listing/delisting

It's too late to make that list – Christmas was a few days ago and Santa might already be too busy trashing another mount of unserved requests from the naughty ones. And I'm probably a bit old to make that list. I get the feeling that Christmas wishing is a kid's domain and with the frequent pains on my back, I know I'm way past this juvenility.

Ok, ok. So that's clearly sour graping after I didn't get that battery-operated Astroboy. Fact is, I still keep a sort of 'mental' list of things I hope to get (and even bargained with Santa that it is not necessarily for Christmas).

Here are some items:

Financial Freedom. This has been on my list for some years until a few weeks ago when the news said that the P741MM prize money in the Grand Lotto was already won by a balikbayan winner. I hinged my fancy of living the multi-millionaire life on winning that sum so I decided to scratch it off, at least for now. The last time I checked, the prize money was still around P50MM (that's barely the cost of Prado's I swore to give to friends). I even attended talks and did research on achieving financial freedom just to evidence how serious I was at getting it. What I often catch is that it's not how much you make but how much you save that matters. Well, I get that but I don't get that. To me, it still largely how much you earn first and the savings part just follows. This earned a barrage of counter statements and I got tired of countless debates on this issue so I'm not raising my arguments now. Bottom line is, there's still no bottom line on my profit statement and the figures on my bank accounts are only the account numbers.

Being Superman. I used to hanker about being unbeatable by anything. Imagine how life can get so easy when you're tougher than the things that you ought to overcome, stronger than the foes you ought to defeat. Like that indomitable spirit who can say that there'll be no mountain too high to climb, no river too wide to cross. But I can no longer recall the last time that I attempted to climb a mountain and I bet my neighbor's 5-year old son can beat me at the irrigation across my house with his breaststroke while I struggle with my dog-style. My only consolation is that at least I have a point of similarity with Clark Kent in the form of kryptonite, only I form my own in my kidneys.

Beach, book and pina colada. A triviality to many but that is to me the picture of peace and content. I thought this is an easy thing to get since it doesn't involve much external force, just a self-exercise. But boy, it's tough exercise for someone who personifies annoyance and protest. Excluding the hypocrites, I could count with the fingers of my right hand those who can convince me they're truly satisfied and not wanting for more. Ok, that's bitterness ringing true but at a point I hoped to become the first finger to stretch on my left hand.

Three things and I might have had Santa flabbergasted. Maybe they're as expensive as that Astroboy robot.

Not getting the things you wished for teaches you four important things: one, humility. Maybe Santa's heart will melt seeing you coy in one corner, heart opened to the heavens for a divine downpour. Two, the dignity of labor. Some presents are not standing ready at your doorstep on Christmas morning. Some are seeds that need to be sown, then watered, then watched over to shoo the pests until they bloom and come into fruition. Consequent to this, you get to learn the capacity to wait. Heck, no seed was mutated yet to bear fruit a day after it was sown. Lastly and perhaps most importantly is the ability to have hope and faith. This gives you the vigor to wake up to a new day and without despair even if the X's on your calendar near the 31st of December.

This understanding somehow brings back the juvenility in me (that's why I still make that list although I can't really enumerate the items now). Perhaps, I learned to wish for simpler things too: peace in the family that endures through a battery of distress and the esteem (not the admiration) of people around. There are other things but they're better left unspoken lest I get jinxed again.

But since it's still the holidays, how about a deeper patience and keener understanding for starters? I hope Santa doesn't get flabbergasted one more time.

scenes on a bus

Iligan, Cagayan! Larga na ta hapit!

Grabbed the ailse seat on the sixth row, bag on the overhead compartment. After the Kumalarang bus hold-up, I seldom pick the first five. 6.30am, forgot to ring an alarm. Iligan it will be, Cagayan will be too late. Damn stone mill, I could buy a new pair of pants for the thousand.

Few passengers on this trip. Only three or four when I got in.

Itlog! Mineral! Saging! Cookies!

30ish lady comes up, sits on the front seat. Asks driver what time expected to arrive in Cagayan. 1pm or so, Manong driver replies. Sound of egg shells cracking. Calls outside, mineral gamay tag-pila? (How much is a small bottle of mineral water?) Checked for my liter, a new part of my travel gear. Somehow learned to finish in three gulps. Good boy, doc will be happy.

Manang and young daughter come up, settle on the row next to mine. Daughter looks outside while Mama puts bags in the compartment.

Ako si takuri, gamay og dako...

A rhyme from pre-school Flores de Mayo. I tried to follow the verse but they soon become indecipherable. How many of those songs can I still remember?

Engine comes to life.

In minutes, we pass by my side of town. Didn't tell Mamang I'm seeing the uro again. Why cause some more worries? This is just routine, one of those times, perhaps still many times until I learn to watch my manners. I tell my sisters instead.

B U T T E R S L Y, butterfly!

The rhyme makes my first morning smile. That little kid's singing. Childhood perhaps is the happiest point in our lives when we have the least care about the world as long as we get to sing nursery rhymes, no matter how garbled the lines can sometimes get. We just go with what our senses evoke.

B U T T E R S S Y, butterfly.

Tried to take a nap then a text message - I am such a 'lousy' friend. I tried to compose but realized no point in sending a retort. I have other things to worry about.

Manang hushes little girl, 'other passengers will be disturbed'. Little girl hums Leron, leron sinta. It's ok, I thought of saying but the droning lulls a tired soul to rest.

Bus halts to the first stopover. Another bus from another line tails behind. Barkers lure the passengers to their transports. A blind man in wooden crutches comes up, strums his crude ukelele and sings Mutya ka baleleng. A younger boy tries to guide him through the ailse, a can clanks with coins in one hand. I am glad that I only have back pains but I am not glad that life can sometimes be so limiting like this pauper's daily treks up the bus and ukeleles giving off beat strums of life's prejudices. There should be greater purpose for this man of broken chords than just make passengers like me feel thankful about what's put in my platter. With the noise of these issues in my mind, I drop my donation and it doesn't make a sound.

At the next bus stop, Manang comes up and looks for an empty seat. 'Linda?', the lady behind me calls up. 'Myrna? Oy, kumusta na man ka?' starts the long chat. Classmates from grade school years, haven't met for more than twenty years. I close my eyes but scenes of their early life flash in my mind: the dance in the municipal plaza, a certain Temiong (I recall how my mother gets giddy at Robert Redford), how their marrried lives fare and children. I haven't seen a pal from more than twenty years in quite a while. The last one I saw was with a pregnant wife on a jeepney ride to home and shared stories of life at war. This brings about some nostalgic sense.

Another lady hails the bus to a stop. We stay for a while while Manang's kinhason are loaded in the compartment below. She checks her list and then barks to a buyer on her cellphone. The propellers of countryside economy. If only for that, I'll stand by the stink. 

A short nap and finally, we reach Iligan. Other scenes are then waiting to unfold.

(If I travel by land, I use to pick the air-conditioned bus since they by far offer the convenience not given by the regular buses. But I was grateful for taking this one trip – regular buses have more stories to tell. I hope in my future land trips, if my patience allow, I'll be on another regular bus.)

waiting for the choo-choo

I used to frown at the morbidity of talking about death and when a conversation of that sort pops out, the instant reflex is to steer the chat to a different direction. I reckon I'm still 'young' to entertain thoughts of that degree when I have not even started the bottom fourth of the items I stuffed on my bucket. There's still a whole list of places to go and things to do. So thinking about the train ride to the twilight zone should still be lightyears away.

