closure

(This is an old piece from more than a couple of years ago. Still hoping against hope, I never got around the courage to publish. I guess it's time to take that step forward and stand by what I decided to name this piece.)

(source)

I told myself not to put this thing down until it’s clearly and finally over. I’ve always known to hold on tight until the end of the line, that I either wait and make up for my late entrance or continue chasing that butterfly until it finally lands on my palm. I believe I was perseverance personified - I persist in my pursuits. But it’s different this time, and I realized, when it comes to things that we feel inside, some of our perspectives shift.

Pinker was the last indulgence of my late bloom. At one point, the idea of her was the summation of everything that I’ll ever look for in a relationship. She was that one thing that got me planning and thinking hard about the days to come. I have known a few who were pretty and smart and fun while God-fearing, but her entire wrap was simply a glow above the rest.

We were formally introduced nearly two years ago although I had her number much earlier than that, thanks to a mutual friend who insisted I start communicating with her, which I nonchalantly replied yes. I never did. I was eyeing an old acquaintance who I haven’t had communication with for a long time, and whose episode with me, later I will find out, will be short-lived. Later I knew, the same friend told, that Pinker was also already with someone else.

I was trying to get my faith founded when I had the chance to meet her again. I had nonchalance still since that was only a few months after that short-lived romance. And she was still with that somebody. I became active in my service, squeezing time between work and church and going home and spending time with new-found acquaintances. It counted months and I was finally living my life. Then one time, an elder in the community much like a mother to me, gave me her number, which like the first instance, I half-heartedly said yes but also never used. She was free this time but I haven’t had the urge to chase again then.

Finally one time, I happened to ask about a scheduled out-of-town community congress which I wanted to attend. I can’t recall why it had been her when I could have easily asked one of our elders. All I can conjure up now was that I learned about the congress through her announcement. It ended up me not attending the congress but it would be the start of exchanging little niceties with her.

Those little niceties began to build up. Oddly, I'd feel discomfited during our next meetings. Where it had been easy to cuddle a conversation before, I found myself grappling on how to start one. That was when I felt a swarm of butterflies in my stomach and heard a band of thunderbolts through my ears. Torpedoes hit me hard on the spine which all the way cramped me to my tongue.

Shortly, I knew I was not singularly hit by her lightning. Reckoning, I placed that I was last in line but I continued to set my pace still, surprisingly, doing things I never did and never thought I would. Then I realized, my pace had been, pardon my French, too damn slow.

Then the communication stopped when I learned that she finally made her choice. I don’t intend to delve any deeper into this. Saying she made the right one will be self-incriminating. But what I had for her bordered on deep respect and from what little I knew, she picked up the good man that she deserved.

I tell those I confide with that acceptance had been easy. I guess, that too, was half-hearted. It was harder than I thought when it hit me at point-blank. The last conference had been especially trying but I excelled in letting it stream unnoticed.

To break free, I joined another community. I continued meeting other acquaintances but none could keep up to the manner and measure of what I had and held for her. The same elder told me in one instance that God is still cooking up something for me, that He gives only what we deserve and that is only the best. I said I’m no longer looking, I screwed up my chance to take on my best. I cling to what she said last – I should be thankful for the feeling and the experience. I add, I should be thankful for the time she decided to spend with me and for keeping up with me on some late nights although I would not have been the best reason for keeping her awake. I assure her, with the sincerity of my intentions, that those nights got me looking forward to the new day.

A friend recently e-mailed me Mark Macapagal’s article in The Manila Times which talked so aptly about timing. No amount of preparation nor intensity of feeling could bring you that one desire if it’s not the time. I get the idea.

I stopped arguing with myself if I should put this thing down. I already stopped thinking about what-ifs and what-could-have-beens. The load of these questions are getting heavy and it is time to put it off. Pain is too strong an emotion for me now.

Recently, I incidentally chanced with her again, which by some twisted stroke of chance, the second during that week (I’ve been trying to avoid a meeting - more for myself, but I guess a little for her too. But it’s a real small place we’re both in). Yet it helps unknowingly. It had been nice having to talk to her again even if the talk was way beyond the concerns and borders of feelings. I swear I still felt the thumping of thunderbolts but I knew the swarm of butterflies were already cramming somewhere else, not that I’ve driven them away. From what I gathered, she is very happy. I should be happy for her too for I’ve been praying for that since.

I realized then that  there’s one thing that I should do – pray for my happiness too. And maybe tomorrow, with this published, I’ll start changing passwords.

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.

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.