parable of the trapped bird

(source)

One sunny morning, a little bird made its way inside the house and hovered over the four corners until it got into my room. Why it was lured to fly inside the house I only have the slightest perception. Was it lost in finding its nest? Did it find itself trapped behind walls while trying to track the sweet whiff of the blooms in my neighbor’s garden? 

I tried to catch the poor bird and toss it outside but it cannot seem to stop flying around. It would rest for a while but would flap again towards the tiny canopy on the other side of the ceiling. I tried to lead the bird to the open door where it got through but it would not follow the clues. I was unsure if it was figuring its own way out of this enclosure to be back to the open space or if it actually reveled in the different surrounds of walls and furniture that is entirely unlike the trees. Was the little bird tired of the trees where every other bird was and wanted to look at a different view? Or was it only finding solace, perhaps a new spot to build its nest?

I let the little creature fly until it will tire with its flight and will allow itself to be led outside. It finally rested on the pane where the air con used to sit but is now covered with aluminum screen. By the time I was able to grab a chair where I could stand to reach the pane, the tiny bird again flew, taking wing around the corners of the room.

Why it refused my hand when I could have been its one chance to freedom I could only begin to show concern. Its ticket to the open space and the trees was upon me. Was it afraid that I will not lead it to the blooms in my neighbor’s garden? Was that tweet its scream of "leave me alone!" and that I just let this tiny being’s flight be on its own free course?  

I opened the door wide and the windows to allow it many gates to get out of these confines. Little bird, the garden and the blooms are outside, and this sure is not the best place to build your nest and raise your young. The trees are waiting for you outside. Can’t you hear the chirp of the other birds?  They are calling out for you.

The little bird did not notice the bright rays of the sun coming through the open windows as it hooked its claws on one dark corner of the ceiling, the flapping of its wings becoming slow and weary.

I took a hammer and pulled out the screen covering the air con slot. The little bird, few ounces of strength left, flew few little flaps and rested on the pane. In a while, it finally flew outside, landing on the branch of the mango tree where its tweets chorused with the rest of the birds and the humming of the morning breeze. The faint sweet smell of the camias on my neighbor's backyard wafted all the way up.

I took out a few nails and hammered the screen cover back. 

homage to the lamp

(source)

A house will be full of darkness and chaos without a lamp. But even the tiniest  flicker can spark a ray of hope and make all the difference.

She emitted a faint, modest glow. Many people thought that her light was too muffled to brighten a huge room enveloped in uncertainty and too hazy to illuminate a long and dark road ahead. But no matter how little she could emit, she was capable of producing a sensation of brightness and that shimmer did not waver even when strong winds blew past it.

My mother became a widow at 39, a strong wind blew for a quaint little light that she was. I cannot even begin to imagine how “that” life had been for her. Of course, we, her children shared in the uneasy aftermath of my father’s death, but ours were only that feeling of not having enough. Hers was that and the burden of responsibility of suddenly facing the tedious job of single parenting. Perhaps, it was a lot more. How lonely her nights might have been and we have selfishly let her endure that throb since her children decided that she will not remarry.   

No matter how dark the road was ahead of her, she kept a stark faith that she will get through. She has to get through since she has 6 kids in tow that she has to bring to the light of day. I cannot seem to measure the strength of her character or how stern her will was. It must be the kind of will that leaned on something greater and stronger. Sometimes waking for a midnight pee, I can see her on the stairs, her Bible on the step, her hand wiping something that got in her eye and asking me, “asa man ka?” (where are you going?). She forces herself a smile. I knew even then that she sometimes cannot sleep and that she will just wait on the steps and her Bible for the crowing of the rooster.  

Mamang was a very plain woman. Simplicity was her core. She was just without pretense, her laugh was calm yet unreserved. And she is often silent to a point of being misunderstood. But her being inarticulate, she made up for eloquently in deed.

She was a very hardworking housewife. She was good at keeping the house in order and she can do chores for the whole day if she was not occupied looking for means to be able to serve decent food on our table or put back the electricity connection on or give us some baon to school.  

