On the Sticks - 1

And so it is, just like you said it would be, life goes easy on me.
Most of the time.

The silence is deafening. Never you mind the pitter-patter of the rain on the sill and against the closed windows. Never you mind the voices, beats, and crackling sounds continuously being emitted by the decade-old speaker I've inherited from this apartment's former tenants: the silence overpowers us all.

One stick. Two sticks. Three. One pack almost gone, but I can still taste cinnamon on my tongue. A faint vanilla scent is still on my skin, on my hands, on my shirt. You and your vanilla scent. The pillows, I bet they still smell of you.

And so it is, the shorter story;
No love, no glory; no hero in her sky.

They're all that's left. You took away all there is to take. Except for these cigarettes. Except for the sheets you hated so much because they make you scratch your skin all night and you wake up with red, red arms. And thighs.

You picked them, you know. I had chosen the plain blue, green, and white plaid. You found them to be boring so you got those swirly violet and grey - no indigo and ash, you had called them, as if there could be some marked difference between those colors - sheets instead. It's your fault you spent most nights scratching and most mornings complaining. It's your fault.

How dare you leave these sheets behind.

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

Four sticks. Four cigarette butts on the desk. You even took my ashtray with you. I loved that ashtray. I had gotten that at a second hand store in Peru two years ago - that morning when I found myself so disoriented that I could not find my way back to the motel and instead I ended up at that alley. You had rescued me. You had found me as if I had a homing device around my ankle. You had seen me looking at that ashtray while you asked me what I was doing out of bed at 9:30 AM and how long I was out.  So you bought that ashtray for me when I could not say a word. That ashtray, with your money.

Even so, that ashtray was supposed to be mine.

And so it is, just like you said it should be: we'll both forget the breeze.
Most of the time.

Whoever put that idea in your head must be shot. In the head. Through the heart. And through both soles of the feet.


Aren't you already living your life? If not, then what have you been doing all along? Whose life did you steal? Whose body is that? What have you been doing all this time -- sleepwalking?

And so it is: the colder water,
the blower's daughter, the pupil in denial.

The London sky is as bleak as usual. Nothing ever changes in this side of the world. Well, they do: from one shade of grey to another. From the lightest smoke to a cloudy black. And on those nights that the stars actually appeared, you would point out the constellations and I would listen, not really making out the shapes, not really caring if what you say were actually true. You talked a lot; you filled the silence. You were my laughter.

That ashtray should have stayed mine. These sheets should have been wrapped around your legs now. Those things should have stayed together.

I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off of you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes off you
I can't take my eyes...

I can't take my mind...

My mind...my mind...

Off you.

'Til I find somebody new.

Beautiful and Bittersweet Honesty: Chris Medina with The Script's "Breakeven"

Chris Medina was one of the American Idol 2011 hopefuls in Milwaukee. He was an ordinary-looking guy but, I find him to be one with an extraordinary heart. When he first walked into the room, I knew he had a story to tell, thanks to the sudden change of background music (from upbeat to a poignant melody) and from Ryan Seacrest's introduction. Another one of their usual sad stories, I thought.

I was wrong, however. His was not the usual sad story, played up to beg for television watchers' sympathy from all over the world. Chris did not cry while telling his story. He did not even hiccup. Yes, his tone was somber but he had this air of quiet dignity and he seemed like he resigned himself to his chosen fate - willingly. Knowingly. It seemed as if he knew he wouldn't be happy doing otherwise.

My heart went out to him and his girlfriend, Juliana Ramos. Though people played clips of his audition over and over again, posting it in their Facebook walls, emailing everybody they can think of, I chose not to click Play again. I didn't have to. Honestly, I had only seen his audition part once - on T.V. I knew I couldn't bear watching it again, not because it was sappy or what, but because I knew his story by heart already. 

Until now, I can hear his song, his rendition of "Breakeven". The song, for me encapsulated the pain of breaking up and how one heart suffers more than the other. If I can juxtapose the lyrics to Chris' and Juliana's circumstances, the result of the juxtaposition would be very moving. Although the couple did not, in fact, break up, I could imagine the pain both are feeling: Chris may feel helpless, seeing Juliana in such a state. Juliana may feel that she is holding Chris back. The lyrics of "Breakeven" is beautiful and straightforward, just as how I perceive Chris to be.

I can remember how Juliana's' shoulders shook as she found out her boyfriend got a golden ticket and how devoted Chris was (and still is) to her.

I remember. And hopefully, I will take the memory with me until I myself wither away. I hope to share Chris' story with others and warm a heart or two. 

