel is… Axel. He was the one who was with me through the most difficult times of my life. And he will be the dog whom I will always refer to as MY dog, not the ‘family dog’ or ‘our dog’.

There’s a movie I saw as a kid, “All Dogs go to Heaven”. I may never see Heaven, but I hope for Axel’s sake that what the movie says is true. I hope he’ll have the playground of his dreams there. What I was never able to give him, what he would have wanted in his dog’s life, I hope he’d get it all. I miss him so much. And I’m worried sometimes, and sad most times; but then, I’m pretty sure he’s alright. He is, after all, a lucky dog. MY lucky dog.

(posted elsewhere 5 Sep 2006)

Prusisyon

Ever since I was young, one of the annual events that my family participates in is the Good Friday prusisyon. After three p.m., the designated time that Christ was supposed to have died, a few hours will be allowed to pass for the people to "kiss the image" of Christ on the cross. Then the long, elaborate procession will begin. Several images and icons depicting the passion and death of Christ will be paraded on the streets within the parish’s territory, each of them dressed, flowered, and lighted as extravagantly as possible. The parishioners will then follow their chosen image on foot, candles lit all the way from the church and back to the church. It’s a beautiful sight, and probably one of the most noteworthy remnants of our colonial past.

There are many things you must pay careful attention to when you participate in a prusisyon. First and most important of all is your feet - you must wear your most comfortable and trustworthy pair of shoes, preferably with something you can wear with socks on too. And make sure that all your toes are protected - there are many stray drops of hot candle wax just waiting for an unwary victim, not to mention other people’s feet eager to stomp on yours. Never wear brand spanking new shoes to a prusisyon, unless you want to go home with a brand new set of blisters and calluses, too. Second of all is your hair - if you have long hair, you’d better make sure that it’s tied back and held up in a bun. A prusisyon is not complete without someone’s hair getting burned - don’t let it be yours. Next is your hands - there are many techniques to holding a lighted candle properly which would allow you to play with the flame and the melting wax without acquiring any burn scars by the time the church is within sight again. They all depend on your individual style - some like to be showy about it, some prefer discretion. But the this is true for everyone: practice makes perfect. Or you could be a pseudo-pyromaniac and not mind the occasional burn or two or three. Lastly, watch out for the children. The combination of (little restless children who tend to break away from their adult companions and go running about) + (lighted candles) = DISASTER. If possible, do not place yourself anywhere near any children during a prusisyon. And that’s about it - your basic survival guide to Prusisyon. Of course, you must not forget to look around the scenery, notice the changes that the town has undergone in a year, greet acquaintances as you pass them by, maybe even make new friends along the way. And don’t forget to pray - it is, after all, a spiritual exercise.

Lent is over, but May is coming up. That means town fiestas aren’t far off. Prusisyons are coming to town again, not to mention Santacruzan and Flores de Mayo. So follow my basic tips and enjoy the prusisyon, and along the way find the means to enlightenment in the thousand lighted candles illuminating the streets, and to cleanse your mind and your spirit as well.

(posted elsewhere 19 Apr 2006)

Passing fancy

Passing fancy, I
catch the corner of your eye.
I’m yours and you’re mine
only for a little while.
Passing fancy, I
measure your breath with mine,
and your heart beating to my time.
I’m yours and you’re mine
only for a little while.
Passing fancy, I
bring you my flickering light,
but must take it back away by night.
Sip of this my spark and shine.
I’m yours and you’re mine
but only for a little while.

Everything - Lifehouse

Find Me Here Speak To Me I want to feel you I need to hear you You are the light That’s leading me To the place where I find peace again. You are the strength, that keeps me walking. You are the hope, that keeps me trusting. You are the light to my soul. You are my purpose…you’re everything. How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this? You calm the storms, and you give me rest. You hold me in your hands, you won’t let me fall. You steal my heart, and you take my breath away. Would you take me in? Take me deeper now? How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this? And how can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this? Cause you’re all I want, You’re all I need You’re everything,everything You’re all I want you’re all I need You’re everything, everything. You’re all I want you’re all I need. You’re everything, everything You’re all I want you’re all I need, you’re everything, everything. And How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this? How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this? How can I stand here with you and not be moved by you? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this? Would you tell me how could it be any better than this?

The Lost Art of Letters

Now that summer is here, I might actually have some free time on my hands. Or rather, I intend to make some free time for myself, since I believe that I deserve it after another year’s worth of hard work. Believe it or not, I am genuinely looking forward to boredom - I maintain that I deserve it. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have anything to concern me. I’m so anxious for it that I’m actually planning what to do once I become bored (damn, I should get a life!), after wallowing in the sensation for a few hours, of course.

I’m going to write letters again. Real, hand-written, takes-forever-to-get-to-where-it’s-going letters. It’s a lost art, and only after a few years since the birth of e-mail. In one of my classes, where we tackled a story aptly entitled "The Letter", I made a shocking realization. Very, very few of the young people nowadays know how letters are written and sent. Most of them don’t know the formats used for letters (the headings, greetings, signature, etc.), or how to write the address on the letter and on the envelope itself, and the concept of a post office has become nearly pre-historic to them. Many aren’t even aware what their home address is since it’s probably needless information to them. I find this utterly tragic. I’ve nothing against technology and all its conveniences, but I still say it simply cannot compare to the thrill and anticipation provided by receiving something you can hold in your hands that has been painstakingly and carefully created by someone else and is intended solely for you. The mere thought of another human being going through the motions of preparing the paper, taking pen in hand, pausing in thought, translating the message through words and into ink, carefully folding the paper and sealing it into an envelope, then sending it out unsure if it will even get to its destination - nothing in the world can be more personal than that. With the letter travels a person’s soul - the contents of his or her mind, the strokes of his or her unique penmanship, and the fervent hope that it will be received with as much warmth as was infused into it. I’m sorry to say that no matter how many smileys there are in an email, it just cannot compare.