She did not earn her degree, reason why she moved heaven and earth, mortgage and debt, just to let us get one. She wanted us to realize the dream that she only weaved in her mind. She had worked to send herself to school for a while until she was forced to stop schooling to look after her sick father. She will marry anyway, her mother told her, and she wouldn’t need a college diploma for that.   

My mother lets us be. She is nowhere near that image of a stage mother but she had always been a proud one. However, in letting us be, we, her children made many choices which failed to consider her affections and shattered her ambitions for each one of us: grandchildren sans in-laws, years of schooling sans the degree, children seeking desperately for their independence and morph in the shape of the pop crowd. I know she was hurt, maybe to an extent deeper than she allowed us to notice. But in all these mistakes and failures, she gladly embraced us back to her arms as if nothing went past. It all seemed like an embrace of a mother when her child who was gone for a while comes back home.

I know many wrangled about her lack of iron hand. That she had been too soft. And at some point, I was one of those who did. But could a rigorous claw have prevented some things to happen and altered the course of events? The mistakes made us grow, perhaps even in a more mature and broader sense. I have seen her shrug off the question of being faint-hearted. Authority and control is but a tiny component to a job called parenting. What she gave us was her steadfast love and profound understanding.  And it will be a long list of things that she did and does for us. 

Many years have passed and through her labor and love, we were brought out to the light of day. Or at least, we are already seeing what not being in the dark is like. It’s about time for her to just sit back and enjoy the setting of the sun, knowing that even though the night will be long and dark, the sun will always come up in the morning. Perhaps, that is the single most important lesson that she has instilled in me.  

  

A house will be full of darkness and chaos without a lamp. But even the tiniest of flicker can spark a ray of hope and that can make all the difference. I wish God will give her a longer life to keep the home aglow.

haaay, utang na loob

(Utang na loob is also a focal issue in the
movie, The Godfather)

Utang-na-loob is a Filipino cultural trait which academics sometimes refer to as "reciprocity," and which transliterates as "a debt of one's inner self (loob)." It is also sometimes translated as a "debt of gratitude." In the study of Filipino psychology, utang na loob is considered an important "accommodative surface value," along with hiya (shame) and pakikisama (togetherness). That is to say, it is one of the values by which the Filipino accommodates the demands of the world around him, as opposed to confrontative values like "lakas ng loob" and "pakikibaka".

The essence of utang na loob is an obligation to appropriately repay a person who has done one a favor. The favors which elicit the Filipino's sense of utang na loob are typically those whose value is impossible to quantify, or, if there is a quantifiable value involved, involves a deeply personal internal dimension. This internal dimension, loob, differentiates utang na loob from an ordinary debt ("utang"); being an internal phenomenon, utang na loob thus goes much deeper than ordinary debt or even the western concept of owing a favor. Filipino psychology explains that this is a reflection of the "kapwa" orientation of shared person-hood or shared self, which is at the core of the Filipino values system.

- From Wikipedia

Truly, utang na loob, is one unique Pinoy trait. It is a distinctively Pinoy sense of appreciation of the good that we receive from others. Instilling this sense of gratitude is good since we value the act and the giver. But the act of doing good and this deeply instilled sense of thanks can sometimes go wrong and vulnerable to misuse and corruption.

I have no concept of utang na loob. Maybe I am not too Pinoy in this respect. I have always believed that when I do good, it is because I am propelled by that necessity to do good and not with the expectation of a payback, not even being thanked. And it will be good not to keep a memory of that “good” that has been done. I will feel more than repaid if I see that the good I did has created ripples and that I was able to make even a little betterment in somebody else’s life.

I wish we can alter the concept of utang na loob from the Pinoy psyche. When you are the recipient of an act of kindness, your only obligation is to improve yourself and pay the act forward. Saying a sincere expression of gratitude is already a good deed in itself. When you are the doer of the deed, remember that the act of kindness is without condition; it should be a prick of the selfless desire to help and reach out without wanting for something, a future favor or even a “thank you”, in return. Do not be drawn by the desire to have your recipient be bound for life in subjection.