Then somehow, things happen and you get a close encounter with death through the loss of a dear one and reinforces the reality that the train arrives at an unexpected time. The closest experience I have of grim reaper's stroke was the tragedy of my father's death many years ago. That time, I thought the train wheeled on the wrong track.

***
We were a very young family then. We were six children, our eldest was 16, the youngest 3. He was the sole breadwinner so imagine how everything turned upside down after he died: from not having enough food in the table to the threat of letting our dreams go down the drain by having to stop schooling. Death's aftermath can sometimes be a long, treacherous process.

***
Recalling my father's death still stirs some poignance that has never been filled by the passing of time. It happened twenty years ago yet Novembers still evoke a familiar sense. It's been twenty years of sailing in an open sea without even learning how to paddle a canoe; at times strong winds blow and you barely manage to shift sails that they get blown and torn. You wished there was the captain to tell you which rope to pull, which way to turn the rudder. But it's been twenty years of learning the motions of the wheel on your own. I didn't want to be a sailor yet but it's good to know which sails to raise when the clouds darken on the distance.

***
While re-painting my father's tomb, my brother pointed to a new 'neighbor' left to my father's chamber. 'Very young, only 16. Bone cancer, already stage 4 when diagnosed'. The kid's family hung a portrait of him just above the tiny altar where a lighted candle is dying out. I also noticed that Papang had a few other neighbors who weren't there yet a year ago.

Somehow, Novembers remind me of my RS 101's cliches on how short life is. This one from Crowfoot I remember by heart – (Life) is the flash of the firefly in the night, the breath of buffalo in the wintertime, the shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.

***
Late last year, I was finally convinced to purchase a life and memorial plan. (My boss and I had been planning to buy a memorial lot but I could no longer afford it.) I guess I learned to welcome the idea of death as an inevitable something that should be prepared for, like that certainty of a trike stopping by when I'm dressed up for work. There are two sides to this statement: one, something that takes a lifetime hence harder to do, and another one which is easier and will just take a few bucks. I took steps to at least ready the easier one so there'll be one less worry for those I will be leaving.

***
Mr. Crabb hinted that we often look at death as something that happens to others, until it happens to us.

And because the train doesn't choo-choo when it comes, it's best to have a ticket ready.

parable of two fishes

A buddy toured me to his backyard pond where he grows freshwater breeds, but mostly tilapias. When he threw some palay bran into the pond, a number of tilapias the size of my palm surfaced, their mouths grasping the dusty fibers of food. After, they swiftly plunged back into the murky abyss. They did this in repetition until the pond's surface was clear of residues.

We have rounded the pond when one tilapia re-surfaced for another grasp of the bran but immediately plunged back when it saw that everything had already been consumed. I was urged to throw a fistful.

'That one's quite hungry', I exclaimed.

'They're due for harvest next week', my buddy replied, 'that one must have known that I'm hoping for few additional pounds. Come back and you'll get few pieces for free', he cracked. I knew he would be selling the excess from their provision.

A few weeks after, I caught up with a neighbor while cleaning up his aquarium. The goldfishes were temporarily put in a large basin. After the cleaning has been done, the fantails were put back in the glass case for feeding. After a few minutes of grasping feed pellets, one piece bloated as a ping-pong ball played dead to the glee of this neighbor. 'This one loves to show off to visitors', he says. 'Taking care of these things relieves me. I guess that's why they're created'.

The encounter with these two fishes stirred questions about meanings and purpose. That things are not much as a matter of choice as a consequence of pre-ordained calling: a tilapia for food, a goldfish to embellish.

If you happen to pass by the Sto. Nino de Paz Chapel in Greenbelt, you will notice a school of fish on the pond where it sits. If you happen to look closely, you will notice that a gray tilapia swims among the colorful kois. Good if you happen admire the tilapia too among the kois. I do not. To my thinking, its swimming in a pond that is intended to be admired for its colorful inhabitants doesn't achieve the tilapia's purpose. But I digress from those who mock the tilapia for where it is. It might not have been a choice for that tilapia to make.

If it's not much of a bother, please say a little prayer on my behalf.

scotch mist

Sometimes, nature gives you a sick sense of humor for a realization.

There's this guyabano outside of my room bearing several ripening fruits. 'Ignorable' guyabano is to me (I still go for mangoes when fruits) but I was drawn into stocktaking one day. There's this particular one that just got me: it is not the biggest (which would typically be the favored one) neither the most plump of the bunch (which would make for a pulpy shake) but I knew this tiny piece would just be right to 'satisfy' a craving in me. This one got me into daily morning visits and my anticipation was building for the 'right time' for this piece to finally ripen in the care of nature's elements. As they say, "masarap ang hindi hinog sa pilit" (what's ripened by time is more delightful).

Then the day finally came when I figured it's the right time for picking. I haven't climbed a tree in quite a time to note that the guyabano branch is not as sturdy to carry my weight and 'hantiks' (big red ants) had been guarding the trunk where 'my' fruit was hinged on. Quite a gamble for one 'ignorable' guyabano, but I was driven into letting loose of some defenses for this one glory - to my terms at least.

So how would you feel when you got out that morning mustering all hopes and find a flock of 'kulansyangs' (red-eyed black birds) pecking into 'your' fruit? Only the seeds which fell to the earth knew how long they had been devouring it.

A raging sense was all over you twinged with the eroding feeling of regret: I should have picked it 'yesterday'. Yet it was funny why looking at the birds cannot make you feel the audacity to drive them away. It's no longer of any use because even after you succeed in shooing them away and reclaim 'your' fruit, it might no longer serve its purpose since its flesh were already among the birds. What is there left for your planned guyabano shake?

Then you learn to take things as they are, maybe in the way they were intended to be. And finally, when you steered clear of things, you realize that you had no right to claim 'that' guyabano as yours: looking by the window you knew that the 'kulansyangs' owned the entire tree. They always did and never really left it. While my eyes were fixed on 'that' fruit, I did not notice that on a far branch, they had built nests. I couldn't know for how long they had been humming melodies for that guyabano to ripen.

What better thing to do but to retreat to your own confines. You cannot continue wallowing on that wee bit feeling of loss over that 'thing' that cannot become, had never been yours in the first place. What better thing to believe is to be persuaded in the thought that somewhere, other 'guyabanos' will soon come into bloom that no birds own. What better thing to realize is that you have the capacity to 'nurture' and have hope.

Outside, the rain slowly drip and I noticed that there are new buds coming into bloom. I hope in time, the birds will give me 'this' one piece.

thank God for Coelho

Funny how little things can make your day. Like say, a little comment to a post which appeared awkward at first but as you re-read it, it gives you some tingling effect like some sense of euphoria.Then it makes you realize that in life, there's always something to look forward to, that a fall is not entirely a damnation but a profound act of love, more like a necessary tool for a masterpiece in progress.

We are all a masterpiece in progress. No one should be saying you are a 'bad' art, not even after the job has been completed. That act of decreeing is not among our privileges. Ours is only the act of understanding and pardon. We all have tumbled in one way or another, the depths of which vary to some extent. Like what's been written countless times before, it's how we rise after the fall that matters and the lessons we get from the scratches or deep wounds. Cliche it may be but this gives me another refreshing feeling somehow.