Summer is here and finally I’ll have some free time. I’m going to use it to revive an old art and at the same time, refresh an old friendship. I’m looking forward to writing letters again, and I’m very sure they will be warmly welcomed and treasured as any hard-won prize could be.

(posted elsewhere 28 Mar 2006)

1984 now

Lately some of my students have begun communicating with me through text messages on the mobile phone. They seem to find this mode of communication comfortable and very convenient. I welcome it because they are my students after all, and I cannot help but appreciate that they take the time to talk to me. However, I must admit that I never did much appreciate, and am still sorely uncomfortable with this phenomenon called text messaging. Sometimes, I can barely understand what they’re trying to say to me - as if I’m trying to read a foreign language.

The phenomenon of text messaging has been around for quite a while now and has raised a great many controversial issues. One of the most urgent is the linguistic issue. Text messaging has caused an alarming decline in people’s language skills, most especially among the young children who begin to be exposed to text language at an early age. They have lost all sense of proper grammar, cannot recall the correct spelling of common words anymore, and their vocabulary acquisition has gone to the rabid dogs. For them, it is fast becoming inconvenient and unnecessary to spell the words correctly or to find a better, clearer, or perhaps more creative way to say one’s thoughts. Doing either of these consumes too much digital space; and text messaging demands that you say what you want to say in as short a manner as you can do it. To do otherwise is simply inefficient. So what has this done to language? More importantly, what has it done to the way people think, affecting thereby the way the modern world works?

Tagalog, the language of my heart and my soul, is probably one of the most poetic of all languages. It is also one of the easiest languages to learn to read and write, being highly syllabic in nature. But what is happening to Tagalog? Nwwl n yng mng ptng. H???! Where is the poetry in that? The roundness has disappeared, and with it, the romance of the written form. Nglsh s no dfrnt. H???!

All this reminds me of one of the greatest prophetic stories ever written: George Orwell’s 1984. It is a startling and brutal vision of the future in which people have begun to degenerate into depraved and hollow shells of what humans ought to be, or rather what they can potentially be. One of the symptoms is the deterioration of language. "Unnecessary" elements of language have been removed - for example, the use of "needless" vowels and the use of double letters in spelling. Also, the use of "unnecessary" words have been banned - for example, the words "sorrow", "grief", "despair", "dolor", etc., have been eradicated and replaced by only one word, "sad". A common sentence would be, for example, "My fdr ded. I fl sad." Somebody pinch me, please, but it sounds so much like what I’m reading out of my mobile phone these days. That’s just one symptom, but there are so many other elements in that story that can already be seen as occurring now, like the overthrow of governments and global superpowers taking over, freedom and privacy becoming things of an idyllic past, and many others. 1984, for me, is one of the scariest stories ever written, for in it, nothing beautiful, meaningful, or profound survives.

So is this really what’s happening? Is it 1984 now?! If this is true, or if that is really where this world is going, then I pray to all the gods to kill me off before it ever does. For what is life without it’s roundness and complexity? A "nife" will never be as sharp as a "knife", nor any "wnd" bleed as much as a "wound", and no "drkns" so deep and thick as "darkness"!!! What is happiness without gladness, joy, gaiety, merriment, ecstasy, rapture, jubilation, delight, exhilaration, hilarity, joviality, vivacity, elation, bliss, cheer, mirth, euphoria, glee, exuberance…

(posted elsewhere 14 Mar 2006)

A Tribute

I just realized that it’s nearly graduation season again, and that the Seniors are getting ready to say their goodbyes. A year ago, when I first saw what an LSGH graduation was like, I was in tears. Not out of sentimentality for the young men who stood facing the future in front of them, but because a great man who should have been with us, beaming with pride for the graduates, was not there.

There aren’t too many people in this world that I can say have been great influences in my life, but nearly all of them have been my teachers. Let me see, in grade school there was Mrs. Gisala and Mrs. Tejano, in high school there was Mrs. Orga, in college there were so many: Prof. De Leon, Dr. Almazar, Prof. Orillos, Dr. Koo, Dr. Ignacio, Prof. Alonzo, Dr. Sicat, and Prof. Aureus. And then, once I became a teacher myself, there was Sir Danny.

Mr. Danilo Antonil was one of those LSGH characters whom everybody knew for many different reasons. If you google his name, you’ll find many references to his famous “Sixty five!” To the students, he was the dread, the bane, the terror. To the teachers, he was the most honorable and most admirable man you can turn to. To me, he was Mentor, Guardian, and Father. I never felt more capable, more gifted, and more confident than when he was around. He would say in his usual nonchalant way, “I want you to come with us, because if you’re there, we will win.” “No problem, kayang-kaya ni ---- yan.” And from him I’ve learned some of the greatest lessons that are needed in this profession. “Never lower your standards just because other people can’t meet them. Base your expectations on what you expect of your own capability as long as you equip them with the means to do so.” That came from him. How I wish he could see the debaters we have now – it was his dream to rebuild the Debate Team again, and I did it because it was all for him. How many times he defended me from those who’d put me down, I wasn’t able to count. He was exactly the person I needed at a time when I needed him most. It was more than luck that I happened to be under his wing for a year – it was a gift. Somewhere in the past I must have done something good and noble to deserve Sir Danny.

And then he left. Just like that. He fell asleep and slept forever. To this day, I cannot think of him without having a sudden lump at the back of my throat, and burning tears behind my eyes. Losing a father must be very close to what I felt when I lost him.

Now, another set of Seniors will take the stage and make their goodbyes – another year has passed. I remember Sir Danny as if at anytime he’d come through the door, ask for me and say, “Ikaw na ang bahala dito. No problem sa ‘yo yan.” After a year without him, I can only hope that somehow, in some small way, I’d done him proud.