Let us be cheerful givers, O,  Pinoys, utang na loob. Or do not give at all.

Haaay!

(Just musing.)

homesick

(source)

Flashback:

You step down from a trike and your pamangkins come rushing “Tito! Tito!”. O, how sweet is that even if they were actually after that package of siopaos or burgers that they have been nagging you about when you left that morning. Sometimes, arriving empty-handed you tell them, “oh, the baker was sick today and was not able to make siopao” and tell them anecdotes instead. Or pull some tricks or hunch your back for their rodeo ride.

You slouch on the sofa and sister calls out “dinner is ready” while Noli de Castro screeches “teeveeeeeeeee patrol!”. A steaming bowl of your favorite law-oy or sinigang. Or grilled fish with guso salad. Then a long chat over that matter that caught your and your siblings’ collective awareness or curiosity during the day. The laughs will be hard you’ll be reaching fast for a glass of water while choking on your food.

Majority wins on which program to watch on TV after, which all the time, will be the teleseryes. You wanted to get another TV but decides against it. And finally, you get to reconcile with Jhie’s shrieks over Coco Martin's dramatics amidst his lisps.

You lay in bed, the jalousies open while the chirps and flapping of the kulansyangs’ try to lull you to sleep. Or a few pages of Milan Kundera. Tomorrow will be a long day and you’ll beg high heavens that insomnia will not pop in tonight, more than you pray for peace on earth.

You look forward to weekends for catch-ups and rest. You do not worry about doing the laundry or the ironing since Jhie already took care of that. You are the king of the world despite that you reign over the basket to flea market and the kitchen on Sundays.

You caught the flu and Mamang rushes to the city with leaves that she will boil and forces you to gulp. That is so sweet despite how awful the concoction would taste most of the time.

You have a trip for a few days or weeks, and since Mamang protests against how you simply dump your stuff in the luggage, she volunteers to do the packing. Never mind that you will have to rush to the department store nearest to your hotel after discovering that she missed to put in some underwear.  

O, life is sweet. The benefit of family and community.

Fastforward:

You step down from a trike and your landlord greets you, “nagabin-an man ka?”. After a long day, you manage a smile for a reply. Silence and shadows envelope your unit. You unlock the door and turn the lights on. Stillness, the scent of solitude sprayed all over. You open the fridge, debate with yourself whether to re-heat last night’s left-over or not and decide it will be sandwich for tonight. Tomorrow will be cereals, then sardines and bread the following day. You sigh. Ugh.

You did not get a TV yet so you open your computer and play Winamp. Go online if you were able to load credits to your plug-in. But the prepaid connection can be very sloooooow you'll get dizzy to the circular motion of the loading icon on the address tab.

You lie in bed and the tuko beats your lullaby. Or an article in the newest issue of Reader’s Digest.

Saturdays will be laundry and office or laundry and sleep. Sundays will be church and ironing or church and sleep. If you lazed and chose the latter, then just squeeze in the ironing after taking a bath on Monday and the rest of the week.

You caught the flu and you call your nurse-sister for some medical advice and try not to play the doctor part, which you often do. You take a pill. 

You have a trip and you simply dump your stuff in the luggage. You will make sure you will put in some underwear this time. 

Such a drag. The price of independence.

Now I’m sick. And I want my old life back. I want to be tito and king once again.

I want to be home.

(Musings while finding hard time sleeping on the fourth day of nursing the flu and headache from sinusitis. Manang manghihilot did not show up. I know, this too, and the flu, shall pass. I shouldn't have called home and talked to the kids. But still, I just so enjoy this self-regulating, sovereign life that I will persist.)

why do you care?

(can married men lounge this relaxed and happy? lol!)

When you start hitting the big 3 and people don't see you wearing that bright and polished round thing around your ring finger, they tend to be overly concerned suddenly. Try going to your cousin's wedding and every one on the guest list will ask you the most important question of all - why are you still single, or josh the biggest tease of all time - uuyy, you will already be next! - that gets me sort of vexed all the time.

Can I cringe here already? 

