Far, far away

Off to Bukidnon for the holidays - a good two weeks. It's my second day here today. I had arrived yesterday. So soon for things to come crashing down on me.

Yesterday, he drove me to the airport. And I cried silently in the passenger seat. No, it wasn't just because I hated to be apart from him - although I did tell him that, to which he replied, "Para kang nananakal niyan." I strongly fought back an urge to snap at him and point out that I could never be described as one who suffocates or strangles her boyfriend, much less inhibit his actions.

I cried because things weren't going well. Our last week together before I left for my vacation was a stressful one. He had a lot of things to do, a lot of parties to attend and I was only invited to one of them - our block's Christmas party. So we didn't get to spend time together. Although I was awfully disappointed, I couldn't do anything. His busy schedule and top secret tasks, I've been trying to understand, rarely voicing - if ever - my opinions against them. That was his life, anyway. I had to accept that from day 1. I told him I was hurt because I had thought we'd be spending at the very least Saturday (my flight was on Sunday) together so I had made plans, made reservations, blocked off the day. But, no. Another party. To which he could not bring me. He told me off for being hurt. It was too much, he said. He was fed up. He was bringing me to the airport on Sunday, anyway, so what was I yakking about? And he brought up the "break up" idea, which numbed me. I didn't know wanting to spend time with someone before going away for the holidays was a bad idea. Never knew it was.

So I cried silently. He didn't say or do anything. He smoked and drove. Just smoked and drove. At one point, I reached out for his hand. He pulled it away from my touch. I couldn't even hold his hand anymore without pinning it down! And even if I did pin it down, he'd only yank it away again. A small act of rejection, like that, really does damage to one's spirits, as it did to mine.

i tried acting as though things were normal. I really did not want to have another row with him. Not when I was leaving him for two weeks. During the holidays. At the airport, I tried to hug him, but he opened his car door and went out. So I kissed him on the cheek. Luckily, he gave me a brief hug. He's not the PDA type. So I appreciated the gesture.

He texted me that day. I was so happy. Things were finally going smoothly. It must have been the distance factor. He realized he misses me now that we're not in the same region. He called me that night to say he's going out to play in the basketball championship and I wished him and his team well. I called him at two am to see how he was doing. He only got home and told me it was late. That we should sleep.

This morning, he wished me a good day. And I was so happy about it that I went to town with a smile plastered on my face. Late afternoon, I called him up to say hi. But after telling me about his fish, which took about 1 minute and 40 seconds, he hung up.

Now, he's online. I buzzed him. I sent him only about 5 messages, consisting of 6 words (so as not to make him think I'm pestering him), but he hasn't messaged back.

Now our life together as a couple, the conversations we have had, everything we've shared came flashing before me. And I realize that during our conversations, I couldn't really talk freely with him, save for the time when we had a bit too much to drink and he finally listened to what I have got to say without being sarcastic or without cutting me off in mid-thought. I am always cautious around him, so as not to start a fight.

Being miles away from him, I realize my "helplessness" in a way. I wouldn't know how he was, where he was. I couldn't ask - he would clearly blow his lid off and I wouldn't want that to happen. It's hard to be mad at a person who's so far, far away. It's harder to make amends with such person, considering the distance and that the only means of reaching him would be either through the phone or through email/ym and he could always dodge your messages. And its most difficult when you aren't sure whether the person you'd like to call and talk to feel the same - especially when his behavior toward you reflect otherwise.

Trust issues? I had trusted him. Had trusted. But the trust had flaked away when he betrayed it. Lord knows I had tried to rebuild it. Been trying. Now, as I think about it, I have no choice but to trust him, give him the benefit of the doubt. I am, after all far away from him. There's no use wasting energy being paranoid. Thus, however difficult it is to trust him and his words again, I have to do it. But, honestly, I am scared.

The fear is not just about what he can possibly do but also of what I am capable of doing. I know my college friends would say otherwise since I've always maintained a carefree, nonchalant attitude towards relationships, but, really, I am perpetually hoping for a lasting one. A happy one, where we both can thrive as individuals but still be delighted with each other's company. A relationship wherein we can depend on each other for comfort and conversation, wherein laughs are aplenty, and troubles - of course, there will always be trouble - are still surmountable.

I'm bound to be disappointed, what with this kind of hopeful stance. Sure, I let people think otherwise - that it's all in the bag, that I'm actually really glad to see people get out of my life. But, really, I hope for stability. Normalcy. Sanity.

This is not to say that I am completely dominated by my hidden idealism. I am, after all, a cynic also. Pessimistic about all things good happening to me, I numb myself. I will myself to become indifferent to anything which could encourage me to hope. That's why I keep my idealist self hidden. My indifferent shell protects me somehow. But sometimes, I crave for some of that sanity I hope for, that enthusiasm and verve that would make me feel human. I rarely experience that. Until now.

When I start to drift away to indifference, my idealist self reaches out for that someone who acts as an anchor to sanity. It's becoming a bad habit but... at this point, I am not altogether sure whether I should give him up and take the complete plunge into the uninviting numbness - which is at times broken by tears, anyway, but rarely by laughter - or bask in the comfort he surprisingly gives me, albeit unknowlingly, and be happy (both insanely and sanely) for a moment. You see, this happiness, however temporary, recharges my spirit. It's as if I can stomach an hour's worth of drive without breaking a tear and without snapping at anybody in anger. I'd have something to smile about. And something to ease my fears away.

Yes, even if I am, after all, far, far away.

Then again

Oh, but it is so nice to dream...

Bye bye, fiction.

Law school's assignments and readings have become a little more tedious; the classes have become so monotonous that my ears can't help but drown out class discussions and recitations. God help my grades, then.

When I'm in Veritas (our classroom which is located at the 4th floor of our school building), I often find myself staring out of the glass windows, that is, when the blinds aren't drawn. Otherwise, I'd just be staring at the wall behind the current professor's head and dream.

Hah! So times haven't really changed. I'm still physically present in class but my thoughts are elsewhere. I don't think it's normal since all my other classmates can thoroughly immerse themselves in the Rules of Court and what-nots. I, on the other hand, dream about actors, and singers, beaches, and Volkswagon autos, and musical compositions, and going to Ireland, and Korea, being swept off my feet by the perfect man ever, and... everything that I can never have and everything that can never happen to me, really.

*Sigh.* Just thinking about having to stop daydreaming and creating stories in my head depresses me. It's only in my head that "things" happen. The hopeless dreamer. Or hopeless romantic. Suit yourself. My classmate told me to stop reading novels and to stop watching movies or series which cater to the emotions. She said these catalysts will only make me idealistic and, obviously emotional. I got the impression that those "states of being" have to be avoided, just like the plague.

And I think to myself, wouldn't that be really hard - to be devoid of emotions, I mean, and to be so cynical that all you can see are the sharp angles and lines of everything around you? Angles, lines in all harshness. But with dreams, idealism, and a heart, I can play with these angles and lines and turn them into something fun and creative. Or something impossible. Fiction. Whatever you fancy. But still, the life is there. My life and my heart are there.

I don't want to live in a cold, indifferent world. But if I continue dreaming about impossible things, I'd find myself in a backwater town, hanging clothes early in the morning while whistling country tunes. But if I quit daydreaming, I'll turn into an unimaginative old prude who's as robotic as the Energizer bunny.

Daydreams lull me to sleep. They calm me somehow. They cheer me up when I'm down; they entertain me when there's nothing to do. They give me my healthy dose of sadness at times, even. But they also distract me like crazy, as if my brain is on daydream autopilot and there's nothing I can do but watch the images. And everything gets drowned out, even the important things. In that case, they blind me.