***
Two weeks ago, I had my latest addition to my collection of hospital kits. My sisters see this weird. Forming and peeing stones appeared a bit weird to me at first but before I realized that I just got a sore taste of my own obstinacy. I have come into terms with the prognosis that I may be a stonemill (I certainly could still use a third opinion for this) but this is not conceding to the condition. My point is I no longer find any use for whining. I am thankful to doctors and nurses. I am thankful for the easy access to medical attention that is among my employment benefits. I am thankful for the makers of Acalka and the benevolent wi-fi provider outside my hospital room.

***

After many months of hiatus, I'm skimming through a book again. I'm on my third Coelho (this makes me an unfashionably late follower of the sage); The Alchemist and The Zahir both left indelible prints somewhere within. A Coelho is always a powerhouse. There's always something good to be picked in between the lines. His works are brimming with useful insights for the pilgrims in us, his adages a constant guide in my own trip.

***
Finally, my MEG shares are on the rebound (I hope FGEN will follow suit). My sister hurdled the recent NLE...you see, there's never a dearth of things that we should be grateful for, even in the most unpleasant (weirdest) of situations. I just need to see past the grimes to perceive the good. I should be learning this fast.

story of a name

Overheard: a kolehiyala on a trike complaining about how her parents gave her a 'not-so-good-to-hear' name. In a way that she's sees appropriate, they should have given her a handle other than Maria Capra. Ok, I was kidding.

The chat with her collaborator on the front row of the trike did not divulge what her name was for my decree if it is at all ill-sounding but I heard similar stories; even a colleague once commented she didn't 'like' her name that much. (Personally, I think it's somewhat uncorrupted).

Each name is brought into life with a story. In my brood, it's almost about a combination of other names. Our eldest and youngest are combined names of our parents. My name and ditse's are from our grandparents; mines from my mother side, hers from our paternal old folks. Another sister's an ode to her birth month and a queen. My only brother is a namesake of a prince who only my father knows. (He says by the way that he doesn't like this name too).

This scheme appears to me as a sense of self-esteem, honoring forebears and those people we look up to.

More than what has been put in our records of birth, our entire being is reduced to that jumble of letters. How we walk through our waking days spells out the letters that will identify us; what we do is a character that will soon build up to a word. So how good or rotten a name may sound is not something that was given to us. It is something that we spawn ourselves.

There are many ways to create a 'better-sounding' name, one of them acting better than being snotty. It's still not too late. A friend aptly puts it: a name is all that we can truly have. I hope you got that Maria!

changes and nostalgia

The late afternoon air unusually wafts a sudden stream of melancholy as we go off to Nang Beny's garden for some fresh picks. I have trekked these tracks between ricefield and irrigation many times before but with two sisters, scenes of early years on this place somewhat flash in random.

We passed by the pond where we used to pick kangkong for food. One sister suddenly recalled the time when we had nothing else as ulam but this green thing three meals a day. I said, "at least now we get to have a choice between kangkong and ginamus" to which the three of us giggled. Silently, I recalled how I used to sigh about this being served in the table like, "again?". Yet unknowingly, this has become a favorite.

The turod (Ilocano for hill) had a different look now. One of its sides was ripped off a few years ago to fill a collapsed side of a river and now, it lost some of its crowns as well. They cut down some of the trees, including the mangga and salumagi (tamarind) where I held posts in childhood camp games. It was climbing on these trees that I negated the branding of being lampa; even as a kid you have to prove some strength to be deemed acceptable. But one buddy, igso and demi-brother constantly took on my side. Jojo and I would pastol carabaos together by the side of this turod, him teaching me how to tame my beast. In time, I had my own carabao budge at one slight tap on the side and my "ho!'s" were obeyed. On the salumagi, Jojo and I also owned branches as our distinct domains where we would camp while looking after our flocks of ducks after every harvest. We were masters of own territories, thing that may be impossible in the real world. But one thing remains true: I realized that proving your worth is really a way of life.

From Nang Beny's garden, I can already see the highway. Bamboos used to hide this from view but they were all gone now. The tale of constant taking without replenishing took its toll on the riverbanks (bamboos hold the banks from collapsing during floods).

Between the garden and the row of houses on the east, the vast field is green. This has always been a refreshing sight even as a kid. Now, more than appreciating the sight is its purpose and meaning in our lives and in the lives of many of my folks. On these fields is where we are rooted. We owe everything to these tracts.

After we picked camote tops, okras and patola, we crossed the wobbly bamboo bridge unto the other bank of the irrigation. I remember enjoying the swim in these muddy waters. "Burarog", they call it which denotes swimming the indulgent type. We didn't care about getting kagid (skin disease) back then. We simply had fun.

As we were heading back home, a flock of birds make a 'V' formation while hovering the power lines above. In the distance, they made a 'W'. Good that we still see things like these. Many don't get this opportunity.

Going home had its usual effects on me. I hope next time, I'd be able to see more of the spots and the memories they will rekindle.

a short letter to a little sister

I reckon that we haven't really talked for a long time. By talk, I meant having those conversations about little things – your assignments in school, side comments on shows we watch on TV, the jokes we caught up with in texts from silly pals, our ambitions and plans for ourselves (though it might have not appeared that I was trying to address this more to you). I may not look like it, but I miss those exchanges.

I suppose many things have changed since a few years ago. I became too rigid, unforgiving and I shut you off too easily.

Everybody makes mistakes. That is one painful fact that we have to live with. Some of my friends committed the same mistake that you did but I felt them. To counsel had been so easy then. In your case, I didn't get it. I put all the blame on you. You had been so reckless, headstrong and plain pointless. You were not content in just inflicting wound - you even rubbed salt on it.

You may have not realized but I was as shaterred as you were. I lost not only my tall dreams for you. I lost all hopes that one day you'd gather your acts together and take that one step forward without taking two steps backward. I started to doubt every word that you say and your actions became a constant disheartening stroke.

Over time, my sanctimony sank you down further. The distance between us became too wide it had been hard for you to reach me. I even waited for another catastrophe before I tried to drift into squaring off. That should be the greatest lesson to us both. But maybe now, it's more directed to me.

I have long forgiven you. More than I care to show, I'm slowly re-building my hopes for you. I hope you do not waste this one last chance. Get up and start walking again.

Do not do this for me neither for your own sake. Do this for your son. From now on, do not lose sight that you no longer live just for your own impulses. You are responsible for the life you brought to this earth.

I will try to bend a little further. I'll pull the belt tighter to make both ends meet. I promise I won't be expecting much just as I did before. Now, I only ask that you do what's right.

I apologize for the times that I kept my distance. I know now you suffered more than I cared to understand. This time, I will try to be more present and within reach. I will try to be a better kuya.

I know saying these things to you personally is very unlikely. We are not used to these melodramas. But I hope we can pick up where we left off. How about talk to me about school?

By the way, those adjusting entries that you didn't quite understand, I will still have to re-read them. It's been long since I prepared one of those. I should already be doing so but I'm driven into writing this. I don't know but somehow, I feel a little lighter.

i write like... cory doctorow?

There's this one website which 'analyzes' your writing style and compares it with some of the known writers. At a friend's suggestion, I tried it.

I pasted some entries of my blog and got varied responses: from American horror and fantasy writer H.P. Lovecraft to Irish author James Joyce (whose writings can give you a headache. Some claimed they had blood oozing from their noses while reading Ulysses. I did not attempt.) One blog entry was hooked-up to Dan Brown. (Of course you know Dan Brown!) I read only two of his works so far – Angels and Demons and his major break, The Da Vinci Code which I read a few years ago.