You gotta believe that I am all for marriage. If two people are madly in love with each other and cannot figure their lives apart from one another, then by all means, file for a licence and go to pre-cana. But don't get me wrong: this thing is just not on top of my concerns now. Or I simply cannot do so by now because I still don't have anybody who can splay the colors and hues in my blank canvas. I just cannot marry myself, right?

I just can't seem to get why it is a matter of great distress to other people that I am actually happy and content being uncommitted right now. You see, there's a time element here - the "right now", because I'm still pretty hopeful that somebody might just turn up and turn my world upside down that will make me decide: enough of solitary bliss. Fine if cousin # 1's son will already start going to prep school in June, but it should not be your worry if my firstborn will still be in high school by the time I become the balding retiree. 

I'm happy for my ka-berks who look happy on their pre-nup and wedding photos on Facebook and wish them to sport the same smile while they are well into the married existence. I post comments how their kids look like miniatures of them. But I am also happy planning for a trip in November or saving for a DSLR to pursue the illusion that I can make art, and that I am unsurprisingly, and not abnormally content with my current state of affairs. If I may, I just think being single is way too cool because: 

You don’t fill your brain with dates (birthday, anniversary and the whole nine yards) and other details like favorites (argh!), of which the failure to recall can spark another world war; 

You don’t fight with yourself what to order for dinner - if you want baby back ribs, you get baby back ribs - and not feel guilty about gorging all the fats. You also get to save money since you spend for a single diner only;

You get to watch the movie you wanted to watch and don’t have to drag yourself watching John Lloyd and Sarah Geronimo;

You only have yourself to say if your shirt looks okay or not, or if you already need shaving or not;

You can be lazy and disgusting without anybody making that look all too bad;

You get to hang out with other people and not worry someone will get jealous. You can go to dates with anybody you want and the only regret you will have is not being able to flirt with more people than you should (you sure did not think that was me whining, eh?);

You own your time and you are your own boss (ok, ok. The boss is in the office) and you can go to places you wanted to go to any time you wanted to;

There will  be lesser stress that you have to endure and hence, I am just trying to enjoy bucket loads of freedom while they last. 

There are actually more reasons than what that video goes to list but still, the question and the tease. 

I will be going to another wedding yet again and I am trying to figure a retort that's more polite than - why do you care? You might just have the cleverest phrase. 

quo vadis, cocinero?

(source)

In April of 2011, I took a leap of faith. At that time, I was unsure if the decision to take on a new role and steer my career to a different direction was the rightest thing to do. It wasn’t the sort of plainly testing the waters. I usually start a year getting jitters, the sort that wants me to pack and go into the wild, but there’s a tiny something somewhere at the back of my mind that said “go!” - a certain stirring that I will probably understand at some distant future. I am not entirely the submissive type. I tried pushing walls for want of greater space and bigger horizon but if some things are simply not just meant to be, nothing will come out of your pushing. And so that tiny voice won me over.

I thought I packed enough of confidence and courage when I decided to don another garb and wander in another field. I miscalculated my perseverance levels that at one point I thought of throwing in the towel. But I had no contingency plan in place. I tried pushing walls again but still nothing came out of the shove. Then, that tiny voice was there again – “just keep on”. 

If I overestimated my ability to persist, I certainly underrated the power of love of those who supported in me in my decision to sail outside of my comfort zone. It was not at all a tiny voice of inspiration that kept telling me that everything will be alright while reassuring me that they will still be standing behind if I choose to pull the sails down.

Two years later, some will say that I finally found my place under the sun. Maybe, but I am more gratified by the realization that a path has been set for me, that I have the littlest understanding of the plans laid out by the Hand in the grand scheme of things and so I just need to let that Hand do the pushing of walls.

Some call it birthing pains. Others will say that one has to be put through fire to come out shining like gold. These pains that we go through in every change that we need to endure are necessary steps for the masterpiece in progress that is us. I still recall a professor’s reminder that adversity brings out character. Sometimes, I even grin when I remember that I came close to giving up when I haven’t even seen the bigger picture yet. Those pains, had they really been such a big deal?     