As anticlimactic as ever, I know now what to do: I have to let go. Grow up. Forget the fantastic stories in my head.

It's going to be a hard withdrawal issue. But I just have to deal with it.

Lightnings

Looks up at the sky, waits for a meteor shower or something that will break the constant stillness, sighs in defeat.

So, the night is still still. I don't mind the cold - it's just a reminder that the holidays are coming. Soon, too soon. The year's about to end and here I am: still hoping, struggling against pragmatism, that lightning will strike, or at least that I'll come across some excitement somehow.

I really don't want to be stuck in a hustle-and-bustle world. I need excitement. I need fire. Magic. The real kind. I want to be swept off my feet. I want to run. Run free. I don't know why that phrase came up, I just feel like I have to run. Run free.

I want to have a reason to laugh out loud. Or just laugh out loud for no reason at all. But I also want someone to join me in the laughter. I want my lightning to strike now. I need it to strike now.

But there's a little pull inside my head, still. What if there's really no excitement to look forward to? What if life really was supposed to be constant and monotonous? What if I'm really supposed to be contented with... this stillness? And my constant yearning for "magic" and "the great relief" will only catapult me into despair - since those things will never come, anyway?

Gah. But I don't want to think about the possibility of magic not ever happening in my life. I just want it to happen. I want it to come and find me. And when it does, I'll take it from there. For now, I'm just wanting for it to happen. That's all.

Goong (Gung)

I have just finished the whole "Goong" series (or "Princess Hours") and I have to say I didn't quite like the ending.

What the heck did BingungMama see in Shin?!? Fine, she's Shin's lawfully wedded wife and, yes, a divorce is so not doable for members of the Royal Family, but COME ON! If after 2.5million years, all of them gets to walk on earth again, she'd still like Shin? Is she blind? Retarded? A masochist?

Okay. So I favor Yul's character. There.

But what's there to like about Shin? Bullies might appeal to a lot of girls out there but, COME ON! A rock who likes a pretentious so-so ballerina against a sensitive man who knows how to treat his lady right? A fashionably-challenged phlegmatic-choleric man who wears pedal pushers with a coat versus a fun, independent ex-Prince who wears a Tiffany&Co. feather loop necklace - never mind if it's a bit feminine - and who has such a good voice (fine, so singing wasn't part of his role but he DOES have a great voice! p.s. was he the one who sang the theme song?). Isn't the better choice supposed to be obvious?

It's an old series, I know. But I discovered it only this week and I was hook for days. Now that I've finished the series, I don't have anything to do anymore (other than study). Oh, drat.

Off to find another addiction.

Bump ahead!

After countless days' worth of soul-searching, after all the sins, after all the old-fashioned ways, I've come across a billboard made especially for me bearing the words: "Maybe you're not living it right!"

Wow. Maybe I'm not! Yes, that's probably it. I do not really seek contentment - to be content is to lose all passion. To be content is to whistle as you go to your medium-size desk at the office, which has a semi-tall pile of to-prepare papers for your boss and tell yourself, "Life can't get any better than this." To be content is to sit on the porch, sipping your lemonade on a hot day and watching the kids play on the lawn. Not that the latter isn't fun to do - IT IS FUN TO DO! - but if being content is to do that thing everyday, then I'd gladly welcome wishful thinking and more ambition.

I welcome passion. I crave it like a strawberry daiquiri. Like a soft Taco from Miggy's. Like buffalo wings and paella valenciana. Maybe that's why I've been so bored and restless throughout the semestral break. This is supposed to be my last sembreak before I get my Juris Doctor degree. I'm supposed to be going out and having so much fun that 10 years from now, I'll be looking back to this sembreak with a wistful smile, saying "My, my... Now that was such a fun time!"

Oh yes, I went to Boracay and stayed at a posh place. But I could have had more fun there. I could've done better.

Maybe I'm not drinking enough. Yeah. I should go out and party and dance like that time at Blue Onion - the last time I went there. Okay, I'm definitely drinking this week.

Maybe because I'm in law school and if I had an inkling of sense back in 2005, I wouldn't have enrolled in law school. I could have just followed what my impractical and frequently fickle-minded (if that is even a plausible description) heart wanted to do back then: go abroad and get a second degree or even master's in theater or literature or communications or international relations. Now, I'm stuck in law school and I have to love and learn every legal process that can save my future clients' asses from utter destruction. Or die trying.

Of course I want an escape! Unlike the other sane people in the law school, I am still dreaming about Prince Charming and how he's going to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to a faraway land where he'd propose to me, we'd marry and have babies, and live happily ever after. And I won't ever gain a pound.

But seeing that such fantasies are far from appearing at my gate, I just feed myself with comical chick-literature by Sophie Kinsella and teenage vampire love stories by Stephenie Meyer. (Have suggestions, do share.)

In the chick-lit reading vice, I can honestly say I'm living it right. I like those books, however shallow, irritatingly dumb, hopelessly romantic, and anti-feminist they may be. And I'm reading them. For sembreak, at least. But in other life-aspects, I'm not so sure. I don't really do what I want to do.

I don't drink a lot for fear of getting drunk and crashing my car against something and, worse, killing other people in the process. That wouldn't do well for my potential legal career. And I'm scared of hangovers. I don't like having puke in my throat every 5 or so minutes. I don't like worshipping the toilet bowl for more than half of the day in an attempt to keep my bed and bedroom floor puke-free.

But I like cocktails and wines and tequilas and citrus-flavored daiquiris and, sometimes even beer. I like experimenting with drinks. I like trying new drinks everytime I go to a bar. I like how my tongue loosens up (although alcohol is really unnecessary) after 2 bottles/glasses/shots or something. I like dancing with friends and strangers (strange BUT HARMLESS AND GORGEOUS, and not to mention hygienic and well-groomed - is requiring an IQ of at least 160 pushing my luck? - men) and just.not.caring.at.all.

Oh I'm definitely going to a foreign country (out of Asia) and trying out the beer there. And the bars. And, ... *wicked smile*

This is not to say that in order to "live it right" one has to be a party-girl. Of course not. It's just one of the boxes in my should-have-done-this list. And I can still do it, mind you.

Living it right. For me, it just means living the way I want my life to be lived. By myself, of course. By thinking of other people, too, but not letting them dominate my choices. I should always do the "right" thing, but my morals are my own. I'm not saying that if one thinks murdering one's neighbors is morally good, one should do it. Duh-h-h. I'm not speaking for the murderers. Or the rapists. Or the super pious. Or even my neighbor, for that matter. I'm speaking for myself.

And partying/having a fun time out is just one of my many check-boxes. I don't want to reach 30 and regret not ever having done this and that. I've already destroyed a big chunk of my life for things I don't really care about. I've already gone to a tunnel I don't really like much.

The least I can do to help my sanity and to salvage my passion is to accomplish as many of my check-boxes as possible.

Propriety be damned.

brink

I wonder
if you'll materialize before me - for me - soon
or if I'll fade into my dreams sooner.

escape to home

... and when I plunge into the mundane,
you reappear, you pull me back;
and upon your touch, I succumb
to the dream that never left me --
not one second, though I'd been spending my conscious hours
walking the path that does not belong to my heart.

Upon your touch, I realize
you never left me --
not for a second -- and I,
I've always been yours.

Signs

I know I should stop interpreting events, pictures, news, and what-nots as signs. There's no doctrine that says they ARE.

But sometimes it warms the heart just to dream about how things will fall into places magically - comfortably. Easily. Half of me believe they will. The other half chooses to be safe and shrouds itself in doubt.