But one name keeps coming out: Cory Doctorow. I got this badge on four of my blogs:

I write like
Cory Doctorow

I Write Like by Mémoires, Mac journal software. Analyze your writing!

I am unfamiliar so I searched him in Wikipedia.

Cory Doctorow is a Canadian blogger and journalist/ activist and author of science fiction. He maintains two sites boingboing.net and craphound.com, both heavy on tech and digital stuff. A college dropout (he went to four universities but did not earn a degree), he is an author of several novels and short stories and has been lauded in some of his works including two John W. Campbell's (sponsored by Dell Magazines for science fiction and fantasy writing) and two Sunburst Awards (annual Canadian awards for 'speculative'(?) fiction writing).

He believes in more liberal copyright laws to allow free sharing of digital media which must be his most likable advocacy on a personal note.

He quips: “If I am going to be a writer, earning a living in the era of digital text, I need to understand where the opportunities are. They won't disappear, they'll just be different, and need to be recognised. In the last days of Vaudeville Theatre, they sued Marconi because radio was killing Vaudeville, where you had to pay to go into a relatively small room to listen to music and voice. But it didn't kill music, the outcome was a thousand times more music, making a thousand times more money, reaching a thousand times more people. But in the short term, there was panic. If digital text will result in hundreds more authors, with hundreds more novels, I need to be in the middle of eBooks. I need to be heavily engaged. All those people downloading my text is good news.”

I am far from writing-to-earn-a-living but think I just found a hero.

(Blogger friends, try this out. Your discoveries can be a great fun! Here's a link.)

things i need to know i learned from kuya ferdie's word challenge

One: You need to 'start' before anything can happen.

Two: You can play 'solo' and still have fun but life gets more exciting when there are multiple players ('multiplayer'). (No puns intended here).

Three: When you cannot see into your present view, 'rotate' and shift your focus.

Four: Don't let the 'claps' intimidate you. They're only distractions. In this life, there will never be a dearth of these.

Five: Some players will annoy you. Just keep your cool and concentrate on the game. Patience will always be a good virtue.

Six: Don't feel small when you cannot find words. Ponder on item #3. Maybe, this is not your thing. How about mastering soduku? Blogging can be fun too.

Seven: Sometimes, when you are not certain about some words, gamble. Good 'points' may come out of it. A former co-worker puts it aptly: the reckless may not live long but the cautious may not live at all.

Eight: Keep on the game even if the 'tiles' that come out are a bit odd. Great things can come out from nothing. Look at that guy Edison. It's never a waste of time making sense out of a garble. Later you'll realize that it will make you an expert at squinting those eyes which you may find useful in the next 'rounds'.

Nine: Winning while checking on a dictionary is less honorable. In any game, cheating is one bad cheetah. At any instance, avoid it. When you've been lured once, don't make it double. That's already bad-assery.

Ten: After a 'round', check on those words that come out that you don't know. It pays to learn something new each time. In the future, when in want of words, they can come out handy.

Eleven: Don't be devastated if you lose. In every game, somebody wins. It may be you in the next round.

Twelve: Don't pound that chest after winning a 'round'. I read somewhere that only insecure people brag about their little accomplishments. Surely, you are not one. And I may add, it feels better to think of your accomplishments, no matter how grand they are as little. There's some goodwill in this.

Thirteen: More than the winning, it is the learning that matters.

Lastly: More than the learning should be the relationships.

Here's another last. I've been nudging Kuya Ferdie to register the stuff and sell it. I'd be happy to help in marketing (with the commission, of course). He declined smilingly. Now, I am not that magnanimous.

('Word Challenge' is a game which is essentially like boggle, only digitized and customized with options like having multiple players via network connection (bluetooth is very handy here). The view shifts at set intervals but you can click on the 'rotate' button if you want another view. Minimum number of letters can also be set (we play at a minimum of 5, that's before you add the 's' but my sister insists on the additional points for finding the longest word). For words with at least 7 letters, you'll hear a very encouraging clap. After every round, you can search for words that the computer finds based on its embedded dictionary so prepare to be dismayed as there can be a lot too many. Recently, I played the GameHouse version of it but I'd say that Word Challenge is a lot better. Looks like the perfect lazy Sunday diversion to me. Want to install one on your PC now? Just give me your USB. We'll talk about the charge later.)

decamping

The Inquirer this morning revealed the newest breed of our country's labor exports – PAG-ASA's weather forecasters. The latest is one of the agency's directors and seasoned forecasters no less, Nathaniel Cruz who got on a plane off to Australia.
(The recent typhoon Basyang claimed more than 50 lives. This was attributed to some forecasting lapses.)

A few weeks ago, I learned that a batchmate who hinted that she'll probably be the last in our class to leave this country for a work abroad has flown to Singapore, leaving her job at a giant oil company.

Both have joined the ranks of many professionals who have decided to leave native land for greener pastures. And the number just keeps on picking. I myself have always been lured.

Like most of those I know who left, I hold a 'decent' job. I work for a respected company and many would beg godfathers to get into my place. Don't get the idea that I'm a prized possession – being an analyst is an 'ordinary' job which can be easily filled in by anybody. But it is 'already' a job, if you get what I mean. So why join the bandwagon?

On a personal note, I suppose that more than the 'compensation' issue (that's a given. And don't even begin that it's-all-about-contentment-money-is-not-the-most-important-thing litany), it is about expanding your playing field. Going abroad could be about new pitches to strike and out there is a bigger triangle to catch pitched balls.

Face it: many leave because of the wobbly situation here which is often perceived as hopeless. Sad but true and I agree that the issue should not end here. I consent to taking part in national re-building (the ways of which one can easily put in a high school essay) but I disagree to the line of thinking that going abroad is unpatriotic. Seeking for greener pastures abroad is not entirely doing a great disservice to this country. Take a good look at the 12% GDP contribution of OFW remittances. Yes, the standing issue of brain drain but I cannot put the blame to those who have chosen a more practical approach to everyday domestic concerns.

Well, ok. Compensation. I guess there's nothing wrong about seeking better returns for time and effort. Even businessmen invest where they'll get higher returns out of their investments.

There, I sounded like I had just packed my bags. This is actually like putting the shoes on. Who knows, after putting the shoes on, I might catch the next flight out.

yielding

Sometimes you are torn between doing something that you wanted to do but still must not. After careful weighing of the pro’s and con’s, you still feel that you had been putting this off for what seemed like an eternity already. Then it builds up to the sort that gives you an itch somewhere and ties a knot in your stomach.

So what do you do?

I simply gave in. I closed all logic for this one delusion of grandeur. And man, it tasted like no other things of sweetness. And finally, I screamed to being the king of the world!

Then you realize that in acquiescence, doors are opened to a myriad of things and the white canvass is now splayed with crimson invectives. Bolts are unlocked to Pandora’s box but unlike it, it’s not only about the devils of the world – in a snap, you’ll see what’s it like when the gates of heavens open. When you finally hit it, the thunders did not roar but instead, I heard the harpists playing.

Now, there’s no stopping to my capacity to create. I believe the ability is instinctive in every man: the prowess is just a matter of potency and stamina. A little wit and creativity maybe, but that’s not entirely required. As far as I am concerned, I will do it when I want to, where I want to. I can’t give a damn if there should be styles.