I still cannot say that I already found my end of the rainbow. Life is ever a journey and this jittery pair of shoes will not just stay in one place yet. But I'm glad I took that leap. It pays to listen to a tiny voice sometimes.

letter to my 16-year old self

I was skimming through a friend's blog, and stumbled upon a post the idea of which was inspiration to this entry. Mine's a a tad serious, but this is as close as I can get to writing to my 16-year old self.

(source)

April 7, 2013

Skinny under-cut,

Hurrah! I can see you pounding that frail chest for getting that haircut like your gang. You are one of them now. Darn, it was hip to be shaven underneath that bob. For once, you were not afraid of Mamang’s scolding for looking like an “adik-adik” although your gaunt frame can already be mistaken for one. You will be getting off high school and it would be great to look “cool” in your class photos. You wouldn’t want to be that odd one out. After all, that day will be your day, your favorite teacher would say teary-eyed. First advice: don’t be so touchy. You ought to look tough. You should swag that hairstyle to character.  

After the bravados have calmed down, you will worry but still hope that by sheer miracle, you can go to college. That will not come unfounded and you will feel down. Reel on it a bit. You will ask high heavens why you and your family, of all people, were made to endure these strains. But do not wallow in self-pity. I know it’s easier said than done and that not too many people will understand. Second advice:  do not indulge in too much despair and discouragement. Not going to college like the rest of your class is not the end of the world. Gather yourself up and gear up for battle. If life is a battle for survival, start doing 50 push ups tomorrow morning. Just kidding. Read books, do the chores, cultivate your backyard, open a sari-sari store – just do something worthwhile. You will learn a lot that you never will at any university.

I know you’d still want to be an architect, or an engineer, or an accountant. You might even heed your uncle’s advice and be a teacher instead. Use your time to pick one course. Third advice: weave a dream even if you will do so while on top of a sampalok tree watching over your flock of ducks or atop the carabao while herding it. Be grand with your dreams, it’s the freest thing to do. Do not lose hope that dreaming is all that life can ever give you. Maybe one day, all the universe will conspire to get you that desire.  

Be intent that one day the gods will hear your prayers and you will go to a university. Ain’t that great? That university! You will meet a lot of great people there and some will become your greatest friends. You’ll find the best teachers not only in class but in life’s lessons too. Life will not be easy, money can barely cover the essentials, but trust that when the universe conspires, you will get a P100 loan from a classmate, which can put you through a week. Again, do not lament. Take pride in the thought that God gives His toughest battles to His bravest soldiers. You are not one lame duck.

Do not be too stiff and uptight. I know the going gets tough often but do not think that you carry all the burdens of the world to not have fun. Life is not always a struggle - remember that. Fourth advice: enjoy your youth. Goof around, party even a little – just don’t do drugs. Street-smart is a lot cool so learn the ways of the street. But always remember that “smart” is part of the adjective. Send that love letter, laugh hard, learn the guitar and sing your heart out. Compose poetry. Join organizations and meet a lot of friends. Just have some fun.

You will go through tests on and off campus. The grades that the teachers will give you may matter but it will be the trials which will measure the strength of your character that will build and define you. Do the right things the right way. You will make mistakes but do not commit the deliberate ones. Fifth advice: there are no short cuts in this life. You wouldn’t want one fault or two to haunt you for a long time. Regret is not a very good company and guilt will not let you sleep sometimes. It’s true that we will hold on to the lessons more dearly if these were learned the hard way, but try to avoid this pain as much as you can. You don’t want to coil with this extra baggage. Be practical but do not be foolhardy or just plain rash.

Do not shed off your sense of family. They will be the closest network of persons who will stick with you through thick and thin. Do not be too hard on yourself but keep in mind that you are “kuya”. Remember that Mamang has to rest one day from pulling the odds to make both ends meet, and just enjoy the beach or the casino. Or just wherever she wishes to be that will make her happy. She greatly deserves that. 

When things seem to get hopeless and out of meaning, which they sometimes will, remember that there is a greater force that puts everything in its proper order and place – bumps, cliffs, thunders, snakes, thorny bushes and all. Just look up for directions.   

