The Grinning

40. Jae and Robin

2011-12-27T18:09:00.008+08:00

On the couch, they sat close. The TV on. Feet comfortably on the coffee table. An electric fan softly humming nearby. Each listening to the other breath. Cold water on two glasses; condensed air caught by the cold, like lucent pearls, slowly forming and falling. A smile softly crossing on moist lips.

...

I listen to you, and the world outside fades. Your voice is like a rhythm, in tune with the beating of my impetuous heart. You speak and a sound rolls up like a distant familiar song echoing again and again in the deepest part of my spirit. I listen to you and I have hope.

I see you and something inside me stirs. You are beautiful. I see you and it’s as if a spark ignited in the middle of a forest, and the fire that consumes everything starts to burn. I see you and I know it’s too late.

I listen to you speak of saying yes, of love rising from the impossible, of one endless kiss. I listen to you and it’s as if there was only you and me, and all your words are gifts lovingly made for no one else but me, each carefully laid before my feet.

I see you and I start to forget. I forget that there are reasons why they say that things are too good to be true. I forget about principles, and sensibility, and consequences. I forget about hurting and being hurt. I see only you, and that smile on your lips, and you drawing those lips to mine, ever closer.

...

Jae kissed Robin. Robin kissed back. And the lines that shouldn’t be crossed were like writings on the sand caressed by the inevitable wave.

They kissed, and everything faded away.

- - - - - - - -

Rooster blues

2011-12-19T12:06:00.013+08:00

Simbang gabi, day 3.

Running on two hours of sleep.

Only things I can remember: Making sign-of-the-cross, last part Gospel, first part homily, kneeling, standing, kneeling, holding hands with that 17-year-old girl beside me wearing a very short skirt (or was it a 70-year-old? Was it a girl at all? Wasn't really sure.), praying to Jesus to please let me not fall asleep while driving a motorcycle (again), the priest somehow doing another homily, and waking up at home at 10 AM.

Everything else was a blur.

Thank the stars I didn't wake up on a street somewhere bleeding. Or worse, on the bed of a seventeen-slash-seventy-year-old that may or may not be female. Hah!

- - - - - - - -ii

four-nine-seven

2011-12-18T16:48:00.006+08:00

“You're mad at me, aren't you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to see his face.

He could hear the distant whispers of acacia leaves rustling above them. It was such a quiet afternoon and it almost seemed like the two of them were the only people in the world. She was sitting beside him on the bench, her arms gently resting on the table in front of her. He was slacking, as per usual, with his back against the table’s side and his elbows resting on its top. She was so close. He could faintly smell her perfume. For some reason it reminded him of silk.

“No,” he answered.

“Oh…”

She was doubtful. From the corner of his eye, he could see the he-is-hiding-something-from-me look on her face. The one with her lips pursed as if holding back a leer. She always gives that look every time he said something she didn’t expect. He smiled softly. He knows that look too well.

She knows me too well.

“Well, if you are you should tell me,” she said offhandedly. “That way we could talk about it. It’s not right when you hold grudges at someone. If people find out that you’ve been hiding what you really feel towards them, you might hurt their feelings.”

“I told you I’m not,” he said, turning to look at her, trying to sound more reassuring this time.

She probably fears she might have gotten into his nerves the other day for being too pushy. He just couldn’t convince her enough that he enjoys being with her too much to be annoyed. She couldn’t make him angry, really, unless she’d intend to do so, unless that’s what she wants all along.

She held his stare for a moment. Her eyes were intent on his, as if waiting for him to say something deeper. He didn’t say anything. He stayed quiet, watching her thoughtfully watching him. Somehow he finds it amusing seeing her trying to figure him out.

She hadn’t tied her hair today, he noticed. He could see wisps of black and brown strayed on her ear and cheek. At a sudden compulsion, he slowly raised his hand, touched the side of her face, and gently pushed the runaway strands safely to the back of her ear. The gesture seemed to stir her from musing. He grinned, almost contritely, as he laid his elbow back on the table. She turned away, her cheeks beginning to flush. A smile was slowly spreading across her face.