Chris and Juliana are two people who give us all hope. Their story shows us that there is still such a thing as unconditional love in this world.

Chris Medina and Juliana Ramos
(Picture courtesy of Juliana's facebook group page "For Juliana".)

Now, I share with you an article written by RX 93.1 jock, Chico Garcia, in his blog yesterday, 30 January 2011. For the article itself, you can visit http://chicogarcia.wordpress.com/.

"Chris Medina"

I know his story has already been bled dry in the media, but there’s something about his story that really hit home for me. It’s safe to say that I already know when a segment in American Idol is about to pull the emotional strings like a puppeteer would his marionette. The sappy maudlin melody comes in, the camera shots are in slow motion, and you know they’re about to highlight a part of the contestant’s story to tug at your heart strings. Maybe it’s a sick baby or relative, or a rejected child out for his parent’s approval, or a dead loved one, anything at all to elicit a tear or two. Although this segment had all the hallmarks of the usual Idol sob story, something about Chris’ story rang genuinely clarion. Here was the guy walking the walk even before he had the chance to talk the talk. Everyone makes their wedding vows with such determination and conviction, only to flout some of the most basic like fidelity, for instance. And here comes a guy who stood by his girl, even if on the surface, she’s but a shell of her former self. Their ordeal is tough to watch in a less than 5 minute segment, but these people are permanent residents in the story we merely visited.

Isn’t this what we’re all looking for? Stripped of the romance and the fairytale embellishments and the wine and roses, you look for someone who’d walk down the road of life with you. Not just in those grand gestures, but in the everyday grind, and especially during the moments of ugliness and despair. They showed a video of his proposal to her (I think she worked for Starbucks) with videos and lights flashing from cameras. Nice, right? But he was also there for her when no one was there to witness, to celebrate, to commiserate. I’m sure there were many times when it was just him and her, or at least what seemed like what was left of her, and he stayed.

When old couples say that the fiery storm of passion will eventually die and will be replaced instead by much smaller, much quieter steady flame, many singles protest, insisting they want a relationship that will rage on for the rest of their union. It’s hard to explain how it’s not the same, but it’s not necessarily less. Arguably it’s superior on many counts. Ask your parents (if they’re in a successful long-term marriage) or any couple who’ve survived the ravages of the years, and you’ll get the same sentiment. It’s this quiet simmer that makes you stay when all the attractive raiment have been stripped away, when all is left is the barest of souls, the very essence of the person you’ve chosen to love. So it wouldn’t matter if they’re older, or uglier, or fatter, or sick, or disabled, or a mere shadow of their former glorious selves, it doesn’t matter because what you love is beyond reach of the unkind years. It would be untouched by age or disease.

It makes me wax philosophical because he lives what many merely aspire for. We get to eat popcorn as we watch his tale like a movie, and when it’s done, we go back to our lives, none the worse for wear. They on the other hand, don’t get to leave; they are the movie. And when Chris finally sang his audition piece, it was the coup de grace. He sang The Script’s “Breakeven”. Of course the song was about how, in break-ups, hearts don’t break even. But Chris singing it brings it to a whole new level. In their situation, their hearts don’t break even as well. His heart breaks seeing what his loved one is going through. His heart breaks not knowing if he’ll ever get back the version of the girl he’s loved with all his heart. His heart breaks choosing between another less complicated life and staying because he can’t leave when she needs him the most. Her heart breaks putting her man through all this. Her heart breaks seeing the difficulty he’s going though as he puts up with challenges in her life. Her heart breaks thinking if she’s depriving him of a happier life elsewhere.

You can tell it hit a raw nerve. It’s the aspect of love at it’s most unattractive, but at the same time it’s love at it’s most unadulterated. I don’t know if Chris will coast to the finals on the wings of his story, but his tale will stick with me for a long time. If I can do that for someone, or if I’ve found someone who’ll do that for me, I’d consider myself mighty blessed.
__________


My fellow blogger, Jenesaisquoi of http://passingmoment.blogspot.com/, has the following take on this:


         "Yeah the love story, real life "fairy(?) tale is indeed quite an exquisite picture to imagine. A good dose for all the hopefuls (aren't we all? or maybe it's just me). I searched through my comment in one of [Nicona]'s entries [in her blog http://kstwilightzone.blogspot.com/], and since the thought (or my take that is) still has not changed on the matter, here goes-
     'i like the idea of falling in love. falling in love however is different from being in a relationship.
         'but of course we do love dramas, well preferably those with happy endings or witty lines to go with them.
        i guess we wouldn't really be able to know how beautiful our own love stories can be, in real life - because simply, they're not fiction. or that, we are too glued to finding fiction (or the ones we read in fiction? or the ones we think others share and we dont'? [sic]) in real life.'
     "If I may add, I'm all for love (like songs go), but I don't think it's like putting up with the mediocrity of relationships if we think we are not having the kind of relationship we idealized. If truly, love is there, we strive to make our relationship ideal, and in the process - appreciate and - idealized what we have. Our own version of sacrifices - petty fights including - are comparable to those in [Nicona]'s kdramas. Or maybe it's just me talking :)"


[Blog/bloggers' references and translation supplied.]