But however dual my steps be, I'm happy. Haha! It doesn't make sense but I'm happy. Okay, so my sentences aren't really an English major's obra, but still, that's all I can say: I'm happy.

Haha!

Must be the coffee. Or the hazelnut chocolates Tita Marissa gave me. Or the welcome break from studying (what studying?). Or the sweetness I just saw - another proof that there's so much love in the world. I'm all giddy now and at 1:52am, when the phone rang, I even answered the call with a sing-songy "Hell-ooow!" I think the caller was surprised. (He probably thought he dialed the wrong number and called a drogista hotline instead).

Life! Life! I like being around happy people. Their laughter is just... like my own personal sunshine. :)

catch up

A few weeks ago
+One day, I was at the UP Shopping Center with a friend. As we were walking towards the side exit, I saw a note posted on the door of a pet shop there. Finding the note a bit odd but interesting, I took a picture of it. After a looong looong time (okay, I'm exaggerating things again), I finally got to post it here now.


Present

+It's finals once again! We just finished our Criminal Law Review Exam today and boy, did that suck big time. Political Law Review on Wednesday so, naturally, here I am, in front of my laptop, yakking away.

+It's weird. Being in my senior year feels... weird. It's both bliss and doom. The kind of feeling you get when you're out in the garden on a nice, sunny day. You're smelling the fresh blooms while swishing your floral skirt and while you're waiting for the harbinger to come for you.

+One year next month! Although he was the one who said that our anniversary falls in November - no particular date: just the whole month of November - now, he's rather skeptical about it. When asked, he just answers "from the moment I first saw you." Right.
But, of course, he only says that to me. To the others, it's "Tagal na!"

+How many days til Christmas? 80? I'm excited! Although I know a lot of things would and may happen til then. Release of grades. Halloween. All Soul's Day. All Saint's Day. SEMBREAK! Oh, and finals.

Last year
+Last Christmas (I gave you my heart... laladee da), we went to Baguio. Yep, we left Manila on Christmas day - or night, rather. Specifically, we left at around 11:50 on December 25, 2007. And we got lost along the way, traversing a dark road which looked like it leads to nowhere, or at least to somewhere dangerous. Heck, the road itself was somewhere dangerous - both referring to possible negative elemental/spiritual and physical presence. Luckily, we got back to the highway (after 3hours?) alive. We arrived in Baguio at around 6:30 am, had breakfast at McDonald's, checked in at an upscale hotel, and slept until 3pm or so.
We went to the market to buy strawberries, condensed milk, and pasalubongs. He, being such a thoughtful man (gee, how sarcastic can I get?), gave me a good 10 MINUTES to shop at the ukay-ukay. Be still, my beating heart.
We had dinner - our usual meal of Salad, Pasta, and our favorite HUGE buffalo wings (look! No Pizza, this time! Diet! Diet!) and then met up with a couple of friends for some drinks. Went back to the hotel, fought a bit, fought some more, made up, and left for Manila early the next morning.
I lllluuurve Christmas.

+New Year found us with our friends - his friends and mine. Of course, I spent the earlier part of it with my dad and my stepmom at Hotel Intercon. Thereafter, it was party-time for the young 'uns. Oh, a drunk driver smashed into my car. He intimidated the drunken, err, person to pay for everything and apologize to me and all. Next day, Golda, my niece from Bukidnon, stayed at my house for a night. We went out and went cam-whoring, of course.

Back to the Present
+I know, I know, that was last year's Christmas and New Year. But they were so much fun! I mean, it's rare that I got to go out of town on Christmas day with someone other than members of my family, you know. And, not to mention, spend New Year as I had spent it last year.

+Sunshine is pregnant. She's back in Bukidnon now.

Recalling past trips
+Tin, Marah, Toi, and I are going out of town again this sembreak. The usual trip, you know. We always go on a trip after every semester since 1st year. Well, almost. Another drive with the trio with Marah, Toi, and I suffering from blasted hangovers - grouchy, hungry, thirsty, and all. And Tin would bring out a camera or a camera phone and we would both pose to our heart's content - yes, my hangover would be cured, at least while the camera is snapping away. And we would go visit a church and pray for the salvation of our souls and, of course, our careers. And I'd pray for my love life and general well-being, too.

Yesterday
+Chang just gave me a bit of a news yesterday. I wasn't really surprised. Actually, I was expecting it. She has changed a bit, though - kinda mellowed down. She had this weird look in her eyes, though - I'm not so sure if that's loneliness, confusion, weariness, submission to the will of the world, or understanding. That or she was just tired yesterday. That, or it was just because we were in church. Nah. I think something changed her. I just am not sure if I like the change or not. I'd decide now. I think I kinda like it.

+Better sleep now. Have to wake up early to study. Just. A. Couple. More. Days.

Try again!

MyHeritage: Celebrity Morph - Family tree diagram - Blank family tree

Morph

MyHeritage: Family tree - Genealogy - Celebrity

Ode to Us who are Left - Wanting

Your mouth's agape -
close it before it's too late.
You, who wanted more;
you, who got less -
warm your shaking hands,
build a bonfire
far
far away from here.

Absentees

What do you do when the people you want to be there on the most important days of your year (or years) fail to show up?

It's your graduation day. You've been named first honors in your Kindergarten 1 class. You are told to bring your parents with you so they can go with you up the stage during the commencement exercises. You can just imagine the pride on your father's face when the Principal hands you your very own gold medal.
Oh but wait. You don't know who your mother is. Your father can't make it. But, don't you worry. He sends at least 6 of his "trusted friends", who make up his executive staff, to stand in as your father. See, you get 6 fake fathers to accompany you up the stage!

It's your birthday. You're 6 years old. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15. 16... You're going to have a big party. Classes at your school are suspended. It's your day.
Your nanny comes along and takes charge of the party. Yipee. Well, your father was there at your 5th birthday - or at least for an hour.

It's your birthday. You've stopped wishing your parents would magically show themselves at your bedroom door. Instead, you're looking forward to spending your day with your boyfriend.
Oh wait. It's a Sunday. Your boyfriend can't meet up with you since you both are not allowed to go out on Sundays.
Oh wait. Your boyfriend forgot it's your birthday. He's out playing computer games with friends.
Your boyfriend had promised to pick you up so you can have breakfast together on you special day. But wait, it's already 9 o'clock am. Maybe he'd surprise you any minute now. 12 o'clock. Maybe it was really lunch. You call and, oh wait. He has to pick a girl you don't know up and drive her somewhere. He has a life, too, you know. It's just your birthday.
Oh wait. Your boyfriend just can't go to your little dinner party stone's throw away from your school. He's not feeling well and will go home to sleep. But, come on, he said sorry. That's enough, you know.
Well, at least you've had three boyfriends who really did spend your birthday with you. You've achieved real happiness. You can die now.

It's going to be your thesis defense soon. You've talked about this for weeks and days now. He's going to be there with you after your defense. If you pass it, you'll celebrate together. If you make a fool out of yourself, he'll be by your side.
Oh wait. He takes you out to dinner a couple of days early 'cause he just might not be able to be there on the "big" day. Well, at least he's thoughtful enough to take you out earlier.
But wait. You have to eat fast. He has somewhere else to go. Such short notice. Fortuitous event, you know.
And you think, he's just so nice and thoughtful. He could have told me to hail a cab. But he's willing to drive me home and then go to wherever he has to go. I am lucky.

You feel bad, but guilty of feeling bad, as well.
You're sad. You're lonely.
And, well, right now, you're all alone.