(posted elsewhere 24 Feb 2006))

Strange love

I’m starting to see red. And I’m not talking about anger here. I’m talking about that annual human ritual called Valentine’s Season (in the Philippines, it’s a Season, not just a Day). Red hearts, red roses, red everywhere. Just like Christmas, people see it as something very special, worth noting, remembering, and preparing for. In a way, it’s a good thing. The idea of love is a good thing, yes? But oh, just like Christmas, love has always been an abused idea.


Ever since February began, I’ve been getting the same annual looks and questions from most everyone who’s acquainted with me – the undying “Do you have a date on Valentine’s Day?,” or “Any romance on Valentine’s Day?” And they always manage to imply that you ought to feel inadequate or alienated when your answer is “No.” Why? I’ve always wondered where the notion of love as the be-all and end-all of all things began. And if the idea has always been around, does that mean it’s true? Is it really necessary to look down upon people when they don’t have this “romance” in their lives? Can happiness only be measured by the presence of "romantic" love? It’s all so strange to me.


Someone once told me, there’s no real St. Valentine. He was a fictional saint “invented” by the Catholic church to promote and perpetuate the idea of romantic love so that more people would get married, hence, more income for the church. After all, people pay the church for weddings, and when the union bears fruit, the parents will have to pay for their children’s baptisms, confirmations, first communions, weddings, and so on and so forth. Sacraments aren’t exactly free of charge, and the church does need money (who doesn’t?), hence, St. Valentine – a very useful saint, indeed. I never got around to investigate this, but since it’s Valentine’s Season again, I just might try to look into it. It’s all so strange to me.


Love is everywhere again; or at least the IDEA of love is popular again. Nothing bad about that, right? Love is always a good thing, yes? But it has always been an abused and abusive idea. Too many people believe they are unhappy because they don’t have “romance” in their lives. So no matter how much they achieve, or how much good they contribute to the world, they feel unsatisfied. And too often in their desperation to find this idea of “love”, they end up in a lot of terrible situations. It’s all so strange to me.


Love is strange. Love is a stranger; at least to me it sometimes is. I’m not complaining though. I have all sorts of love in my life, strange and otherwise. And it’s more than enough strangeness for me.


Nevertheless, on the off-chance something good might actually come out of well-wishing, and for whatever it’s worth, Happy Valentine’s Season to everyone!

(posted elsewhere 11 Feb 2006)

Into the West - Annie Lennox

Annie Lennox has always been one of my favorite singers. The power of her voice is ethereal and simply amazing. It doesn’t even sound like it’s coming from a human being – if that’s even possible.

Lay down your sweet and weary head. Night is falling. You have come to journey’s end. Sleep now and dream of ones who came before. They are calling from across the distant shore. Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see all of your fears will pass away. Safe in my arms, you’re only sleeping. What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea a pale moon rises. The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass. A light on the water, all souls pass. Hope fades into the world of night through shadows falling out of memory and time. Don’t say we have come now to the end. White shores are calling. You and I will meet again. And you’ll be here in my arms, just sleeping. What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea, a pale moon rises. The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass. A light on the water, grey ships pass into the West.

copy & paste

Writing palanca letters has never been easy. When I was in high school, my teachers said there should be three things written in a palanca letter: a) the addressee’s strongest/best qualities, b) the addressee’s weakest/worst qualities, and c) words of thanks and encouragement for the addressee. So you see, I’ve always tried to keep these things in mind whenever I write such a letter. The problem is, if you’re writing a letter each for forty or so people, problems start coming up. Though I wanted to be as faithful to my goal as possible, it’s simply impossible.


When you’re in this business, you have a basic goal which basically applies to everyone: you want people to learn as much from you as you could possibly teach them and hope against hope none of them end up destroying themselves in one stupid way or another. So you try to tell every one of the forty or so people to keep doing their best and live without regret, to not lose hope, to count their blessings, to aim for the highest goals, and so on. And try as you might to keep each and every letter a personal treatise to the addressee’s significance to your life, you end up with forty or so letters that say basically the same things since you want the same things for everyone. It’s the most frustrating thing to attempt to be original and end up trapped in a hopeless copy & paste situation. Oh, but anyone who could say the same thing in forty or more different ways deserves to be worshipped for his godliness. Sadly, I’m pretty sure Hell will freeze over before I achieve any semblance of godliness.


I learned three things in my frustrated attempt to write forty plus original palanca letters. First, my handwriting sucks. After falling asleep on the keyboard trying to think up of more ways to say the same thing, I had to write maybe thirty or more letters by hand (oh, my poor calluses!). Second, I’m not as verbose as I would like to think myself to be. This situation has aptly proven my creative, verbal, and literary inadequacy. I thought I could be more imaginative than this, but surprise, surprise. Third, I should not be in this profession in the first place; but this I’ve always known. I am quite sure I’m not cut out for all this teacher business; I’m more of a recluse/hermit type, really. However, as long as people still ask me for palanca letters, maybe I still somewhat end up mattering to their lives in my efforts to do my job. So I guess I’ll just have to attempt to improve my handwriting, since trying to say something in more ways than one is far, far more difficult, not to mention frustrating.

(posted elsewhere 10 Feb 2006)

ordinary days

January 20 started out as another one of those ordinary days. I was on the way to work when I suddenly remembered I’d forgotten something. I bossed my brother to turn the car around and head back home so I could get the forgotten item. It was the paper bag with my sports attire in it, which I’d prepared the night before. The faculty sports fest was on again. I wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.


Everything went well. The basketball game was very tight. It seemed that our opponents were simply too tall, or too quick, or too lucky. One of them pulled my hair. Good thing I’m not one to take revenge easily - because her hair is far longer than mine - I didn’t pull hers. Instead, I took the winning shot, 34-33. We won. Ha!