I gave in and finally (as in finally), I got my own notebook PC and I can do blogging at my own time. Now, it’s not what you’re thinking.

blogs in the bin

I’m a prolific writer. Fact is, I write from the most consequential (like that epiphany from my neighbor’s frequent midnight quarrels) to the most trivial of things (like say, the Aquino inaugural). But since I’m a fastidious publisher as well, most of my works barely made it to proofreading.

Here are samples:

That ode to Wowowee. Just the mere recall makes me cringe. One time, I watched this sappy episode (by the way, most of them are) of one of the show's game segments featuring father and son tandems which immediately crept to my mawkish alter ego and found me pounding on the keyboard shortly after. But after realizing how pathetic the scenario seemed that many Filipinos consign their fate in long queues just for the chance of bringing home a few bucks, it is hardly about an encouraging melodrama. Not to mention that the main host’s piquant and supercilious banters can sometimes get so despicable.

A recollection on moving houses seven times in ten years. On it, I relived the pangs of leaving and the anticipation of moving along with the peculiarity of every new discovery in each new place. Like those winding roads which lead to some of those places, the analogy of my writing wound up in mid-air. I never got past house No. 3.
 
Those musings from our afternoon debates in the office. I suppose, we have already tackled the entire range of debatable issues (finance, politics, population, education, sex, blah, blah) reason why the points have turned to be just a blur. (But really, I was afraid news might get through our HR and I be reprimanded for spilling. I’m too neat for that.)

Some of the pages were mere titles or first paragraphs.

In all these, there’s one thing that I realized: writing is just like, er, love – if it’s not into you, it’s not into you. No matter how you try to gloss over those little phrases you have just coined, if the elements are not there, it just becomes nonsensical drooling. So if you don’t have it, don’t push it. You might just find yourself hitting ‘delete’ more often or worse, find your work in the bin.

PS. Don’t be swooned by that first paragraph. That’s another silly talk. :-)  

lenienza, 5pm

At last, the remaining strokes of the painting works were done. Even with the interruption of the scaffoldings, I can already see its grandeur – the product of some years of stashing salaries, bonuses and mortgage loans. Finally, seven years of renting will come to a close.

Outside, I look at all four sides to see if everything’s put in place.

The glass on the east side walls will be a huge savings on the power bill. With the sun freely coming in, there won’t be a need to turn any lights on during the day. And, isn’t it quixotic to see the rain drip on them come rainy days?

Good that I insisted on stainless for the railings on the terrace above the car porch. Wrought irons couldn’t have been this chic. I imagine the Friday beer sessions on that terrace. But the singing should not be so loud to agitate the neighbor (I heard he has short temper).

The architect made a great job inside. The study was in hues of black and white with huge shelves pushed to the side.The same motif for the kitchen, the rooms and the bath. Solid colors; they’re not so loud. I’m thinking of giving the architect a bonus.

On the southwest corner of the lot, I’ll start growing trees: rambutan, lanzones, durian. I’ll build a payag there too where the family can stay for siesta.

‘Come on,’ my brother-in-law calls out, ‘rain’s coming!’

Suddenly, the house was gone and all that lays there is a grass-teemed piece of lot. Next time, I’ll be bringing a scythe.

how deep is your cup?

One night, I had ruckus for dinner.

Two of my sisters back home took turns at my air time after my 15-year old nephew has gone ‘istokwa’ for a few hours after his mother’s (my sister) scolding. That week, he has broken his cellphone, spent all his allowance despite the 4-day holiday and bought ‘expensive’ drum sticks which were beyond his mother’s budget (in my household, money is serious issue – easy to spend, hard to come by). That lunch, he failed to cook viand which was final straw to a hot head and hungry stomach.

It was already past 8pm - my nephew scampered after lunch, so two aunts (more like big sisters actually) are dead worried. ‘He ain’t there yet? Where did he go? And without a cell phone?!’  I snapped, ‘He knows where to go.’ I know he will be coming to my place. ‘I’ll let you know if he’ll be here.’

At roughly nine PM came knocks at my door.

After dinner, came the tribunal. He decanted how bad he felt about his mother’s blown-up scolding. ‘I did not cook lunch because Mamang told me not to. They might grab lunch in the city. And we still had enough left overs.’  But I imagined him on the sofa in front of a blaring TV, slouching, legs spread apart. That typical sight of a ‘tapulan’ could bring the fury out of anyone hungry with the clutter and heat and all.  

I told him about this coined parable of an overflowing cup:  We all hold cups for everyone. Whenever we do wrong, something is put in the cup. So imagine how the contents increase every time we do badly. If we truly say ‘sorry’, maybe a little content is spilled off.  But still the cup is ever ready to be filled in.

‘Maybe when you broke your phone, it was not a drop but a spring. Maybe when you spent all your allowance despite being told to save it, was not a drop but a spring. Maybe when you bought an expensive pair of drum sticks (more than 200 pesos) was not a drop but a spring. When you thought not cooking viand is not spring but just a drop, maybe it was, but when the cup is already on the brim, no matter how few drops you put in, it is still bound to overflow.’

His silence told me he understood it.

Although the story of the cup is now used to tease on my brother’s (or anyone in the household’s) lethargy, somehow, I got the point across. I guess, if I’ll run true to form to being a case in point, I’ll switch to a deeper cup.  Sometimes, what I keep is only a shot glass.

scenes from a jog

 Minutes past 5am, gates creaked at my exit. Neighbor puffing cigar calls out: ‘Going early for the sweat?’ I snicker: ‘Soles and knees aching again, must be the damned uric. Need to get rid of some.’ Headed for the hike. Neighbor’s dog barks. Brisk walks way past it.

Curved FS Pajares coursing towards the rotunda. Others jogging ahead. Two ladies trail some meters behind. In rhythmic paces, I advanced for the ascent. Two ladies u-turned towards plaza. Must be going back for the taebo.   

Knees slightly burn. Damn, last weekend’s nonattendance is taking its toll. The steep climb a couple of meters ahead. Jogged in circles, warm-up style. Fetid smell from tumbled garbage bin across the avenue taints early morning air.

Tackled the ascent. One, two, three, HAH! One, two, three, HAH!

Approaching rotunda now. The rising sun creates the golden glow far east. On the left, Manang is starting flames out of dried mango leaves.

‘Good morning, bro!’ A comrade at a retreat. Grins a reply, waves.

Rounds the rotund path. Ahead, couple hold hands while walking, the woman’s belly bulging. Sighs. Jogs toward the bend. Another jogger approaches from the other side, Akon playing loudly on his MP3.

Downward the curve, I slow down. There, a client with husband. Remembers how kulit she can get when paying her SSS. She smiles, I smile back. Asks: ‘You look familiar. Where was that you were working?’ ‘The bank Ma’am’, I answer.  

Another ascent for the next round. Lady up ahead. Lady tugs dog. Lady in taut jogging pants. Don’t recognize the breed of the dog. Dog sniffs something on the grass on the side of the road. Dog won’t budge. I am near now, lady coy. I smile, she smiles back. Dog still won’t budge.

Third round now. Few stretch on the open field overlooking the sea. Bend to the left, turn to the right. Most of 40s. Maybe 50s.

Stationary jog after fourth round. Bro and client pass by. Faces the sea. Poseidon puts it to rest. Was it the sea or the trees that breathed to my face?