Oh wait. You wouldn't want to hear about Christmas and Valentine's...

Project to have and to hold: a pet and a plant

According to a movie na napanood ko dati (28 weeks ata yun, basta yung kay sandra bullock), to be mentally, psychologically, and emotionally sane, or even healthy, you have to have a plant and a pet. Or something like that.

And so, since nilayasan ako ng cat ko dati (nagbakasyon lang ako, then pag uwi ko, wala na sha...), and mahirap mag alaga ng aso (kasi my greatest fear is mangagat sha ng ibang tao then the person will sue me for damages), and ayoko na mag alaga ng rabbits (super panghi ng ihi nila), hamsters (in-attack dati yung hamsters ko by rats), and white mice (baka kasi may rabies sila), i am now going to take care of fish!!!

So, last Thursday night, at approximately 9:00 pm, I rearranged the furniture in my house. I slept a fish-full sleep, woke up at 7:30am the next day, showered (and got dressed, of course), went to Carlo's place, got his basin of extra pebbles, dragged him to the pet shop (he was car-less for the day), bought a 35 gallon aquarium, a bottle of anti-chlorine, light, a powerhead filter/pump, and some decorative plants. We then went to Rona's Garden and bought sand and rocks, and spent the whole day setting it up. Without a water hose. Yes, so it was tabo and balde for us.

We cleaned the sand and scrubbed the rocks and submerged all decors in water for days (exag). Habang inaayos ko yung decors, rant ako ng rant kasi ayaw ibenta sakin ng Manong Taga-Bato yung rocks na may mga butas sa gitna. Tsaka di din niya ko hinanapan ng driftwood.

Since I didn't buy an aquarium stand (I just loathe the sight of those metal things with no appeal whatsoever), nilagay ko yung heavy heavy heavy aquarium dun sa office table which I had since I was 3 years old. Oo, nag-o-office na ko nun. Bakit kayo? Hindi pa? E nag-curve ba naman because of the weight of the tank. Buti nalang may lagare, martilyo, and extra wood ako. Nilagyan ni carlo ng support yung gitna ng table. Tanggal curve!!! Buti nalang, may Carlo. (Say cheesyyy. Sheesh.)

So that's my first step in accomplishing my "Pet and Plant Project", a.k.a. PPP. 2 weeks after pa daw kasi pwede lagyan ng fish. But I got a hardy fish and... sinabak na sha sa laban. His name is Cole. And he's going to help in establishing bacterial balance in my tank. Parang ang sagwa ata pakinggan nun...

Well, actually, it's a die-die situation rin naman kay Cole. He used to be Carl's hardy fish employed to break his new-tank circumstance a while back. (cont'd after the Note.)

Note: Since nag stabilize na yung tank niya, nilagyan na niya ng other fish. May pagka-weird: naglagay ng mga 5 ata na pacu sa aquarium niya. Yung aquarium niya, sobrang laki: 20 gallons. So kashang-kasha diba? Hinihintay ko nalang na basagin ng mga perpetually growing pacu yung tank niya. As of now, fish-lets (Ano ba tawag sa small fish?) palang yung mga pacu. Next month, monsters na sila.

(cont'd)
So since andun na yung mga fish-let-pacu-soon-to-be-monster-tank-busters, aping-api na si Cole. Kinakagat kagat sha. Hinahampas sa wall. Tinutulak papunta sa filter. Binabatukan (exag na ulit). Ayan tuloy, punit na yung fins and tails niya. So he was given a choice: to die a soap opera-like death in Carlo's crazy aquarium or to most probably die a hero's death - with dignity pa - in my aquarium. Carlo and I made the choice for him. Andito na sha ngayon, tinutulungan ako sa cycle ng aquarium ko. At masaya sha.

So, after two weeks, malalagyan ko na ng iba pang fish yung tank ko. Hopefully andun pa din si Cole. Next time na yung plant. Pero gusto ko sana bonsai. Magbabasa pa ko kung pano mag alaga ng plant. Then maghahanap pa ko ng murang "sacrificial" bonsai. I'll name the bonsai, Benjie.

Here are some pics and videos (sana magplay) of Cole. :)

Burn, baby, burn!

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars..."

-- "On The Road" Jack Kerouac

Truths part 2

I like looking at the postcards sent to PostSecret.

I like singing - in a choir, with somebody, in a karaoke bar, in the bathroom - but not when I have to sing in front of a bunch of people. Alone. With all of them gawking at (and listening to?) me. In those cases, I simply want to blend into the wall.

Friday is the worst day of the week. Traffic is bad, people are so agitated to have the work/schoolweek over and done with (never minding that some of them have to go to work/school on saturday still), and a lot of people just feel the need to randomly gush about their gimmicks or dates or what-have-yous, to the chagrin of those who get stood up or have nowhere to go but to get lost. Me? I hate the fact that I'd have to go all the way to Makati to attend a one hour class with a perennially irritated professor at the helm. If only he were a bit more cheerful or even mild in his ways, I'd have looked forward to seeing him in class.

Today is Friday.

We had dinner with Ate Issa last night and I think she's really great. And Angelo's so adorable - I've only seen him thrice but he said my name already last night! He said, "Ey-ah". Pretty good, huh?

Instead of reading Bernas' primer, I spent an hour this morning reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows for the fourth time (or was it the fifth?).

I've watched "My Sassy Girl" - the original Korean movie - eight (or nine times? ten?) times. I want to watch the Hollywood version next.

I like horses. I'm just afraid they'd kick my ass whenever I'm near their backside.

Last night, I dreamed about the sembreak trip Ten, Tin, Toi, and I are planning. We were off to the beach and I forgot to bring my swimsuits. I brought a formal gown and wore boots filled with puke. In fairness to me, I cleaned the boots (and my feet) and got rid of the puke before we actually left. And it all happened in my dream.

I'm home alone and hungry. Ate Memem and Ate Fey went to the Ob-Gyne so there's no one around to feed me. Funny. I don't even have an Ob-Gyne.

I should start studying for midterms now but I'm too hungry to move away from my salmon pink laptop.

Truths

I'm worried I might be afflicted with colon cancer or with something just as grave but I don't go for a check-up since I don't think I'm prepared to know just yet - that I am sick OR that I'm not sick and have been wasting my time and money thinking I am.

I have to keep my feet warm when I sleep or else they'd ache all through the night.

I have dogs and have had cats and other pets but I'm not (and have not ever) been so close to them since I have this constant fear that if I'd pet them for longer than 1 minute, they'd turn crazy on me and bite my hand off.

Up to now, I've been secretly wishing for a Chris Klein character (refer to his role in Here on Earth) to waltz into my life.

I don't really like my 17" widescreen salmon pink laptop since it's all bulky and heavy and... well, just cumbersome, never mind that it has great specs. But I can't part with it cause my stepmom might just kill me. Anyway, it's great for watching movies. And I think my stepmom's great.

Aside from about 10-15 people I personally know (some of whom are my friends), I don't give my blog's url to those other people who know me because such would then restrict my writing. I'd much rather have total strangers reading my blog than having those I get to see everyday discovering my lines.

I don't put sugar in my coffee. I put a chunk of Toblerone instead.

I like memorizing footnotes although I don't really remember the main entries.

I'm sleepy but denying it since I think it's too early to sleep. It's 12:48am.

perfect

Some loves are perfect though short, seemingly rash, and, in a way, illogical. These loves are perfect as they are and to extend them, to let the magic live longer than that brief glance, would corrupt them. Ultimately, their perfection would then be revealed as an over-rated fake - a stubborn and reckless, and sometimes even cruel, tryst romanticized into the one perfect true love of a lifetime.