This is getting long and I might already be getting to your nerves. Okay, okay. You already know these things, but a gentle reminder won’t hurt sometimes. These will do for now. But if you don’t follow some of the things I say (I know you can be stubborn sometimes), I will shrug the blame off you. But I hope you will take me seriously.

Come on, you will do just fine. So no worries, okay?

Future you,

Skinny-still but clean cut

P.S. I was just trying not to dampen your high spirits when I let you have your swag with your haircut. But trust me, you wouldn’t want to see that photo ever again with that under-cut that looks neither cute nor hip. It is awful and nasty you’d want to burn that print into ashes. Maybe, this is just the spoiler in me. And o, do not be so anxious about working at Zamboanga’s canneries just so you wouldn’t be a bum. Who knows you’d even be hobnobbing with the proprietors one day soon. So for now, it’s time to give that carabao a “HOO!!!”

the father's day club

The idea came nonchalantly during that SSS (Say Something Substantial) prologue during my freshman religious studies course. One by one, all forty one of us stood in front of the class, our feet fixated on a one square foot marking the professor drew on the floor, intently warning not to let loose of a toe outside, and decanted fragments of ourselves to people who were merely strangers back then. One by one, the stories poured out and I found myself listening to some narrations that were as if mine, as I understood the chronicling which climaxed to that all too familiar throb and longing.

I lost my father when I was nine. He was the former chief of the local police when he was gunned down by a perpetrator still unknown to us until now.

As the sole breadwinner for a family of six children, the cupboard was turned upside down after he was gone. Difficult may not have been an exaggeration of the life we went through without Papang. I will not want another retelling.

During the course of that SSS, I came to know other classmates whose stories were closely allied with mine. We were four in the class. We met another one year the after although her story was a bit different from us while the sentiment was the same. I hope they would forgive my lack of authority to recount these fragments which my memory can conjure now:

Z's father died by accident; a land mine was detonated on the plantation he was working at. H's and R's succumbed to illness. T's is a complex storyline and I digress to even set a backdrop. Z, H, T and I became good friends, but then again, all in that class had been. But I suppose, we understood each other better because of that nexus that linked us. We exchanged stories about how things were when our fathers were still around (all of us lost our fathers when we were young). We smiled at bittersweet memories but the tears we left to dry on that SSS floor. I know that we were made different by our circumstances and losing our fathers early in our lives etched some sense of maturity early on in our minds. Although I know that those experiences fortified us, there are still times that we needed some ounces of strength that we know we could have gotten so easily from a father's love and encouragement. These times often hit a raw nerve. But we get to live by the strength of the love from the people who were left and given to us.

These experiences also made us more bonded with our Mamangs or Mamas. On several occasions, we talked of our wishes and plans, not only for ourselves but for our mothers, the only parent left to us who also took on the uneasy task of fathering. But I will devote another write-up for that. Too bad, a get-together with our mothers still did not happen but someday I hope it will.

Over the years, the paths of life have brought us to our spots under the sun. We seldom see each other, although some, I often do on a social networking site. We still struggle with other battles that life throw at us, but I know the lessons learned and stength gained from our experiences plus the love and guidance of our fathers, wherever they are, will pull us through.

When I joined a Catholic community, I met many others who share the same story. In my previous cell group, I used to have four brothers who tell the same tale of throb and longing. I know at one point or another, everyone will join us in this club. When that time comes, I know you can always come to us to shed some of the pain and we will not mind. We shed some of those many times ago. But for now, I'd say, hug your father tight while he can still hug you back. For when the time comes, all you can do is wish even for a short moment when you still can.

To all fathers out there, whether we see you or not, Happy Father's Day.

sidestepping the bucket

I am not about to make a review. The film was released sometime in 2007 and attempting to make one is already three years late at the very least. I am one of the late catchers of the movie (pardon me, but I have just seen Good Will Hunting) and since I'm a real sucker for melodramas (for one, Big Fish is now my favorite film), watching this flick somehow touched a raw vein.