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

I saved the world today, and it felt good.

I woke up at 8am with birds chirping from somewhere near my window, stretched, went downstairs and grabbed myself some toast. The newspaper was already next to the cup of coffee my reliable housekeeper had made me. On the front page was Obama's picture, just like yesterday and the day before that.

I was reading my horoscope when it happened.

A raspy voice was cackling with glee. The hair on my nape stood and I paused, listening carefully. The voice was muttering to himself, in a sinister way.

"Red wire, white wire... 10 minutes will do. The MRT will be nothing but ashes. Ahh. Burnt corpses. Singed hair. Lovely. Good thing Ayala station is always overpopulated."

Everything happened in a flash. Or so it would seem to other people. For me, it's all in a day's work: ripping my "normal" clothes off my body (I can always go out and buy more clothes), running outside the house so I won't have to ruin my roof when I go while tugging on my super strength missile-proof skimpy black and red ensemble (yes, you'd call it costume or uniform or whathaveyou, I'd call it ensemble) and matching cape and mask (oh, and my knee-high boots of course!), staring up at the clear blue sky and zoom, zoom, zooming away to the scene of trouble.

I got to Ayala station even before the bastard finished taping the bomb onto one of the toilet bowls in the men's room. Just one quick kick was enough to do the job. Off to Mongolia he went. I wasn't too sure if he was conscious during his surprise flight but I sure hope he wasn't. It's always great to wake up in a different country altogether, without a clue as to what had happened hours, days, months, years (it depends on the force of the kick) ago. And of course, it's funny to think about the bastard's reaction when he finds out he wasn't in the Philippines anymore.

So I got down to business and carefully removed the unfinished bomb from the bowl. Phew! It stinks in the men's cr! Pigs.

There was no more need to look for some planet far, far away where I can detonate the bomb. My super zapping vanisher (low - power) was just right for that amateur bomb. One *pop* and, voila!, Makati was safe again.

In a flash, I was back at my breakfast table, my ensemble nowhere to be seen, and in its place was a blue and white polka dot pajama pair. Sipping my coffee, I started to read my horoscope in its entirety.

I saved the world today, and it felt good. It always does everyday.


SuperMe

peanut butter-lover

Joe Black: ...But Allison loves you?
Quince: [Quince nods yes between stifled sobs]
Joe Black: How do you know?
Quince: Because she knows the worst thing about me and it's okay.

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.

For Georgia (A Repost)

This is my ode to Bukidnon. Somehow I feel comforted reading the lines again.

It’s a toss between Savannah and Manhattan. Who’d ever want to leave Savannah, with its plantations and idyllic country life? You wake up to the sound of the birds chirping at your window and to the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the kitchen. The sun’s already up high at 7am. The cook’s knocking softly on your door and you know breakfast of eggs, toast, and hot chocolate is waiting. The cold water you used to despise when you were still little Michael Darling who had to be carted off to the tub by dear Nana becomes a favorite playmate to fend off the summer heat.

Never mind that the town is a bit farther than it once was – you don’t mind hitching for a ride nor do you mind getting behind the steering wheel this time. You’re all grown-up and you have your license to prove it. Never mind that life is slow-paced and people would raise their eyebrows if you step inside the bowling alley and gasp if you ordered a light beer at any of the grills. You know you have to live with their stares. Your girls will have to, themselves, when the time comes. Having your last name as it is denotes pros and cons, and it’s either you conform to the structure of your family’s history or dye your hair red and cackle with glee while playing pool. Oh your dad will curse you if you ever choose the latter – but you won’t, of course. You’re too boring. You suit your Savannah.

That’s why you love it so. The lake is minutes away from your country house. You like it there – the sun’s reflection on Nazuli’s face, the peaceful rippling of the water, the leaves floating along the edges, the rocky bottom, the trees that surround your secret place, the kids and the teenagers with gold hair and bright blue eyes who swim like merpeople. They’re so different from you and yet you both love the icy water splashing against your faces. You don’t know how to swim but that’s the last thing on your mind. Who cares if you dive in and never live to see the surface again? At least you’re within the tranquil fort you dream of owning someday.