Perfect love, then, to remain perfect, if only in memory, should never be allowed to last.

A lot of the things I know, I learned from Sweet Valley part 2

1. Harlequin dolls, though outdated, can still be great Christmas presents even to those people who claim they're too old for toys. But stick to those harlequin dolls which are magical 9e.g. they come to life at the strok of midnight and turn out to be dashing princes from a faraway kingdom). - (Sweet Valley Twins Magna Edition "The Magic Christmas" featured twin harlequin dolls/princes Dorin and... uh-oh)

2. Either Sweet Valley Jr. High books were not available in Manila when I was in my (bookworm-y) prime or I simply did not ask the saleslady for their whereabouts.

3. Nerds have always been at the bottom of the food chain.

4. In Sweet Valley, Halloween happens at least thrice when you're in second grade. Christmas happens a lot more often. And you can celebrate your birthday five times in a year and you will still be 16 years old.

tight-lipped

[Create message]
Hi babe. Good morning! Hope you have a great day ahead... :)
[Message sent]

I woke up with you on my mind. Are you awake? Have you eaten? Are you going to be late for your class? I wonder what your thoughts are upon waking up. I wonder how it would be like waking up in the morning and finding myself beside you. I think that would be quite nice. And just the thought of looking at you while you sleep, hearing you snore noisily while I'm attempting to hide a chuckle, and kissing your cheek good morning bring a smile to my lips.

[Create message]
Hi babe. Wala lang. I think I did well in my first class today. :)
[Message sent]

Snippets of good vibes. News about my life. However small some joys could be for me, I enjoy sharing them with you. It's not that I'm bragging - small nods from professors aren't really an awards-night experience. But they make me feel good, positive, somehow. And I want to share that feeling - however ordinary - with you. I want you to be proud of me. I know I am not really an exceptional person, that I don't really excel in anything. I can't move mountains. I can't even say a paragraph's worth of sense. But I'd like for you to be happy that you have me. Yes. Happy.

[Create message]
Hi dear... Wala lang. I love you. Thank you for everything. :)
[Message sent]

There. I've said it, although there are a million more things I want to tell you, but I know you have other things to do and long messages - especially corny ones - aren't really up your alley. I can't help it, though. I'm a hopeless romantic, although I think some cynicism has already polluted my brain. I'm the walk-in-the-rain-under-the-same-umbrella type. I snort when our classmates get huge bouquets of assorted flowers from their men but it's usually just due to envy. I like simple gestures of affections: a surprise visit, a home-cooked meal, a peck on the cheek, a smile from you when we're among our friends, a gentle squeeze of my hand. These things live in one's memory as the scent of fresh blooms enliven springtime. But of course, I usually keep these ideas to myself. They aren't really up your alley.

[Create message]
Hi... Hmmm... Kinda sad. Wala lang. Take care always.
[Message sent]

There are times when I feel lonely. Alone. Sad. I'd like to talk to someone I trust and care for. Someone I know who'd care. I'd like to talk to you. I'm thinking of calling you up, sharing with you the story behind my sadness. Maybe I'd cry. Maybe I'd feel better almost immediately after you pick up. But I can't be so sure. I know you don't like it when I cry. You'd put down the phone and I'd be alone once again. And I'd want to call you up again but I can only do that if I stop crying. So I'd will myself to stop, wipe away the renegade tears, and force myself to forget my troubles. More often than not, the method works and I would immediately feel stupid for crying in the first place, although I think a part of me would still be crushed. My problems won't go away.
On the other hand, even if I don't get to cry, you might not want to talk - to me at the moment, or about my troubles. We both have a lot in our hands but I know you're busier than I could ever be. I should spare you the bother. And so I just send a generic message and hope you'd reply. If not, I'd blog. Or call my friends. Or just cry by myself.

[Create message]
Hi babe. Wala lang... I miss you. Wala lang.
[Message sent]

I want to talk to you. There's a lot I want to say. I want to be in your arms. I want to feel your arms.
But you might be asleep.
But you might be busy.
But I'm scared you might not want to listen.

a lot of the things I know, I learned from Sweet Valley

My professor in Political Law Review, Atty. Jacinto Jimenez, was dishing out lines from Macbeth earlier and ranting about kids not knowing Shakespeare's works nowadays.

I got kinda smug since I knew the lines he was reciting:
"Double, Double
Toil and trouble
Fire burn
And cauldron bubble."

Although, honestly speaking, I didn't learn it by reading Macbeth (but, yes, I do have a copy of Macbeth. And a Midsummer Night's Dream. And Julius Caesar. And Romeo and Juliet - of course. And... ahh. Just refer to my book shelves.). I learned the same by reading... dan-da-ra-ran! Sweet Valley Kids! I'm not so sure though if that was in Book 12 "Trick or Treat" or in another issue but, still, I learned a lot from the Wakefield Twins.

Contrary to what most people think, Sweet Valley books aren't at all useless (Refer to the Macbeth learning). In fact, I discovered the poem "Remember" by Christina Georgina Rossetti through Elizabeth Wakefield's diary (to those who don't know her, she's one-half of the Wakefield twins of Sweet Valley, the other half being Jessica). Now, I can't be too sure if that was Volume 1 or 2 of her diary.

The poem goes:

"Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
You tell me of our future that you planned;
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve;
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad."


The poem was recited by her then-boyfriend Todd Wilkins in the auditorium. He dedicated the poem to her since he would be leaving for Vermont a short time thereafter. And I remember having cried buckets of tears as I read the poem over and over and over again. Yeah, yeah. But c'mon! I think I was in sixth grade at that time! The twins' diaries were actually part of the Sweet Valley High books, by the way.

Ah. Let's go back to Sweet Valley Kids. Aside from lines from the great pillars of literature, the series teach young bookworms a lot about other matters, too.

Book 13, aptly titled "Starring Winston Egbert" gave me a quick lesson about the Indians and the history of Thanksgiving. In that book, the second-grade kids took part in the play commemorating the start of Thanksgiving in America. Jessica (my favorite twin) saved the day.

Tonsils may be taken out, as per Book 20, "The Twins Go to the Hospital". Once the operation is over, the patient loses his or her voice and it's a good reason to play Pictionary in the hospital room and eat ice cream.

Jessica's Snobby Club (I don't remember the book number), I think, was the first culprit to turn me against the idea of sororities and fraternities and "elite" groups. There, Jessica and her "snobby" friends formed the "Orchid Club", which was composed of those girls who had elaborate orchid pins/brooches or whatever you call them. None-owners of those pins may not join. Plus, the members may not run, play with other people, or do other things which entail association with non-members and prejudice the condition of the delicate orchid pins. Yes, the beginning of a sorority of sorts.

Another Jessica-centered book was "Jessica and the Spelling Bee". Jessica is not known as the smart twin - that's Elizabeth. But Jess was the one who managed to represent her school to the Spelling Bee. As she tried her damnedest to extricate herself from the said contest due to fright and insecurity, which was largely brought about by the jeers of her classmates about her having cheated her way to the Bee, Jess researched on hearing impairment. Then and there, Jess and I (hehe) learned about the stirrup - a small bone located in the middle ear (yes, yes. The same word refers to the loop which hangs from either side of a horse's saddle. This bone in the ear is shaped like the horse saddle's stirrups, hence the name.).

Spell it: Stirrup. S-T-I-R-R-U-P. Stirrup.

Sweet Valley. S-W-E-E-T V-A-L-L-E-Y.