The volleyball game began the way the basketball game did. We were terribly under-manned. Still, we fought on. I guess we were just high with the basketball win. We lost the first set and was fighting to get the second when IT happened. The elbow came crashing down quick as lightning SMASH!!! right into my face. I felt my front tooth come loose, my mouth filled with the iron taste of blood. I numbly pushed the tooth back into place with my tongue. Then came the sudden blast of incredible pain. Everything moved ever so slowly after that. I wasn’t even aware of what was happening. All I was aware of was the intense sharpness of the pain and the taste of blood. I don’t remember ever having an outer body experience, but it must be like that, like you’re somewhere distant watching your body being moved like a separate entity.


Rush to the nearest hospital, stitches and things. My lips swelled and ballooned and blackened. But I laughed it off, nonchalantly. This wasn’t really happening, was it? Rush to the dental clinic. More stitches and things, such as steel bars across four teeth, and a huge amount of money lost. Laugh it off, laugh it off. It wasn’t really happening, was it? It was January 20 - an ordinary day.


But too many people are too kind. Somehow, January 20 doesn’t matter anymore. It feels like it happened so long ago, if it ever did. It might have happened to another person, who cannot laugh quite so well. I can laugh freely now, painlessly, if a bit uncomfortably. The days come and go as they always do, ordinary days, like all other ordinary days.

(posted elsewhere 30 Jan 2006)

My B-ball

Perhaps there is no one in the world who loves basketball more than Filipinos do. It is a characteristic. When you want to describe Filipinos as a distinct People, you never forget to mention that they love basketball. It’s so integral to Filipino life that many memorable events in a Filipino’s life would have something to do with the game. I grew up in those times when families stayed together not only by prayer but because every time there’s a good game on, everyone would crowd around the TV bringing with them their dinner, their stories, and their laughter. They’d scream and jeer at the TV as if their favored players could hear them from across the distance bridged by light and electricity. There’s a basketball court at almost every corner of every barangay. Politicians make it a point to have basketball courts built to boost the possibility of winning in the next election. Basketball players become celebrities, and nearly every young man dreams of achieving such lofty height so they could become professional players someday.


I’m no different. I’ve always wanted to learn to play basketball. I never dreamed of being great at it, but simply to gain some measure of skill that would allow me to shoot the ball every once in a while. However, being a girl, I’ve always faced many obstacles to this humble goal of mine. In grade school, all the courts at school were taken by the boys and nothing in heaven or hell could make them give it up for the girls. They’d always say, Mag-volleyball na lang kayo! In high school, I had too many personal issues to grapple with to give any game any serious thought. I retreated more and more into my books and into myself, making my world shrink in reality and expand in fantasy. But I never lost my love for the game. I still watched every good game I could on TV or in school. The vicarious thrill and sweat and burnout of playing somehow was enough, and yet, not nearly enough.


I learned to play in college. A semestral P.E. class called Basketball for Women. It was the most fun I’ve ever had in my LIFE. I certainly was not the best player in the class, but I learned to play and it was all I ever wanted. My team mates and I became inseparable. For the six months we played, we shared our ups and downs, our wins and losses, loves and hates, and we lived as we have never lived before. It was because of the game: its Magic. It can bring people together in the most wondrous of ways. And I, as a woman of my own, never felt so proud that no man around could tell me now to get off the court and let go of the ball because I’m a girl. I can play.


And I know that many other women can play as well as any other man. I’m quite glad that right now, here where I work, they’re letting us have a go at the court. But since I’ve had my prior basketball wish granted, there’s no harm in having one more wish: that a true women’s basketball team will be formed to compete with other women’s basketball teams elsewhere. Because there’s no use in denying the fact that all Filipinos love basketball – including the women. Why confine them to the bleachers? They CAN play; and they WILL play in spite of what anyone has to say about it.

(posted elsewhere 19 Jan 2006)

A Lullaby for Me

My insomnia began when I was fourteen years old, around the time when my father had to leave to work in the provinces. The promise of a vastly greater income and a better life for the family was too good to pass up. Every night during the first month, I cried myself to sleep. The bond I have with my father can’t be defined by mere words. I will not even attempt to describe so personal a connection. The tears of a child are no small matter either. When you are young, every tear you shed is honest and solid, coming not only from your eyes, but struggling from somewhere deep inside the chest and clawing its way out of the back of the throat. Only a child understands genuine pain. And only in a child’s pained spirit can true sleeplessness begin.

Having insomnia is painful in many ways difficult to explain. If you have ever felt complete bodily fatigue, insomnia is at least ten times as agonizing. Imagine being fully aware of your entire body, every bone and blood cell running through every little capillary, and at the same time being fully conscious that there is no rest for you. Your bed, pillows, and blanket, no matter how soft and warm and comfortable, would seem like a cold stone slab with thumb tacks and sharp stones spread over its surface. Every little noise is like a shout or an explosion in your ears. Yes, it feels like you are over-sensitized, as if you have acquired an entirely new set of perceptions. It should be great, but your body starts to feel pain. Not the pain of being wounded or hit or beat up, but a slow and solemn sensation that spreads like fog from inside the top of your skull to the tips of your fingers and toes. The mind becomes a battlefield of a million warring thoughts that can’t be silenced no matter what kind of meditation, focus and concentration, or millions upon millions of sheep jumping over the fences of a million farms. Silent suffering. You end up crying sometimes in desperation, talking to yourself and to the cacophony in your head, "Shut up, let me sleep! Why won’t you let me sleep?!" Sometimes I win the battles, but more often than not, I lose. I try to fall asleep around midnight; just close my eyes and get comfortable, toss and turn a bit. Upon opening them again and glancing at the clock, I see that three hours had passed with me just lying there fully awake but with my eyes closed. In a short while, the alarm clock would start ringing and I just want to scream with frustration.