Though your Savannah sun gives you practical leeway to get out and smile, it also turns against you at times, scorching your hair and drying out all your enthusiasm. Close proximity to Heaven does that to you. And just as the sun can harshly lap at your face and never tire from doing so for hours, the rain can also be unforgiving. You remember having been stuck at the state college one bleak summer afternoon. The rain had come pelting with such intensity that you feared the roof of the buildings would give in to the tremendous harassment. You know that there are times when the rain would break and hit the rocks and the roofs. Hale. Your neighbors tell you to be thankful for not having experienced being hit with icy drizzles on the head. They sting. You had thought they would, naturally, but being the curious, crazy kid your father always complains about, you always go outside and smile up at the clouds, hoping with all your might that Heaven would throw you even a tiny icy dot. It never did; you liked getting drenched in the rain, though.

You have so many fond memories of rain here. It had brought first love to you. It was a surreal day when you and your friend’s older brother found yourselves under the same umbrella. You had been 13 and he, 18. he had thought you were at least 17 and had been enraged when he found out you were practically a baby. It hadn't been easy detaching yourself from that chapter of your life. You felt the pain of the distance and the sheer difficulty of making hopes meet. You had to go away. Age had become just a trifle thing. Status had taken its place. Maybe, you think to yourself, things would work out someday. And maybe you, yourself, would make things work someday.

Rain also gave you and your cousins a moment of bonding and adventure. (Actually, it had been you, your two nieces, and the first cousin of one of your nieces but you called each other “cousins” anyway.) You had gone around the city in search of something nice to do: you had hung out at the pizzeria, the hotel, the high-end boutique, and even to the drugstore; still, you were bored. Rain had suddenly whipped your hats away. Your clip-on earrings had fallen into the muddy heap and had floated along the canal. Your summer outfit had stuck to your body and everything felt good. The four of you had laughed, skipped, danced along the street like loose, drunk women. You had had the time of your young lives. Rain always teases the soul of your Savannah.

And of how you had been teased not just by the rain but with the sweet words of men. It had always been a reciprocal fever: flirtation and naivety had chuckled and blushed between both of you. You and the flavor of your month. Or week. You had always been fond of playful talking, sometimes to the point of blatant seduction. But like your Savannah, you had gone home every night and had spent every moon on your bed – dreaming alone.

You want everyone to be enamored by your simplicity, subtle wit, and understated enthusiasm for all things wonderful without expecting a dangerous ride. You nurture them – their thoughts and their pains. You like it when they go home to you, their true north. And if they ask for more than what you give them, you shut them out.

Dusk turns your home into a quiet sanctuary of warmth. Laborers go home, tired but in high spirits still, just like how they had been yesterday and the day before. Farmers return home with sacks of corn and rice from the mill, with their horses, with their hearts. Late nights are for the restless and the debutantes. There are small bars and your neighbors’ houses for that. But for you and everyone else, nights begin with the discovery of home. Once you find it, it’s yours forever; but the magic of its discovery lives on, teasing you always as the sun sets behind the Blue Mountains at your backyard.

You had made your discovery here. Now, you watch as your tears melt with the rain, nourishing the grass under your feet. Naked, you are full of promise, seductive yet serene. Your smile will go to seek certainty. Your smile is wistful and knowing: you are about to live an adventure yet again in an altogether different place. Far from here, you will go to seek certainty. You will go up the steps of imposing buildings, flash your ID at the security guards and officials and walk among the crowds in the busy avenues, indifferent and anonymous. You will wake up thinking about the eggs you’d have to cook for breakfast and sleep, wondering if you still have eggs in the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast. Soon.

You smile and feel the wind caress your cheek. Manhattan has always been kind to you. It has given you much – even more than you had ever asked for. You love its notoriety, its vivacity, and its flair. But you are soft, so unlike the severe portrait you flash at others. You discriminate and hate; you throw your head back in laughter and gasp at surprises. You cry in silence.

You are the flat stone that boys send rippling across the water, the coffee bean that awakens the writer’s senses in the early morning. You bow your head in sadness and the forest takes you in her arms. You cherish promises and nurture friendships, you embrace memories and more memories, and you treasure your home. Try as it may, the rain can never dampen your spirit, nor can the sun ever burn your hands. You are Savannah. And this, this is home.

Crash into Me: Of Fear, Of Faith

Once in a broken family, always in a broken family.