That's it for now, children of the 80's and 90's. More about the Wakefield twins and their series next time.

from the penthouse, looking down

Paranoid. Scared. Quick-tempered. Weak.

But I am not less of a person just because I'm all these and more. You try to change me - for the better, you say. You try to rehabilitate my ways: render gentle my tongue, curb my language, do away with my choice of clothes. You want me to stop fumbling with my answers and my logic by reminding me over and over again that I just don't respond the way I am supposed to.

With these means, yes, I do realize my flaws. But instead of successfully overcoming them all, my pride shatters into smaller pieces with each blow. I draw myself deeper into my shell.

You may prove everyone right. I may fail. Badly. Terribly. With these wounds to my pride, I lose all the remaining respect I have for myself, if any. Each day, my spirit falters and try as I may to push myself upwards again, my arms fail me. Your words drag me down.

I'm on the brink of falling - all 23 floors down.

Just let me save myself.

Hide and Seek

How do you stop being insecure? How do you drown out pessimism? How do you do just that, when all your life, you've been that? How, when you are that?

You see, I hate the feeling of rejection so I do my best to counter it, even if it means acting way before the blow comes. I call it defensive mechanism. Others call it paranoia. Maybe it is. But I have got to do it. I have got to protect myself. I should, of course, especially when there's no one else there who'll protect me.

I remember when I was about 16 years old. I just graduated from high school - salutatorian. (My dad wasn't at all happy. He wanted me to be the best. But I ended up only as second best.) My dad, his assistant, and I went to attend the Easter vigil in our province, Bukidnon. I was feeling quite pretty, with my blue-green chiffon dress and strappy heels. I stayed close to my dad, proud to be the only daughter of a popular public figure in our town.

People greeted him as we made our way to the cathedral's huge doors. I smiled at everyone as we passed, my hand comfortably resting on my dad's arm.

Then we met this middle-aged couple who respectfully greeted my dad. They chatted for a bit, while I stood there by my dad's side, a warm smile on my face. The woman asked my dad who I was. Then it happened.

My dad shifted his feet as if he were a man going through an inquest proceedings. The woman and her husband waited. And stared at me. Ogled, was more like it. My dad said, "My adopted." I froze.

"Ah," the woman replied in the vernacular, "good thing you got a decent looking one. She seems nice enough. You're lucky." Then she turned her back on me and talked to my dad some more.

Somehow, I didn't really notice how I ended up amid a throng of people fighting their way into the church. No, I wasn't elbowing my way into salvation alongside them. I think I just let them walk all over me - literally and otherwise.

Fighting back the tears, hiccuping like there's no tomorrow, I clumsily walked around, looking for Rico, my dad's assistant and, as time has proven, one of my trusted friends. When I did find him, I told him unfeelingly that I'd be sticking with him through the whole religious gathering. (I'm almost tempted to refer to it as "quasi-religious gathering", what with all the hypocrites present. Or should I say "pseudo-religious"?)

I sat through more than an hour's worth of inaudible sermon, preachings I couldn't really understand due to my shallow knowledge of the place's language, and crying babies. And all throughout, I was shifting between trying hard not to cry and cursing the whole damn place - its people included, of course - into oblivion.

I hated my father - yes, my biological father, that same popular public figure who referred to me as his adopted child - for denying me. It wasn't my fault that he accidentally got a woman - my biological mother - pregnant out of wedlock. It wasn't my fault that he couldn't very well tell the world his sins, much less own up to that particular dirty deed even though the finished product has been made available for the physical world to see. It wasn't my fault that he's a bachelor with a baggage, which, if I may add (not for spite but just for further factual matters), he tried to hide for, say, 16 years.

True, I thought to myself while shredding the contribution envelop into strips, he provided for my education (still is), gave me a house to live in, a nanny and two more housekeepers, a driver, and a hefty allowance. But he also deprived me of my mother and a good father, since he shipped me off to Manila "for educational purposes" while he stayed in quiet Bukidnon. And he had the gall to tell people I'm adopted, when in fact, I'm his own flesh and blood.

That, my friends (yes, yes. I only have so many blog readers), has got to be the biggest rejection I had during my adolescent years. And even though I'm okay with my dad now - we don't fight as much, a lot of people know now that I'm his illegitimate but only child, he generally/kinda/somewhat treats me well in public - I haven't really forgotten that event in my young life. Like a scar, it had become attached to me, become a second skin, which also functions as a shield from further damage.

When similar or potentially like situations come my way, I immediately brace myself and my scar does its wonders. It numbs me quickly (maybe that's how drugs work for addicts, too). Like earlier today, I found myself in an elevator with three classmates. My girl classmate was teasing me about someone. Actually, I had swore to her in class that if our professor won't call me for recitation that day, I promise I won't fight with my boyfriend for two whole weeks. She brought that up in the elevator and teased me about it. Our other guy classmate who was also there in the elevator with us rationalized: we (my boyfriend and I) shouldn't be fighting since, in the first place, we weren't together. Yes, because we weren't together. Not a couple. Not romantically affiliated with each other. I froze.

Our girl classmate grew uncomfortable. I think I knew how she felt, by the way. She was torn between telling our guy classmate off and actually entertaining the bit of possibility that, indeed, we weren't a couple, as I had led her to believe, and that my stories were just a dreamy product of my sick imagination. After all, the guy classmate, yes, that guy in the elevator, and my boyfriend were good friends.

All throughout the ordeal, in that cramped elevator, I just stuck with my phony smile and ignored both of them. I fixed my gaze at the fourth passenger, another guy classmate who's as confused as the other two were. I prayed to the Lord, my God, to be saved from another rejection, another probable denial of relations.

It's like this: that part of me has been damaged already that it cannot be damaged some more. All I can do now is to prevent the damage from piling up. I have my scar already and I don't want another scar to settle on top of my existing scar. Thus, the defense.

But then they call it insecurity, paranoia, cynicism, and pessimism. Hell. They call it insanity. I say to myself I don't really care. They can call it anything they want. For me, it's my shield.

But, really, I do care. And I want the "insanity" to stop. I want to revel in the world's beauty, to look at the sunflowers as beautiful creations and not as temporary and useless blooms which will wilt away tomorrow or even later. I want to believe that I can do wonderful things, that I can be happy, that I AM happy, and not anticipate misfortunes and a lifetime of misery. I want to trust people and I want them to trust me, too. I want to be accepted and loved. I want others to feel proud of me. I want to laugh, and mean it.

I don't want to be rejected again and denied by those I care about. Where's a sense of security when I need it the most?

writing as if no one could read my thoughts

Are we where we live in?

Yes, that's right. "Are we where we live in?" Somehow I'm not too sure if that's even grammatically correct but that's the question which popped into my head while I was on my way home from school today (or rather, yesterday, as it is already 12:46 am of June 18, 2008).

Stuck in the usual 8pm traffic jam along EDSA, I see wired fences used by the authorities to separate lanes and the gray concrete pillars which hold the MRT. I stare at the gray pillars a little longer than necessary and feel the roughness of the pavement as the car's tires moved lazily towards the tunnel's end. This is Manila, or a part thereof actually. But still, this is Manila.

From where I sat, there's nothing I could find which resembles romance or dreaminess. No feeling of mystique that the cobbled streets and ancient spires of Prague are able to generate easily among its travelers. No desire to French Kiss, Paris-style. No liberating sense of spirit and defiance that even the hustle-and-bustle nebula of New York can evoke. Just slabs of concrete along the stretch of EDSA and a stream of red lights before me, showing just how congested Manila traffic can get.