Whenever I encounter the question, "If you had three wishes, what would they be?" One of my answers will always be "untroubled sleep". People always take sleep for granted. It’s just part of their lives, it happens everyday, so what. Many don’t realize just how precious it is. Try asking any person who works his bones off every damn day and could not sleep at night. He will tell you what kind of relief sleep is - a cool, clean, fresh fountain of water in the parched, scorching desert. There ought to be something that will help me make this wish come true - a lullaby tailored for me to grant me rest. I only want this much, only sleep. If I ever hear such a magic lullaby, I hope it puts me to such blissful sleep that I would never wake up ever again.

(posted elsewhere 18 Jan 2006)

Noise

How can anyone begin to explain the value of silence? Some people can’t stand it. They need to constantly fill up those silent spaces with some kind of noise. Mundane, trivial, unnecessary noise like, “How are you doing?” “The weather seems fine lately.” They don’t mean anything. They are said because nothing else is there to be said and because people feel that something ought to be said. It’s pathetic how people just can’t shut up. What for? If there is nothing to say, why say anything at all? Do they only want to hear the sound of their own voice? Is it a comfort? Do they feel affirmed and alive when they hear themselves talking? If so, then it is the poorest possible affirmation.


People move in the everyday cacophony of daily routine. Familiarity is comfortable; it makes them feel that they belong, or accustomed somehow, adjusted. When people hear the kettle whistling, it’s a signal that means they can have hot morning coffee now. The blaring horns and gnarls and groans of traffic dictate their time-tables; they set their clocks by its habits. The florid choric voices of other people at the work place are not surprising. “Did you hear about so and so?” “I did this and that yesterday, so today I’m going to do this and that.” “Would you believe that he and she were so on and so forth?” If you don’t care to participate, people would end up talking about you. All their noises will now be aimed at your back like so many daggers.


I have sought silence all my life. In fact, every night before I sleep and every morning when I wake I regret being alive to hear all the noises around me. I don’t need nor do I want to be the receptacle of others’ loves, hates, fears, and insecurities. I have plenty of those on my own, thank you very much. The only escape available is sleep, and even in sleep the noises are still there, like ghosts haunting your brightest, most hidden rooms. Is the only solution adaptation? Is there no other, better escape route? I ask people sometimes, if you were to lose one of your five basic senses, what would it be? My answer is immediate and without even thinking I’d say, I’d rather be deaf.

(posted elsewhere 17 Jan 2006)

Blue Bayou - Linda Ronstadt

I feel so bad I got a worried mind
I'm so lonesome all the time
Since I left my baby behind
On Blue Bayou

Saving nickels saving dimes
Working 'til the sun don't shine
Looking forward to happier times
On Blue Bayou

I'm going back someday
Come what may
To Blue Bayou
Where the folks are fine
And the world is mine
On Blue Bayou
Where those fishing boats
With their sails afloat
If I could only see
That familiar sunrise
Through sleepy eyes
How happy I'd be

Gonna see my baby again
Gonna be with some of my friends
Maybe I'll feel better again
On Blue Bayou

Saving nickels saving dimes
Working 'til the sun don't shine
Looking forward to happier times
On Blue Bayou

I'm going back someday
Come what may
To Blue Bayou
Where the folks are fine
And the world is mine
On Blue Bayou
Where those fishing boats
With their sails afloat
If I could only see
That familiar sunrise
Through sleepy eyes
How happy I'd be

Oh that boy of mine
By my side
The silver moon
And the evening tide
Oh some sweet day
Gonna take away
This hurting inside
Well I'll never be blue
My dreams come true
On Blue Bayou

1000 Oceans - Tori Amos

These tears I've cried
I've cried 1000 oceans
And if it seems
I'm floating in the darkness
Well, I can't believe that I would keep
Keep you from flying
And I would cry 1000 more
If that's what it takes
To sail you home
Sail you home
Sail you home

I'm aware what the rules are
But you know that I will run
You know that I will follow you
Over Silbury Hill
Through the solar field
You know that I will follow you

And if I find you
Will you still remember
Playing at trains
Or does this litte blue ball
Just fade away
Over Silbury Hill
Through the solar field
You know that I will follow you
I'm aware what the rules are
But you know that I will run
You know that I will follow you

These tears I've cried
I've cried 1000 oceans
And if it seems
I'm floating in the darkness
Well I can't believe that I would keep
Keep you from flying
So I will cry 1000 more
If that's what it takes
To sail you home
Sail you home
Sail you home
Sail, Sail you home

The Sword of Truth

For five years now, maybe more, I’ve been following a series of books by a certain author - Terry Goodkind. His series is called The Sword of Truth. So far, it has ten books in it, all of which I have except one, which I will acquire the moment I see it. If you ever see his books on the shelves, the first thing you’d probably think to yourself is, "No freaking way!" Why is this? First of all, the books are impossibly thick. Intimidating even to the most voracious of readers. One more thing, if you’re not a fan of the fantasy genre, you’d probably not give it a second thought. So why have I been following them religiously? For oh, so many reasons, the best of which is this - they tell the truth.

The story revolves around a character named Richard, the Seeker. Equipped with the Sword of Truth, he lives a very unexpected life - one fraught with terrible hardships and tribulations, as well as glorious accomplishments. Ah, you’d say, not another sword-weilding macho-man hero come to save the world and all that blah-blah-blah. How different is this from any other cliche fantasy flick? We are all fed up with all that dungeons and dragons business that can be seen everywhere. It’s all the same.