What would you do if you only have three months to live? What would you do differently knowing that your hours are counted, your lease at life reaching termination?

The questions dawned on me as soon as John Mayer started blaring in the background. Suggestions like suddenly becoming benevolent and virtuous would be feigned responses and I'm afraid I'd be damned all the more.
There will always be that part that will tell you to start acting a little kinder and be a little bit more pious and it's perfectly okay. But if trying to earn a fast track access to the golden gate gives the reason to that action and not the drive to do good because it's something that I haven't tried and should do, then it only beats the crap out of me.

I'm the gravely-ill Carter (Morgan Freeman) now and since I probably won't meet an Edward Cole (Jack Nicholson) in my sickbay, I can only do things that are well within my measures: no exhilarating skydives and jet-setting voyage around the world. Not exactly around the world like around the world but a French villa, the Egyptian pyramids, an African safari, the Taj Mahal, the Tibetan alps (was that Tibet?) and the Hongkong skylines is pretty much it. But I'm more than sure that there'll be the drama. And no less potent.

Here's probably what I would do on a more pragmatic and palpable sense:

First, I'd finish my pending credit recommendations and file for an indefinite leave. This will take me a couple of weeks most probably plus the goodbyes. Seven years of your life is still seven years. Never mind that it's been less than perfect, but when you breathe the same puffs of the air-con machine and smell the same dead-rat stink, people around become tinges of the ugly and lovely, the gloomy and ecstatic, the despondent and optimistic blobs on my shirt. And the stain would probably remain unbleached beyond the passing of another seven years.

Then, I'd go home and hug my mother tight (aww!). I'd kiss her every morning and my sisters and niece. Hug my brother every morning and my nephews. Cook them breakfast, lunch and dinner. Clean their rooms, wash their clothes. I'd probably abandon my repugnance to ironing for one day. I'd be a very loving son, a tender brother and a gentle tito.

I probably can't spend time getting a girlfriend. Not that it's too late and desperate but I can't be sadistic to my grave. But I'd probably write down that love letter in my head and send it. It won't elicit for a reply. If that's deemed pathetic then I'd be pathetic to my grave.

I'd show up at community meetings, probably accept an invitation to lead opening worship or talk a talk. Show up at two-round sharings and reunions. Give hand to the charity works.

By that time, I'd probably be as poor as a rat so instead of a jet I'd travel on a frigate of a book like a poem from my primary years. I'd finish my copies of Milan Kundera, Chuck Palahniuk and Arundhati Roy which I still haven't touched after grabbing them from the 'sale' rack. I'd probably learn about the sensitivity of Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea in the after-life.

I'd pen down an entry to the Palanca. I know I will not win, but the mere thought of having sent one is already a prize far bigger than me. I was sorry I didn't get enough of confidence to e-mail that article to the Youngblood until Inquirer thinks I'm no longer 'young' enough to send one.

I'll send long e-mails to pals far and wide. In it, I'd apologize about my failure to reciprocate or even deserve the brand of friendship I have been accorded. It will be brimming of gratitude.

By the time I finish crashing out these items, the sands may have been emptying the upper bulb fast. But before I get all corners covered, I'll stand in front of my father's grave as a tough guy who filled his cup full.

Then, I won't be able to try the world's highest bungee in New Zealand or witness the majesty of Sagrada Familia for myself. But it's okay. I'd probably can't write a book and talk to Paulo Coelho in person and it would be alright. I'd probably bring my cavities to my grave with the warts on my back and I can't give a damn. I'll be the tough guy who filled his cup full.

The movie talked about a survey with 94% responding that they wouldn't want to know when they would kick the bucket. If I'd be Carter and gravely-ill, I'd probably list myself among the 6%, but it would be a different tape if I'm my ass-kicking self right now. I'd probably spend half of my last ninety days calling on to the heavens why me and why now.