Sun’s slow in rising, the trees cover its trace. Tricycle screeches in. Passenger looks out. Three rounds to go.

Looks up on my right, ah, mangoes. Looked for ripe ones but there’s none. Thirsty now. The cup of Milo was now all perspiration.

Finally, seven rounds. Next Saturday, I’ll make eight. Stretch. Old ones do breath in, breath out.

Descending. Strides in rhythm ala Kuya Ferdie’s instruction. Good for posture. Late joggers still make the ascent.

Hikes by the road shoulder. Couple in a distance, man cups woman’s face. Left foot forward, right foot forward. Follow the damn line.

Couple inches away. Woman, no, girl, teary-eyed. LQ or ‘I am pregnant!’ Groans.

At the plaza, taebo’s wrapping up. Neighbor from old place jogs across the street. Waves. Something, a gadget, is wrapped on her arm.

Treks down further. Manong carries on his head a basket of bananas. ‘How much?’, I prepared to haggle. ‘Not for sale. Fruit vendor up ahead already paid in advance.’

Nearing Rizal Avenue, traffic starts to build. C3 might be inaugurated early, construction’s moving fast.

At Sam’s, I wait for hot pan de sal. No. 8 my card reads. The guy with unwashed face holds No. 43. I look at the guard. ‘The numbers are in groups of 50s’. He reads me.

Finally, I have my pan de sal. I hailed a tricycle. Maybe Jhie’s already awake and boiled water is ready.

  

quips on marriage: husband’s POV

We’ve heard what the kids have to say. Now let’s listen to authority:

When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her (Lee Majors)

After marriage, husband and wife become two sides of a coin; they just can't face each other, but still they stay together (Al Gore)

By all means marry. If you get a good wife, you'll be happy. If you get a bad one, you'll become a philosopher (Socrates)

Woman inspires us to great things, and prevents us from achieving them (Mike Tyson)

The great question... which I have not been able to answer... is, "What does a woman want? (George Clooney)

I had some words with my wife, and she had some paragraphs with me (Bill Clinton)

"Some people ask the secret of our long marriage. We take time to go to a restaurant two times a week. A little candlelight, dinner, soft music and dancing. She goes Tuesdays, I go Fridays." (George W. Bush)

"I don't worry about terrorism. I was married for two years." (Rudy Giuliani)

"There's a way of transferring funds that is even faster than electronic banking. It's called marriage." (Michael Jordan)


"I've had bad luck with all my wives. The first one left me and the second one didn’t.” The third gave me more children! (Donald Trump)

Two secrets to keep your marriage brimming:

1. Whenever you're wrong, admit it,
2. Whenever you're right, shut up. (Shaquille O’Neal)

The most effective way to remember your wife's birthday is to forget it once... (Kobe Bryant)

You know what I did before I married? Anything I wanted to. (David Hasselhoff)

My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met. (Alec Baldwin)

A good wife always forgives her husband when she's wrong. (Barack Obama)

Marriage is the only war where one sleeps with the enemy. (Tommy Lee)

A man inserted an 'ad' in the classifieds: "Wife wanted". Next day he received a hundred letters. They all said the same thing: "You can have mine." (Brad Pitt)

First Guy (proudly): "My wife's an angel!"
Second Guy: "You're lucky, mine's still alive." (Jimmy Kimmel)

“Honey, what happened to ‘ladies first’?” Husband replies, “That’s the reason why the world’s a mess today, because a lady went first!” (David Letterman)

“First there’s the promise ring, then the engagement ring, then the wedding ring....soon after......comes Suffer...ing! (Jay Leno)

Marriage is a public confession of a private intention. (Pete Benzon)

Now, who needs a wife?

on marriage and other kid's wisdom

I’m cleaning up my Inbox and found these old, witty, almost funny items. Before they get ditched, I’m sharing them with you.

This one’s supposedly a compendium of wits from the experienced. Hard to believe? Read on. I couldn’t have figured such responses myself. I’ve been completely duped.

1. HOW DO YOU DECIDE WHOM TO MARRY? 

> You got to find somebody who likes the same stuff. Like, if you like sports, she should like it that you like sports, and she should keep the chips and dip coming >>> Alan, age 10

>No person really decides before they grow up who they're going to marry. God decides it all way before, and you get to find out later who you're stuck with >>> Kristen, age 10

2. WHAT IS THE RIGHT AGE TO GET MARRIED?

> Twenty-three is the best age because you know the person FOREVER by then >>> Camille, age 10

3. HOW CAN A STRANGER TELL IF TWO PEOPLE ARE MARRIED?

> You might have to guess, based on whether they seem to be yelling at the same kids >>> Derrick, age 8

4. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR MOM AND DAD HAVE IN COMMON?

> Both don't want any more kids >>> Lori, age 8

5. WHAT DO MOST PEOPLE DO ON A DATE?

>Dates are for having fun, and people should use them to get to know each other. Even boys have something to say if you listen long enough >>> Lynnette, age 8 (isn't she a treasure)

> On the first date, they just tell each other lies and that usually gets them interested enough to go for a second date >>> Martin, age 10

6. WHEN IS IT OKAY TO KISS SOMEONE?

> When they're rich >>> Pam, age 7

> The law says you have to be eighteen, so I wouldn't want to mess with that >>> Curt, age

>The rule goes like this: If you kiss someone, then you should marry them and have kids with them. It's the right thing to do >>> Howard, age 8

7. IS IT BETTER TO BE SINGLE OR MARRIED?

> It's better for girls to be single but not for boys. Boys need someone to clean up after them >>> Anita, age 9 (bless you child )

8. HOW WOULD THE WORLD BE DIFFERENT IF PEOPLE DIDN'T GET MARRIED?

> There sure would be a lot of kids to explain, wouldn't there? >>> Kelvin, age 8

And the #1 favorite........

9. HOW WOULD YOU MAKE A MARRIAGE WORK?

> Tell your wife that she looks pretty, even if she looks like a dump truck >>> Ricky, age 10


To my married friends, I hope by now you know if you’re doing just fine. But for now, I guess I have to learn cleaning up on my own.

best generation

This e-mail is one of my better reads in quite sometime. It’s addressed to an age bracket (quite wide it seems) but it got some wisdom that the later bracket can relate to. If not, there’s always a Mama, Papa, Tiyo or Tiya (even a Lolo and Lola) who you’d want to see giggle while reading this.

But I apologize to those who don’t understand Cebuano. I chose to post this as written to keep all its elements intact. As you know, things are often lost in translation.

TO ALL FOLKS WHO WERE BORN IN THE 1950's, 60' s, 70's and early 80's !!

First, some of us survived being born to mothers who did not have an OB-Gyne and drank San Miguel Beer while they carried us.

While pregnant, they took cold or cough medicine, ate Linunod, balikutsa, bukhayo and didn't worry about diabetes.

Then after all that trauma, our baby cribs were made of hard wood covered with lead-based paints, ang uban kay duyan nga habol gihigtan ug pisi nga inigtabyog ug kusog ma pakong intawon ta sa bongbong.

We had no soft cushy cribs that play music, no disposable diapers (lampin lang sa General Milling nga naa'y faded picture nga nag-salute), and when we rode our bikes, we had no helmets, no kneepads, wala pa gyu'y brake ang bisikleta.