Well, this one is not the same. First of all because it is brutally, startlingly honest. The characters are never stereotyped. They are simple, normal people who are faced with unique and extraordinary circumstances. They don’t aspire to "save the world" and be noble, or go around seeking glory. They just want to live their lives - as simple as that. Around this simple, ordinary goal, an entire universe is spawned. Life as they see it is suddenly not as simple as they thought it to be. And so, as they move on with their lives, meet their problems, make their choices, face the consequences, they learn so much about how the world works and how people play a part in it. They learn about Life. Hey, wait a minute… that’s sounds eerily familiar… it sounds like… Real Life!

This is what I love about the story. It’s not solely a glamourized preaching about the battle between good and evil, nor is it about the glory of doing noble deeds and being heroic by vanquishing dragons and monsters. It’s about trying to get by with life, trying to find its truths, and learning from it. In the end, that for me is the most important - that I learn something from it. This is what makes any story valid and beautiful: learning.

(posted elsewhere 26 Dec 2005)

I am not angry

I am not angry

or upset

over what I cannot

control. I won’t

seek to blame

the world or anyone

else. I am

only what I am,

not stupid…

sometimes. I am not

angry or afraid

that I did

wrongly; I won’t worry

over small things

that might have been

more – had I let them be.

I am simple; I accept

what is mine. I know

when to let go

of what is not.

Life is simple

enough. I’ve had

what was mine – not

enough, but mine never

the less. I am…

Dizzy

Flutter from the pit

of my stomach,

I reel and the world

reeled with me.

Sway slow, slow

dance on my feet,

on my toes.

I float down the

depth of no

deeper than sleep.

And dream

and wake and

dream awake, I am

nothing but a-

flutter. In the pit

of my stomach

there is a feeling,

fading fast but

not fleeting. My love

all a-feeling,

had me reeling,

dizzy on my feet.

Klimt

Gustave Klimt is another one of my favorite artists. Here is one of his paintings, called "The Kiss". What I love about him is the unbelievable texture of his work. They exist as if only to shed light and inspire subtle motion. I love the way the people disappear into the colors, the way they seem to blend in, to incorporate their movements into the brilliance, and one can only see that which is pure expression - their faces, hands, feet… The blinding mosaic is their blanket, and they are embraced and enhanced by it. How beautiful… Light and color as only a through the true artist’s eye.

(posted elsewhere 12 Dec 2005)

Griffin & Sabine

A trilogy of books lent to me. Its main feature is the fact that the entire story happens within a correspondence between two people. The reader experiences the pseudo-thrill of going through another person’s mail, something that is considered almost as personal as one’s diary. However, for me, that is not the book’s most remarkable feature. What I loved best about it was the amazing dynamic between Griffin and Sabine, the two characters.



Reading the letters they’ve exchanged gave me a sense of an enigmatic intimacy. They fell in love without ever even having seen each other. The only connection they had was a fragile one-sided telepathy that allowed Sabine to ‘see’ Griffin’s art. And it was enough. Their words came across to me from a distance that spanned both their worlds, across the many vast oceans and undiscovered dimensions. They kept questioning each other, “Are you real?” Was it this uncertainty that fueled the intensity of their love; this unquenched thirst for the other but not having any means to be in each other’s presence? The surreal possibility that perhaps they only ‘made’ each other up, that they both exist only in each other’s madness, made their relationship even more poignant and all the more hopeless. Yet the entire time I read the three books, I had hoped so hard that they would be together eventually. I wanted them to be real; wished for their letters and their love to be real. And how I envied them such love! They spoke with a passion that seemed too vast and ethereal to be contained. I kept telling myself, “It cannot be real.” But oh, how I wanted it to be!



Eventually I was left with too many questions. I tried to go back, to look more intently at the images they drew, trying to decode the secret messages therein. And soon I was left with nothing more than what I had from the first - a wish… I wish I could be Sabine, who lives in a place no one could reach, and who finds her Griffin who will love her back with as much intensity as she loves him. She who kept the secrets, saw through windows only she can find, kept searching unendingly for ‘he’ who sees her as no one else can; she had the key to all the secrets. The answers were all hers; and she had everything she needed. She had Griffin.


(posted elsewhere 7 Dec 2005)

Garbage & Ghosts

Webster defines “catharsis” as emotional or psychological cleansing, and that is exactly what I felt last Saturday when I joined the International Coastal Clean-up. This year’s clean-up was not as taxing as last year’s. The beach was not as vast, nor as polluted.

Garbage is garbage, period. But one thing I did notice about those found in Naic is that the garbage there was buried under the sands. The only indications that you can see of extensive environmental damage from the outside is the telltale flutter of a small corner of a plastic bag in the salty wind. They are as icebergs on an unforgiving ocean – 10% can be seen, and 90% of its uncompromising bulk is hidden and lurking beneath the surface. So in order to accomplish the objective you’ve set for yourself, you must dig, and dig hard.

Have you ever pondered on the mysterious weight of wet sand? How does something as fluid and moveable as water become the most effective adhesive for grains of the lightest powdery sand? Pushing and digging through wet sand might be comparable to a struggle against concrete that’s beginning to settle. One is forced to focus all thought and all energy into the effort of uprooting a piece of plastic from its death-grip on the earth. What’s surprising is that when you have reached that point of peaked concentration, everything takes on a certain clarity that can rarely be reached in any other way. And you find yourself digging, struggling, and battling with demons so long and so deeply buried in your own forgetfulness…

So you breathe such a sigh, and you let go of your hoarded demons and ghosts, watch them pile up, segregated, separated, and differentiated from that which used to be so familiar to you. They were once the treasures you held close with your senses, but somehow had been changed by time and indifference. There they are now, piled up, waiting to be classified, tallied, and weighed. For how long were you the one to carry all that weight around? For how long has life been too heavy?