I woke up this morning reminded that the visit to the dentist would be over the weekend. I'm glad I can still lay out plans for travel in August and never mind that I'd be hitting the storm (because there'll be a long weekend in August and on no other periods after P-noy became a spoiler of the holiday economics). I'm looking forward to watching the many movies I missed and finding the classics on the 'sale' rack in the bookstores. We don't know what will happen tomorrow but still we wake up and make plans – that's hope. Some of these plans may seem out of our league but still we continue to believe that someday we'll get them – that's faith. While not achieving those plans may wound and break us but still we find reasons to lick the cuts and bruises and be swathed in the strappings of love. These fill my cup.

Then my list will probably be longer than the seven items or so spelled out above. Like Edward Cole, I'd probably get a tattoo. Or do a Carter's extremely weak 'laugh until I cry, help a complete stranger for the good or witness something 'majestic'. Good or nasty, I couldn't care less.

There would be many things that I'd do differently. To add to John Mayer's refrain, I'do what I need to do and change what I need to change. And then when I'm a tad better, I probably won't use 'probably' so often again in a write-up.

"Say"

Take all of your wasted honor
Every little past frustration
Take all of your so-called problems,
Better put 'em in quotations

Say what you need to say ...

Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living out the same old moment
Knowing you'd be better off instead,
If you could only . . .

Say what you need to say...

Have no fear for giving in
Have no fear for giving over
You'd better know that in the end
It's better to say too much
Than never say what you need to say again

Even if your hands are shaking
And your faith is broken
Even as the eyes are closing
Do it with a heart wide open

Say what you need to say...

like a bottle of wine

I imagined celebrating my birthday this year with the zest of making it as a milestone. Nothing really grand, just something that will sort of leave an impression similar to a rite of passage. Like maybe conquering my fear of heights by dominating Singapore's reverse bungee. Aside from the idea of thrill, it would be a reunion of sorts with college buddies who I haven't seen in what seemed like ages. If not, it would also be a nice idea to 'commune with myself' while on a bike along the slopes of Batanes. This 'communing-with-myself' thing is actually already long overdue to those who figured that I should already be finishing my novitiate by this time. Quite romantic actually. But like many things that were not quite intended to be, I was homebound on that day with a cluttered room that needs cleaning and a mountain of soiled clothes to wash. So much for a milestone celebration.

This day used to be a little and a few things to me and rambling from tradition (office people are good at reminding you that traditions ought to survive), I don't normally open wine for cheers. Like leaves that grow green and fall, birthdays come and go, leaving only additional lines in the forehead and probably a few gray hairs sprouting now and then.

The passing of time brings with it a certain awkwardness about recollection and anticipation, evoking anxiety at gunshot starts and rousing excitement at racing to the finish line.

While my accomplishments remain humble, what three decades in this world means to me is a milestone in itself and in hues of experiences and lessons: I experienced losing a parent but finding many others along the path. No one is truly alone. I struggled for the sake of ambition only to find the meaning of achievement in tranquility. No one is truly a failure. I searched places for convenience and comfort only to find it lying under my nose – the convenience of home and simplicity and the comfort of family and community. No one is truly poor.

In my first thirty years, I made many mistakes and several wrong choices, followed wrong directions and trekked along crooked paths. I thought ill, spewed curse, articulated lies and mastered pretense. I was foolhardy. I was coward. I digressed and complained, became lazy and procrastrinated. I learned evil while others took on my righteousness.

I learned to surrender my petty concerns to a greater Force. I sought forgiveness for my transgressions. I don't expect to be beatified.

I 've been blessed more than I am worthy of. Often, I am not appreciative but I am starting to look at things differently now. I am no longer the center of the universe. I learned to take things as they are, as they come.

Unlike the past ones that came and went, there's something about this turn of year that both agitates and animates me. Here is looking forward to the next thirty years while hoping that the numbers will indeed roll. Here's to life, love and laughter. Here's to experiences to go through and lessons to learn, places to go and people to meet. Here's to ambitions and milestone celebrations that will probably be another room full of clutter. Here's to faith, peace and freedom. Here's to growing old and growing up. And just like a bottle of wine, I wish to get better with time.

Pass the goblets now. Cheers!

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.

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!

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.

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. :-)  

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.