As children, we would ride in hot un-airconditioned buses with wooden seats (Bisaya Bus nga pultahan puros ang kilid, Corominas Bus nga senimana ang brake), or cars with no airconditioning & no seat belts karon kay Minibus na nga nindot kaayo ug sounds or Ceres Bus nga bugnaw ug aircon)

Riding on the back of a carabao on a breezy summer day was considered a treat. (karon; ang mga bata wala na kaila ug Kabaw)


We drank water from the garden hose and NOT bottled mineral water sa Nature Spring or Viva, or Absolute Mineral water (usahay gani, straight from the faucet or poso or Tabay!)

We shared one soft drink bottle with four of our friends, and NO ONE actually died from this. Or contracted hepatitis.

We ate rice with star margarine, bahaw nga gibutangan ug asin ug mantika sa baboy, drank raw eggs straight from the shell, and drank softdrinks with real sugar in it (dili diet coke or Pepsi Max), but we weren't sick or overweight kay......

WE WERE ALWAYS OUTSIDE PLAYING!!

We would leave home in the morning and play all day, and get back when the streetlights came on. Syatong, Bato-Lata, Bagol, Dakop-Dakop, Tago-Tago, Ngita'g Kaka.

No one was able to reach us all day (wala pa'y uso ang cellphone). And yes, we were O.K.

We would spend hours building our wooden trolleys (katong bearing ang ligid) or Karitong Kawayan nga karaang tsinilas ang giporma nga ligid and then ride down the street , wala ma'y gidungog nga naligsan atoh! After hitting the sidewalk or falling into a canal (sewage channel) a few times, we learned to solve the problem ourselves with our bare & dirty hands .

We did not have Playstations, Nintendo's, X-boxes, no video games at all, no 100 channels on cable, no DVD movies, no surround stereo, no IPOD's, no cell phones, no computers, no Internet, no chat rooms, and no Friendsters. ........ ...WE HAD REAL FRIENDS and we went outside to actually talk and play with them!

We fell out of trees, got cut, broke bones and teeth and there were no stupid lawsuits from these accidents. The only rubbing we get is from our friends with the words..sakit bai ? pero kung kontra gani nimo ang imong kadula,,,,singgitan lang dayon ug..Mayra,Gabaan!

We played marbles (jolen) in the dirt , washed our hands just a little and ate Pan Bahug-bahug & Bagumbayan (recycled bread man diay to kay wala mahalin!) We were not afraid of getting germs in our stomachs.

We had to live with homemade guns (giporma nga kahoy, gihigtan ug garter ug lastiko) , saplong , tirador ug uban pa nga pwedeng magkasakitay. Pero lingaw gihapon kaayo ang tanan.

We made up games with sticks ( syatong ), and cans ( Bato-Lata )and although we were told they were dangerous, wala man gyud to'y actual nga nabuta bah, bukol lang nuon sa agtang naa.

We walked, rode bikes, or took tricycles to a friend's house and knocked on the door or batoon ug gagmay nga bato ang bungbong, or just yelled for them to jump out the window!

Mini basketball teams had tryouts and not everyone made the team. Those who didn't pass had to learn to deal with the disappointment. Wala pa nang mga childhood depression ug damaged self esteem ek-ek ra na. Ang maglagot, pildi.

Ang mga Ginikanan naa ra sa daplin para motan-aw ra sa duwa sa mga bata, dili para manghilabot ug makig-away sa ubang parents.

That generation of ours has produced some of the best risk-takers, problem solvers, creative thinkers and successful professionals ever! They are the CEO's, Engineers, Doctors and Military Generals of today.

The past 50 years have been an explosion of innovation and new ideas.

We had failure, success, and responsibility. We learned from our mistakes the hard way.

You might want to share this with others who've had the luck to grow up as real kids. We were lucky indeed.

And if you like, forward it to your kids too, so they will know how brave their parents were.

It kind of makes you wanna go out and climb a tree, doesn't it?!

PS - The big letters are because your eyes may not be able to read this if they were typed any smaller (at your age? Duh!)


Of course I changed to smaller font. My eyes aren't that bad (yet).

premonitions (11.13.2009)

(source)

I’ve been getting a lot of impressions lately.

First, there’s this daily texting crusade that my former teammates seemed to have set off after I took a sabbatical. I left community for thin reasons: I sort of needed power to reboot after realizing that I am not growing with the pace that my service is taking me. One hinted we often go through spiritual dryness, it’s common. To this, I did not subscribe. There is always an underlying reason besides being parched when the field is filled with the promise of flowing waters. Sometimes, we simply refuse to dip that cup in the spring. Instead of washing away that lump that choked us, we let it stay for a while and dwell in it, examining what this membrane is made of, so when another sort builds up, we might have developed the antidote against it. Then it no longer wants to stay and will freely stream down. My team accepted my reluctance to a more literal explanation but promised to keep the floors open (I’m getting better at floor directing) should I decide to sweep it back. Sometimes I feel the force of their insistence but I have decided not to precipitate my re-entry at which time things can still get in the way of my service. To this, I am hopeful.

Then, there’s that meeting with a priest friend who asked if I already made up my mind regarding his incitement. This is a perennial question really to which my reply is always a grin and a change of topic. This isn’t the first time. In college, I’ve been asked to consider becoming a cleric by three of my professors, one of them a Jesuit. The picture of me donning a sotana is an old ambition, as old as first or second grade when the usual answers we give to question like ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’ is a choice among four options: becoming a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher or a priest, when alternatives like becoming an accounting professional still haven’t made an impression to our consciousness. So I take it as one of those points that others see in me that I cannot make out on my own. This priest friend is communed by two of my officemates who counseled that I try to find myself (from this line, I take it that to them I seem lost). I am yet to be enlightened. Yes I have my frequent silence spells and maintain a mountain of questions about meaning and purpose but I guess all discerning people do at one point in their lives (I realized that discerning doesn’t breed certainty, only acceptance). So do I seem out of direction? No one knows for certain where he is headed next not even those who have committed to marry or those who have entered into novitiate. Do I need to map my road? It’s a categorical yes although often it turns out futile. Until now I still cannot say if the option I forego is a case of ‘should have been’. It happens when it’s fated at which time we’re in for a big surprise.


Recently, I went to a reunion with batchmates at another religious community. After the how-are-you’s, some of the talks shifted to thesis, OJTs, graduation and finding work. Those who graduated earlier but still jobless cracked about the tedious phase of jobhunting and how they might better their CVs. I suddenly felt old. I felt old that I’ve become a resource person, a been-there-done-that sort like being asked how did you do it when it was your time? Pardon me, but it’s still my time. So issues come with age and my batchmates may have noticed that I sat silent while they brawled about this game they call Dota (I don’t know if I spelled that right; Lola Techie will eat me raw). The instant realization then was beyond my lag in the latest talk of the town, it is the disparity of my current concerns and the supposed order based on conventions. Then there’s the more measurable side of things. When I was a kid, I imagined building my own house at age 25. Quite impracticable it seems now. At 28, I couldn’t even afford a bag of cement and I’m still outlining a savings plan to speed up that lot’s amortization. Worse thing. Everytime I bump into someone I haven’t seen for a long time, say an old classmate, guess what the top question is - if I already tied the knot - and if replied with ‘not yet’, the usual follow-up is ‘when’. When my rebuttal ran like ‘when’ is a matter of right timing, the verdict was an insinuation that I’m no longer getting any younger and my time is running out. Ouch. You see, I’m in big trouble here since everyone knows everybody where more people than the entire race of Abraham will attempt to dip a finger into your porridge. So I’m closing the lid of my bowl and eat my goto congee up on a tamarind tree. I just hope that spider doesn’t come along.