I’d never been one to easily give up on something. I carry my burdens as best as I can. I’ve taken on every yoke given me and tried my best not to complain. But there are memories and pains that have been carried for so long; I never noticed that I’ve become immune to the stench of their rot as they festered there in the darkest corners of my psyche. The garbage I buried and carried for all this time…

I highly recommend going through catharsis every once in a while. I feel that I’ve cleansed myself even as I helped clean a little piece of the earth. I have felt the sublime freedom of release from my past ghosts, my accumulated garbage. So should everyone else.

(posted elsewhere 7 Dec 2005)

Yawn

Falling into sleep,

your kiss is the breath

flowing down my throat,

into my chest and back

out again. I exhale

with my mouth

open wide, my eyes

misting with cold

tears. You leave me

sleep-heavy thoughts

clouded by a thick fog

of the breath

I long to inhale again.

People will talk

I am always mystified by the way people behave toward each other. This tells me that I should have taken Sociology as a major. But I suppose that can’t be changed now, though it does give me an idea for future reference. It occurs to me, after more than twenty-six years of hanging around as a human, that there’s a general truth among that social species known as “people”. They will talk. Bad.


No matter who you are – what age, what gender, what civil status, what level below or above the poverty line, and so on and so forth – other people will always (and I do mean ALWAYS) have something objectionable to say about you. It has a lot to do with moral standards and levels of righteousness among individuals, and maintaining facades, etc., etc., but the thing is, didn’t we all grow up into these more or less identical moral and social standards? And is it not true that we are all more or less in an unending state of “testing the waters” of these same standards? Aren’t we all in one way or another susceptible to bending, breaking, and going beyond these so called “rules”? Why then must we keep questioning each other, finding suspicion and malice among each other, pointing accusatory fingers at each other, throwing the “first stone/s” at each other, ad nauseum, ad infinitum? No one is spared. We are all under the warped judgments and scrutiny of everyone else around us who, by the way, are also facing the same dilemmas. Isn’t it absolutely ridiculous? Here are a few examples:


Gender: 1. If you’re female, people will say, “You’re a girl, you shouldn’t (kilometer-long roster of do’s and don’ts).” 2. If you’re male, people will say, “Since you’re a man, you should (kilometer-long roster of do’s and don’ts).”


Civil Status: 1. Two single, unattached people of different gender may not have a genuine friendship without anyone asking the inevitable question, “So what’s the real deal, are you guys an item or not?” 2. Regardless of gender, a single, unattached person may not have a genuine friendship with a married individual without anyone saying, “You should not hang around and be all friendly with him/her. S/he being married and all, it just doesn’t look good. What will people think?” 3. Two individuals who are married to other individuals may not have a genuine friendship without anyone saying, “What do you think you’re doing, being friendly with him/her? You’re married, for chrissakes!” 4. People who are either divorced or widowed may not begin building new relationships without anyone saying, “How shameless! The ink hasn’t even dried on the divorce papers!” or “How could you? Your wife/husband must be turning in her/his grave!”



Age: 1. Children not above the age of ten make friends easily with other youngsters regardless of anything – age, sex, social standing, etc. Parents observing this phenomenon will say “My child should not be friends with that child because (any stupid unreasonable reason).” 2. Pre-pubescent to adolescent age youths grappling with identity crises tend to find safe haven among friends, developing puppy loves, and the intricacies & complexities of social interactions. Adults observing these phenomena will say, “When I was that age, I never did (any vague half-forgotten and regrettable adolescent experience). What’s wrong with kids nowadays?” 3. Adults firmly believing in the misunderstood but otherwise heady achievement of independence go about the world finding social stability and security while hoping that they’d have some fun along the way. Other adults observing this phenomenon will say, “What was s/he thinking? How could s/he even ­(any action or achievement that I myself wish I could do or had)? Didn’t anyone tell that person that it’s wrong?” 4. People in the advancing years, groping with the dilemmas that aging presents, try to make the most of their time by engaging in hobbies, enjoyable activities, and socializing and reminiscing with people of the same age group. Other people upon observing these phenomena will say, “How embarrassing! S/he should not (any activity that I myself could only wish I could do) at that age! What will people think?” 5. Upon death, while the person is being lowered six feet into the earth, the people gathered around will say, “What a pity s/he had to die that way. S/he lived a miserable, unadventurous, unexciting life because s/he always followed the rules.”

(posted elsewhere 12 Nov 2005)

Blind man song

Blind man by the road

Clutches old-cold guitar,

Playing back the warmth

Of days long gone.

“Spare a coin for a starving man,”

Says he, with a strum (B-flat).

“And I’ll sing a li’l song f’ye.”


Young once, and fickle,

Those days long gone.

Stiffened rheumatic joints,

These hands come

And go. Love, how swiftly did it go.

“Spare a coin for a starving man,”

Says he, with a strum (B-flat).

“And I’ll play a li’l tune f’ye.”


For the love he’d lost,

The blindness he blames.

For playing the old-cold guitar

And his silly little games.

Gone are those days.

“Spare a coin for a starving man,”

Says he, with a strum (B-flat).

“And I’ll tell y’alittle story.”


The blind eyes tear

And withered fingers bend,

Reaching, grasping for those days

Gone and dead.

“Spare no coin for a dying man,

These hands can’t play no mo’.

Lost all save this song,

And one last breath,

And one last strum (B-flat),

With that this song ends.”

Time, Space, Blankness

Is it not unfair,

how you give me

this burden of words

and colors?

I never did ask

for any time. None of it was mine

in the first place; like you.


Is it not unfair,

that before this space came to be,

the empty moments were enough

for me to count?

I let them pass

without looking them in the eye.

They weren’t mine to fill

in the first place; like you.


It is so unfair

that I was given a puzzle to solve,

when it was never mine

to hang whole upon

my empty walls

in the first place; like you.


Now I have these steady moments

and this undecorated space

with no words nor colors.

And for the first time I look it

in its eye and notice

its blankness.