I look around and see pedestrians and commuters, all waiting for a chance to cross the street - unmindful of the jaywalking statutes, of the clumsily arranged barricades - or for a ride home. The drivers are getting impatient, as you can determine from the way they honk their vehicles' horns and how they trrry tooo incchhh theiirr carrs forward, to the left, to the right in the hope of escaping this traffic jail.

Nothing romantic there too.

After years and scores of living in such a wonderful place (feel both my sarcasm and honesty - yes. Manila is a wonderful place), do we assimilate the gray-ness of EDSA into our very own lives and personal character? Do we do things in a humdrum manner - consciously, unconsciously - because the place does not call for imagination? Do we forget about our respective "inner child" and stop dancing in the rain because of pollution?

Yes, we may get sick and, yes, acid rain is reality, but what about excitement? Laughter? And just plain fun?

The place has taught us how to be independent, practical, and resourceful but I feel that it has also taken away a big chunk of our spirit. It's saddening, when you actually think about it.

Or then again, maybe "sad" is just a tad too romantic a word. And after much effort, we still feel nothing: not the loss of spirit, not the drowning of imagination. We stare into the crowd and see not one soul. But, still, we belong here - in this comfortable routine of indifference and pragmatism.

Still.

Like those gray concrete pillars along the stretch of EDSA.

recycling thoughts

Why do we struggle for a topic to write - just anything to write about - about when, in fact, there are a lot things in the world we see everyday (or don't), which may be the subject of our articles?

In the hope that we would somehow come up with an article a tad more interesting than what our little brother might write about, say, a bruised toe, we write about overused topics: love, death, suicide, changes, love, life, writing itself and its random blocks, the mountains, freedom, paradise, love again. Yet, though we know a lot has been written about these things, we continue to contribute our "expert" opinions. And readers read them, some grudgingly, yes. But, still, the articles generate more interest than nothing at all.

They tell us, "What? That again?" and "Well, that's that. Nothing ever changes with that." And then they launch into a discussion about how those things never change and how pathetic people can get when they dwell in those overused, overrated things. They go on and on about how talking and writing and reading about those things have become so yesterday. And, yet, they talk about the same things for hours - whether they're sober or not. And you smile because you know better than disagree with them on any point.

So you sit and listen to them complain about how the world talks about nothing else but that, that, and that. That nothing is left to be said about this, this, and this. And you silently formulate blog entries about those things. Yes, their essences, their importance in life - all based on you expert and honest opinion, of course.

AS if there's nothing else left to write about.

Bukidnon

where the air is clean and captivating,
where you feel the dewy grass beneath your bare feet;
where the birds awaken your senses at sunrise,
where the trees' roots play with boulders and pebbles alike,
and where the same trees' topmost branches reach skyward to tell the Heavens of your dreams;

where the roads go up and down and up again,
curving toward the hidden inevitability, another magnificent unknown;
where restless souls are given time to think, to breath,
where castaways are welcomed and given space to heal;
where escapists are provided caves to hide their fears and their tales,
and where all abandon and adventure gallop along with the roan horses - unbridled, untamed;

where smiles are free and laughter comes much easily;
where the clouds meet the pale blue mountains in a quiet coexistence,
where the moon and stars shine brightly against the night sky;
where the end starts just like every song's beginning,
and where tomorrow feels like countless of good, harmonious days;

where comfort lies, snugly with a cup of freshly brewed coffee,
where the children play like how our children are supposed to play;
where we sleep, soundly - even dreamlessly,
where the colors are bright and soothingly familiar:
where our true home lies. and waits to warm our tired spirits once more.

Brave weaklings.

Accidents do not happen. My friend tells me such word is only used by those who can't really explain or don't want to understand why such things do happen. There are no coincidences, either. We just use that term to justify the occurrence of subsequent, and usually sinful, affairs.

There's no such thing as a conducive place for sinning. We sin whenever we do. We're the authors, the directors of our own sins. We have no one, or nothing, to blame but our own weak selves.

Weak selves. The adjective resounds in my brain. Whenever we give in to temptation, why do we often call ourselves weak? Wouldn't it be more fitting to say that we dared to do it? So that way, we'd see ourselves as brave wanderers raring for another adventure?

Cliches teach us that we learn from mistakes and that there's no better way to understand a crooked way than to walk along it ourselves. But whatever happens when we've gathered all the learnings? Yes, we learn that plugging an uninsulated wire into an electric socket with damp hands would almost always cause an electric shock. But some of us do that all over again just for the sheer exhilarating conduction. (You never know.)

Doing that doesn't make us cowards. It may make us brave, or, for some, weirdos in our own rights. Sadists, even. But never weaklings.

Or maybe I'm using wrong analogies. And in doing so, trying to justify occurrences, even my own sins.

But there's no way to justify some sins, I know. No matter how hard we try, we can never scrub a midnight black boar clean and turn it into a rosy shade of cream. Unless we skin it. Another improper analogy.

Sinners. Weaklings, since they give in to temptation. It doesn't matter how hard they tried to hold on to their morals and virtues - they give in just the same. Or are they adventurers? Darers? Or reckless hedonists? Maybe. They are brave enough to soak their feet into the bog and feel the grime against their own skin. They are daring enough to pursue their wants and shock the morals and virtues of other people. Maybe.

So, they have sinned. We may call them whatever we want. But let us not cast the first stone. We are no saints and martyrs, though some of us try hard to be. We're neither brave, nor weak. We. Just. Are.

Mountain song

I found a Land in the mountains and beyond
where you cross a river twice,
where blades of grass cut you until you repent.

Up and down I went with a young troop of five
and a wise man who told us stories
of the sky and of the plains.

The wise man taught us a song about journeying
to a bountiful land where welcome would be warm
to a good lady with my own name.

The men joined along but I could not -
not because of shame nor pride but because
I knew the girl was not good, though she tries to be.

On we went, through the raging river, past many questions
until the path ended at a cliff:
across the river stood the sacred Land, the people's Land.

I crossed the river with only the wise man,
his son, and the son's friend. I knew the trip,
like so many others I've had, would change me yet again.

We pitched our tents and swam like kids on summer break
and communed with the natives like it was
our second home. Yes, the Land, like my second home.

The mountains have always brought verve into my life,
a sense of freedom and danger that
no other form of nature could ever give.

Passion. It has always brought me passion.
And in the late hours, I listened to the wise man's tales
of love and dreams. I listened to the cold mountain breeze.

To the constant pattering of the rain.
I listened.
And I listened to Him.


The story ends there, where heaven and hell meet:

across the broad sky, across the mountain ranges
I had come to understand Time and Nature's humor.

The mountains brought me life.
Energy without the usual concomitant weariness.
Questions without the need to find answers.

I found a place I've never gone before
but in hindsight, I realize I'd been mistaken:
I didn't find the Land that I speak of --
the Land found me. And it had the last Laugh.

Reliving August 7, 2004

Something I wrote that day.

admission
how about
... you and i stay for a while
among the withered roses
beyond our caved secrets
how about
... drops of coffee
to aid our thoughts
and stain our senses
how about

... a silence long due
a break from the awkward noises
we always make
how about
... sleeping beside our graves
holding in our hands the fact
that heroes can't be saved

Does the Evil hurt?

When terminated at work, does the Evil hurt? Or when jilted at the altar? Or when stabbed in the back by alleged friends, does the Evil feel the pain?

Pain. It is supposed to make us realize we're human. That we feel. That we bleed. Pain doesn't really make the world go round. On the other hand, it makes our heads spin in agony, so crazily that we don't get to see the concrete beneath our feet anymore.