I’m reminded of previous week’s horoscope. I’m not exactly superstitious; I learned glancing at the daily foretelling from my former boss who was ecstatic one day while recounting that her sign’s divination actually happened, but this one pretty summed up my sentiment for that day. It affirmed my ‘wild’ (practical?) plan of leaving job and go bumming around. Okay, so the latter was not exactly what it said. It was something like my plan of doing something entirely different from the one that occupies me now. Oddly, the following day at a morning TV show, a braided soothsayer pronounced that the best time to find some place ‘better’ is now. I can see my heart going out of my chest cavity. This is much of a happenstance. I rode the pedicab that morning pondering what was just concurred. I had options, I still do. I know where my capabilities lie. But after a wheeling cycle of whining and coming into terms I still couldn’t find the courage to pack up and not worry about the tasks that I might be leaving. Maybe there’s greater meaning in shifting the focus from conquering personal legend to addressing the more pressing concerns, wherever it may be. I chanted this-too-shall-pass mantras many times before and I know I’m still not fading it, not while frustrations are starting to loom big and begin to get in my way. But my chords are now belting off-key I’m afraid I might be losing pitch. Maybe ‘better’ is a myriad of things. Maybe it’s opera when the in thing is hip-hop. So I’ll start ditching that shrieking Pavarroti. Now, it’s JA Rule who’s playing on my MP3.

I was sitting unmindful in a corner when another butterfly hovered. I know this one’s just going to pass by but the way it fluttered over me was all too familiar – the flaps, the swerves and the shade. It flapped for a few seconds before it hit off with a whiff that left a trace in my solitude. So it’s not everyday that something catches my stare. And maybe I’m for purple and not pink. But I guess a stare is all I can do for now. I cannot rely on the dictates of my hunches since sometimes, they don't have backbones. I should realize that there are things deeper than feelings and sterner than intuition. Maybe it was not the right day to chase a butterfly. The sun is already high up and I just wanted something to shoo away my reverie (it’s still hard to un-feel the touch of e.e. cummings’ “small hands”). And it cannot land on my palm. Not while the bees are still busy buzzing behind.

If there’s one word that is drilling deep into my psyche, I believe it’s the word PATIENCE. Everywhere I go, something tries me out and attempts to get the better of me. I know I’m not acing the hurdles; I’m pretty bundled in bandages. Sometimes I choose to trek by the sidelines to avoid the obstacles because I’m afraid I might as well just knock it down. But I was told that the way to get the chicken is to hatch the egg - not to smash it. I guess I’ll try to curl and be a hen for now lest I become another meaning to this word’s adjective. May God have mercy on my soul.

an open letter to heids on her birthday (9.7.2009)

More than a year ago, Maya asked me to write something for your despedida. You were due to fly to Singapore during that time and I think they were preparing something for a send-off. When she told me that, what immediately came to mind was that day in May 2003 when you and Gay and Zenie (I can’t recall the others who were there too) were off to Manila. I came to wish you good luck. Although feeling a bit left out, I felt happy that you were chasing close that dream of becoming a CPA. In the letter, I wanted to tell you how proud I am (in a way a Kuya does when his little sister does something great) for your successes, that I wish you find housemates like you had in Makati, and that everything will be okay. I apologize that the letter has never been written, but those well-wishes were silently embedded in my prayers.

Now, although ‘uncertified’ (your own word), I know what you have gone through and where you are right now are things that many could only hope for. (Sometimes, when things are not okay in the office, I envy you but I realize we have to be somewhere at some point in time). No need to tell you how proud I am of the things that you have now, you already know that and I don’t want you to be sappy on your day, but I’m feeling a little nostalgic here and wish to do a little reminiscing (I wish we could pass a hand-made card around - you did it first in class - but I guess it will be too late now to pass it all around Asia and UK to make it on your day).

Along with the other four ‘huggables’ (I don’t know if you still feel like being called as such, hehe), I want to thank you for making college quite a breeze through on many times. Many of those who had the chance to know you can attest how great a friend you can be. I remember now how you and Lynette conspired so I can attend that last acquaintance party. Similar instances will follow and you came out of you way to make things a little lighter. I know those who are with you now have similar stories to tell.

We were together a little over four years and it’s always great to have you and your ideas of fun around. You made plans for most of our Christmas parties during and after college. The Valentine’s exchange-gifts was your brainchild too. Although we celebrate these occasions differently now (we say were already grown-ups – admit it!), it’s fun to look back on these things and feel giddy once more. I still smile when I think of RVY (saging rebosado and siopao on isaw sauce), tempura off the grade school gate, from satti breakfasts in the canteen to lunches at Roebucks (sounds classy but all we ordered there was ginataang gulay, nutritious and cheap) from speech choir practices to group studies (kuno!). Yes, even those Jesuit tortures (other word for tutelage) and the Pena quandary (you know the story) had their fun segments too (I couldn’t figure how I looked when I cried on the floor, I think that was the funny part). I can only imagine how it is for those who have known you longer than four years.

I am not exaggerating when I tell you that you are one creative brain. I easily got Austine’s point when he calls you ‘mother brain’. You are pregnant with ideas and you can immediately put something into writing; if you cannot put it writing, it can surely make its way out of your mouth. I appreciate your collection of axioms and aphorisms (even from movies and telenovelas too. But I know this one’s your favorite - “The youth is the hope of the fatherland. Plant trees!)

I wish to share these untold stories too, some bits that I am personally thankful for (more of a confession actually, a major turn-off for a prospect whose skimming through out there):

You taught me first how to use the internet. Remember Netzilla where you assisted me in signing up for my first e-mail account (that was Mailcity which later became Lycos. I think Gay or Zenie was also there). I know you were holding back your hoot when I couldn’t point the cursor to one tab (by then I knew that when you said I raise my ‘mouse’, it didn’t mean I lift that object which looked more like Palmolive soap bar than a rodent but position that arrow to that button). You never knew that I sweated all over until we hit ‘sign-up successful’.

You also introduced me to social networking (ha? Wla ka pang Friendster?). I know I was the pinnacle of cyber-monggoness* so, thank you for clicking me to cyber-existence (checken counter couldn’t have been born too).

Bitaw, thanks for believing in the illusion that I could write (I still think that that is just an illusion). I don’t know, but you have your way of making people feel good about something that they wanted to do and pushing people to strut their stuff merely by doing yours.

You said that you’re thankful our paths have crossed; I know I should be saying that. But if you insist, cge, pagbibigyan kita. It’s your birthday anyway.

I wish you all the best that are yet to come and the best boyfriend a girl like you deserves (is he ‘yet to come too’? wla n man ko balita about ana). I’m writing this because I cannot sing you your birthday song. And you know how I sing – poetically.

Happy 30th birthday Deedee! :D

(I will no longer call you ‘kachoks’ – that sounds jologs and obsolete now, improper for the cosmo woman that you have become. And I bet, you’re already speaking ‘ni hao’).

* monggoness – is a certain state of idiocy (from the root word ‘mongo’). I heard this first from Chu, who by the way, Heids calls her immortal chuvanescense. Whatever that meant, only them both know. I wish to thank Chu for this word though. Such a lexicograhical breakthrough.