To young Muntah

We talked about stories and poems once. You don’t know how much it has affected me; how it made me try to recall what it was like for me in earlier days when I myself was striving to search for my own words and envying the words of everyone else. Just to let you know, that search will never end; not even for the best of us. To this day I feel a healthy amount of awe at certain pictures painted in words. What a mysterious thing language is - it sets us free and binds us so tightly at the same time. Even more mysterious is the way the gifted people manipulate it, mould it, shape it like any sculptor would until it becomes something untouchable, unfathomable, and eternal.

I would never want you to be sad and lose hope. That feeling of awe is never a bad thing. It will be your guide to finding your own awesome expression. When you find something and it touches you in spaces you thought never existed, follow it. Break it apart piece by piece, then daintily and carefully put it all back together. Do it as a child would delicately destroy and rebuild a model airplane. Even if it gets so complicated there would seem to be nothing left to do but abandon it in its shambled state, don’t give up. There is no greater danger than for you to stop once you have started. It will only weaken your resolve further and you will lose track of all you’ve already discovered.

In his book, Letters to a Young Poet, Rilke said that if in the morning you wake up and the first thing you want to do is write, then you are a writer. If in your heart you know that if you don’t write you might as well die, then you are a writer. You don’t need any fanatic, any critic, or most anyone else to tell you that you are a writer. Believe only what you feel and place conviction in what you know, and then write, write, WRITE! You’ll be surprised how easily your words will flow from your pen after that; like cool, clear, and cleansing water from the fountain of your soul.

(posted elsewhere 15 Nov 2005)

non-debatable

It is in human nature to argue. Ask anyone. Even this statement is arguable. We are naturally built to have our own opinions about everything and are equipped with the means to defend said opinions. Debate is great fun. Ask anyone who has ever argued about anything. I knew this from the start. Now I am faced with the great challenge of spreading the word; to prove it deserves so much more than the proverbial second look. To back me up is a group of underdogs - no one yet knows how much potential they’ve got, except for those who are trying to move mountains to bring that potential forth.

At first, I thought I’d do this to honor someone who had the dream, who had planted the same dream in me. But now, looking at this group of intrepid young men training into the wee hours of the afternoon, it has become more than a matter of honor towards one person. I now owe as much honor to each and every one of these students, to keep on fighting for the dream that I had unknowingly passed on to them. How they fill me with pride! Slowly but surely they are becoming more than anyone ever expected. They unfold before my eyes as sparks bursting into full flame. And I am left with an overwhelming fear that eventually, I might end up failing them. How I wish they could somehow infect me with their courage.

But to give up now would be cruel. Somehow, I must keep doing what I must, and to hell with all else. They have obligated me by proving that they are worth more than all the personal expense and sacrifice, all the frustration brought by bureaucracy, and all the excrement that anyone can throw at me. And I have come to respect them for their determination. They are brave, and they will be the ones moving mountains someday. No one can argue this. It is non-debatable.

(posted elsewhere 5 Oct 2005)

the next two minutes

I breathe
the passing moments
in another woman’s dress.
In the next two minutes,
I am beautiful
and beloved.
Her music is mine,
and the tears I cry
will be hers, too.
When she says
she loves you,
those are my words.
Let her say them for me.
I am voiceless
and unseen.
I hide, retreat into
her darkness;
and she is bright, brighter,
brightest. I shine,
sparkle; made free.
And in the next two minutes,
I am she.

Night - a tryst

one Night,

she and you will meet

in a dream.

though the Days

be dry and long,

Night will come.

the coolness of her kiss

brush your thirsty lips,

and her sigh

your breath.

you fall

into her arms.

sweet Night!

she rocks you slow

and whispers her love,

should you whisper yours.

she keeps you in her eyes

as you gently

close your own.

you’re home.

she’s in your dream

alone.

you’re home.

Paper Cuts

my skin

as any knife

can never do.

I bleed as no knife

could ever make me.

Fancy this cut,

so shallow;

hurts my bones,

bleeds my mind.

I am irrational

in my pain.

Outside I smile;

the wound so

small and silent.

You were the page

on which my story

should have been writ.

But you left me

nothing more

than this cut.

Why won’t it stop

bleeding?

These Wounds

Papa had to leave when I was thirteen years old. The job promotion for which he had been waiting for fifteen years finally came… at a price. He was to move to the provinces. He could take his family with him, sure, but it was the middle of the school year and all the good schools were in Metro Manila. So he left, and the rest of us stayed. From then on, we could only see him once a month, and he stays for only a few days before leaving again. I know that many people are in the same situation as mine. Giving your family a better life nowadays equates to leaving them behind. But how terribly do I miss my father, even today, nearly thirteen years from when he first left. I’ve never gotten used to it. The meals were never complete without him at the head of the table. Coming home from wherever is never the same without scouring the house for him so we could "mano". The nights were never as peaceful as when his horrific snoring would punctuate its stillness. The only thing that mattered was that he was with us. But he couldn’t be. Most people get used to such things, I know. But I feel that in my case, its very different. Whenever he leaves, it’s like being wounded. For the next three weeks, the wounds would slowly numb and won’t feel so painful anymore. Then Papa comes home and the wounds finally start to close, heal, repair themselves. Then he leaves, and the wounds are slashed open all over again. Do this over and over and over for around thirteen years… unbearable. Sore, bleeding, festering wounds that never heal. Sometimes I wish he didn’t come home; give me a chance to get used to not having him around; give my wounds a chance to heal completely before they are torn open again.

We have reaped the benefits of this sacrifice. We have everything we need and are able to get most of what we want. But without even blinking, I would trade thirteen years of comfort and luxury to have had my father at all my birthdays, at all my graduations, and at the dinner table every single night of my life.

(posted elsewhere 6 Sep 2005)