I have always feared that possibility. The fear actually replaced my prior one of getting pregnant at the age of 16, being thrown out of the house by my father, and having the sperm-donor forsake me as he learns about my pregnancy. I made sure that didn't happen. And it did not. (I'm now 22.)

Then comes the new one. Compared to the unscheduled pregnancy fear, this one is much harder (and takes longer) to avoid. Whereas, then, I was just focused on getting past my 16th year here in this vice-filled earth with a flat tummy and a pristine womb, my new fear is more likely to linger until God knows when - either until the family I have successfully established with the person I had vowed to love for the rest of my life crumbles and falls apart (proving me right in my pessimism) or until I breathe my last, leaving my entire family mourning for my demise. Now in the second scenario, I would be proven wrong: my fear would cease to exist since I can be sure that the broken family curse didn't stay on with me. But more importantly, I would also cease to exist alongside that fear.

I can never be certain about where the roads will take me. Sure, I may know where I want to go, where I'd like to end up and with whom but the Skies may not share my dreams and preferences. It may rain on the day I scheduled a trip to the mountains. A car may hurtle from across the street and crash into me as I walk to school one fine day, erasing all my plans.

When I was younger, I tend to dream about all sorts of beautiful things and believe I can actually have them in, say, 5 years. Time passes by quickly and... my dreams remained as they were. That also means I never let them fade away. Yes, still I dream of being happy and stable someday, sans the tiara and the Beauty/Belle yellow ball gown: me, happy and secure with a good family which will never be broken by worldly factors.

It's strange that when I'm in my world, I tend to be more confident about the future. I get to have the strength and the hopeful disposition of 10 Sara Crewes; I know for certain I will be in the top spot in the near future. I believe that my dreams can and actually will materialize before me anytime soon.

Once in a broken family, always in a broken family.

But when the line comes out of another's lips, I'm left speechless. My courage leaves me; my dreams crumble. I fall.

It was not my fault that circumstances drove my mother away from me. I didn't assign myself to be brought under the care of yayas for about 78% of my life. I didn't wish for my father and mother not to marry each other and raise me as a normal child in a 'complete' family. It wasn't my choice to make and I shouldn't automatically have that fate, too, all because of the decisions my ascendants made during their time (or what the Skies made for them, whichever is more apt). Whatever happened to due process?

A preacher then told me to have Faith. Faith. It's such a small word for something so difficult to cough up. Why will I trust in something I couldn't see? How can I believe that things will fall squarely into their places when others' lives are such a mess? Does God play favorites? People tell me God will surely be good to me but how can they even say that? How can people know that they qualified for a happily-ever-after trophy?

Faith. The word ricochets all over my consciousness. I've prayed for it over and over again. I've willed myself to succumb to the Skies and its Map. Faith's wall had taken me quite some time to build, only for it to crumble and turn into sand by that same preacher's demeaning swipe.


Now, I long to sit on the pavement and wait for a car or anything heavy and deadly to crash into me. Maybe then, Faith will be there when - if - I open my eyes.

A Wanderer's Morning

The Sun's rays has never awakened me more. New days always begin with a question of your existence: who are you, and who are you going to be today? But on this particular day, it was 'why'?

There's nothing special about either the question or the way sunshine streams through the white lace curtains hanging by the east windows. That has always been the occurrence on sunny summer mornings. But the question itself on this summer morning led my eyes to the ceiling in a prayer. I have always tried to understand the world by bending into its palms without any further thought or resistance, voicelessly floating amid its reasonings.

Why?

The ceiling doesn't answer and I fade into a trance, mesmerized by the faint lines of cobwebs that face me. It is true then - Time exists even for non-believers. The Clouds fade into the Sky without any warning or any modicum of sound. Men fall and turn into worms that search for more life. And we, the drifters, do not feel all these happening. We float away in time for another tryst with the insignificant unknown.

Morning. Mourning. The thoughts confound me like the silence which only an overcrowded beach can give - populated but most private. I am naked but clothed enough so as not to shame myself. It is blasphemous to reveal Weaknesses but more blasphemous to reveal Truths.

Why?

I get up and fix myself a cup of coffee. Black, bitter, but still with a hint of sweetness even without a pinch of sugar. A new day is before me, a continuation of life. Another chance to be spent walking, dreaming, and just feeling the Earth beneath my bare feet. There is nothing to rectify nor retrace: there shouldn't ever be. The air is there for you to breathe. It cannot hear your confessions; it cannot disparage your guilt.

Why.

And the word hangs on.