We inflict pain on others, be it intentionally or unintentionally. Others return the favor, so to speak. And we bleed. We're human, after all.

But does the Evil feel pain?

I'm not talking about the cruel people, or the bad ones who commit thievery in order to survive or those who fib about not smoking to their parents. I refer to those whose conscience has seem to have long deserted them, to those who can rape their moms, daughters, and siblings or murder their neighbors just for the heck of it. I refer to the people whose hearts are as black as night, who commit mortal sins effortlessly, even laughing as they execute their dark deeds.

When inflicted with the pain - however slight, however immense - by other people, do they hurt, too? Are they, like us, humans who also bleed?

Or have they become numb and unfeeling? So much that they cannot anymore feel the sand beneath their feet?

paint me.

I could be happier. I try to be. Happy. Happier. Although I vaguely remember someone telling me once one shouldn't try so hard to be happy, else it's not really happiness that comes, if ever a similar feeling comes. It's going to be a delusion, not the real happiness. Or maybe just a feeling one got to feign. It works for some. But not really for long. And it gets taxing, too.

I try to be someone I'm not. Someone more, someone less than who I really am -- all depends on how you look at it, really. Less expression, more detachment. Whereas I would have yelled or laughed out loud or even danced to my hips' content, I'd bite the insides of my cheeks now. And look away. Sometimes, I let myself smile and maybe laugh a bit. Just two "Haha!"s suffice.

But I do try to understand that the world does not revolve around myself nor around any single human being or physical thing, for that matter. That truth exists -- it has always existed. But whereas before it was just a cliche that hung around along with the other "Early to bed, early to rise..." lines, it is now a spoonful of wisdom I'd have to force myself to swallow daily, if not every quarter of a day or so.

It's not that hard to be un-feeling. It's just when the reality of it -- of you trying your damnedest to feel nothing -- creeps in on you that sucks the most.

adrift

I drift.

10 stuffs that make me happy

inspired by Marah's blog post (www.deepdiver10.multiply.com)

1. late night coffee time with my dad

2. getting decent grades

3. boxing

4. driving home sans the traffic

5. pasalubongs!

6. walking around (in the mall, in the park, around Malaybalay City, to the market in Baguio) with a good friend or two

7. random thoughtful text messages

8. post-it messages passed discreetly in class

9. pictures!

10. buffet dinners that include roast beef, minatamis na saging, chocolate fountain, rice pilaf, and beef kebab (almon marina style or something similar)with Carl

Lines

Been a while since I last wrote an entry and now, I'm bursting with thoughts that I don't know what to write about!

Hence, I'm just going to write a bit about a lot. And, no, I'm not going to delve into my usual melodrama. (Thank heavens for small blessings, huh?)

1. Twyla passed the bar!
Finally, she'd have no more reason to space out and cry and space out again while uttering, "10 percent. 10 percent." as if she were hypnotized by some wicked shopping addict. My question is, will she go back to being... unreligious?

2. I'm into boxing!
Or at least, I was into boxing last month. I haven't gone back to the gym since ... March 19, I guess. I miss bugging the people there and complaining about such hard work.

3. Thank God I'm not a nurse!
I'm a bit scared of blood (geez, I even hate the sight of my own blood). I abhor physical pain. I have the urge to cry and run away just seeing someone sweat profusely because of pain (try watching their faces as they writhe in agony and you'll be traumatized).
And then Carl broke his leg. And now I have to watch him hop his way to wherever. And get him painkillers. And learn how to work a bandage. And force patience on myself.
Geez. The learning process never stops.

4. I'm going home to Bukidnon this summer!
Yeah. And work a bit. And do my thesis. And bask in the sun, breathe in some fresh air... *big grin*

5. I went to Bataan for the Holy Week.

And Subic.

And passed by Mt. Samat.

And when I got home, Carl and I tried the Magnolia Creamery along Aurora. (Try it! Delish!)

6. Finals! Finals!
And yet I'm blogging.
I don't care. I've had a long, terrible day and I. Need. Some. Rest.

7. I wanna do an entry on reminiscence:
about how life was when I was a toddler, high school days, college, early years in law school... Hmmm... I will. Soon.

8. Poker!

Big Words

It's practical to use big words if these big words really capture the idea you would want to relay. Some words, as we all should know, were crafted in order to fit an idea or more to a T. They ARE that idea represented in arbitrary symbols, vocal or otherwise.

Yet, there are times when we refrain to use these words and, instead, resort to words which do not really encapsulate the thoughts you would want to express but are rather "safer", in the sense that we think they would not compromise our pride and sense of self.

Insane? Maybe, but the practice is undeniable.

In order to salvage what's supposedly left of our pride, we resort to words which may denote ambiguity and vagueness, thus, wreaking havoc in the communication process. In order to "save ourselves", we build an opaque wall around us. The consequences? Our listeners, supposing they do listen, do not understand what we're getting at. They misunderstand or simply throw their hands up in utter frustration. Or they, themselves, resort to the substitutionary principle and junk the precise Big Words altogether as a defense. And the parties get nowhere.

On principle, Big Words are heavy words. They are laden with meaning, which we usually just hide from everyone else for fear of persecution and even rejection. Fear. And instead of saving ourselves and our relationships, we destroy them because of our fear and defense mechanisms.

Don't misunderstand me. I, too, am a defensive coward. I would rather issue "safe", emotionally uncompromising words that make me appear cold and distant instead of saying what really goes on within me point blank.

But sometimes these Big Words do escape me and I feel lighter almost immediately thereafter. But just the reaction I get, or the consequences I face, because of these issuances is enough to mum me for a considerably long time. I go back to being a weaver of cold, unflinching lines and thrive within my opaque walls where no one else can hurt me. No one but myself.

pokerface

Another attempt at writing a coherent and sensible post.

Another attempt at happiness and security. Stability. Comfort.

Another attempt. Wasted? Not certain as yet. But failed, absolutely.

The tears are raw but everything else is numb. My face has succumbed to an expressionless mask, tinged with ivory concealer and rosy-melon blush.

Failed. Failed.

And I stop for a moment to empty my mobile of its contents.

If only I could empty my mind of its thoughts as easily, I'd be at peace.

Writers' block.

Not everyone understands why we write. We, the nameless few who find solace in stringing thoughts and words along. We, the alleged artists, drama queens, cynics, and what-other-names we find ourselves branded with.

We have our blogs, leather-bound journals, bedroom walls, comfort room tiles, desks...

Not everyone would call them poetry. They'd be vandalism, doodles, nonsensical and almost always useless lines - the kind that wouldn't put food in one's mouth (au contraire, poems, articles, short stories, and other works may leave you with a bundle of cash), which would not help alleviate our country's economic and political suffering.

I understand their opinions. Not everyone can appreciate writings of the non-academic, non-news reporting kind about either the extraordinary or the mundane that do not really make the headlines. Not everyone can understand poetry: how it can release our anger and passion, how the sometimes grammatically incomplete sentences can convey the deepest tears, how the words can somehow soothe a weary heart.

Not all of us are well-known prolific writers or best-selling novelists. But that doesn't mean we can't try our hand in writing our poetry.

Let us, the nameless in the literary world, write. On our blogs and little pocket diaries. Without fear of mockery and belittling. We don't seek to please everybody, not even our very own readers, if we do have some. We write, because not doing so, would cut off our thoughts, our breaths, our very own lives.

Why.

Sometimes you can never get enough of the word, "why".

Why.

The reason. The impertinence. The confrontation. The defense. The secret.

The unknown.

Why?