“How is he?” he asked after a while. A soft breeze drifted between them. It was cold against his face. He turned to watch her. She was thoughtlessly running her thumb on the table’s side, her hair lightly gliding with the breeze. She’ll always have this power over him, and he just can’t do anything about it. She draws him closer, without her even knowing, without him even knowing – like moth to a flame.

“How’s who?” she asked, absentmindedly.

“The ex,” he replied, trying not to sound too curious. She raised a thoughtful eyebrow, ever so slightly.

She looked back at him, trying to find a catch somewhere. He quickly turned to look away, trying to look indifferent.

“Bugging me as usual,” she said finally, exasperation clear in her voice.

He felt that twinge again, that stabbing feeling he gets whenever he finds her in distress. He knows he wouldn’t do anything at all. He wouldn’t do anything because he’s too damn afraid that, instead of helping her, he’ll end up hurting her.

What bothers him more though was the fact that he also feels stabbed every time he sees her together with the Ex, happy. It’s funny how this particular stabbing resembles jealousy and resentment so much.

“How is she?”

He caught the sly smile on her lips. She was teasing him, reminding him of his fickle nature. He stared at the ground grinning widely. He could see the shadows of the leaves dancing on the pavement.

At that moment, he wanted to tell her that he had forgotten about that girl, that it was her that he wanted to be with more than anyone else in the world, that he’s ready to face the consequences with her.

He wanted to love her so much.

But there were times when the heart has a mind of its own, and he could never lie to her.

“Getting prettier by the day,” he told her as he reached out and lightly ran a finger through her cheek.

She smiled sadly. He smiled back. They understood each other better when they’re not talking.

“Did you talk to her yet?”

“No.”

“Coward.”

The wind was gathering somewhere like a child behind a tree. The world around them seemed to slow down and watch, but no one was there but them.

“How do you know you’re falling in love with someone?” he asked her, uncertain.

“Are you sure it’s love you are feeling?” she asked back.

He couldn’t answer.

Another breeze picked up. She gently pulled back her hair and closed her eyes. The soft wind nuzzled her neck and whispered sweet nothings to her ear. Her soft cheeks flushed. Her smile was as delightful as summer. Sometimes, she could be so beautiful.

“I love you,” he said without thinking.

He stared at the ground again. He felt partly mortified and partly amazed at how it nearly felt like the right thing to say. Slowly, he turned to look at her. She was staring at him intently, thoughtfully. He heard the leaves rustle again. He waited for an answer. He waited, wanting to know if she feels the same. If she would only tell him, he would have courage enough to fight all doubt, all fear. He needed to know he was not alone.

She kept silent and he turned to look away.

“You’re not sure of that,” she whispered, a hint of sadness in her voice.

Without her, he could never be.

“Do you want me to love you?” he asked, not really sure why. It was a stupid question.

“Isn’t that kind of love conditional, loving someone only if you knew she’d love you back?”

He had no answer again. She was right and he could only go too far.

“We should be going,” she said, softly touching his arm. She stood up and waited for him.

He watched her as she left his side to stand up. All the wind was gone. There was only that hollow emptiness that hanged in the air like a tombstone.

“OK,” he said and stood up.

-Fin-

- - - - - - - -

14th of August, 2005

Can't sleep

2011-06-23T23:33:00.007+08:00

Can’t sleep. Keeping awake the night before was probably a bad idea; and sleeping off most of the day didn’t help either. I like sleep. You’re not thinking when you’re asleep. But I can’t sleep.

Slept all day. Another day wasted. Nothing accomplished whatsoever.

What is that anyway? Accomplished? I ate lunched, brushed my teeth; watched some downloads. That’s still doing something, sort of.

No, not really. The judge of accomplishments is right here, at this time; that me in this brief moment just before sleeping, remembering the day that has ended. Is he satisfied? Did he feel he did something worthwhile today? Is he contented with just eating and brushing his teeth, and waiting for movies to downloads, filling voids with computer games all day?

No, he’s not. That’s why he can’t sleep.

Doing something that stays. Creating something that’s real, something that’ll grow, develop; that’s useful and profits. Something that changes you, makes things better; that matters. Something I can call my own, and be proud of. Something that, when the lights are out and I remember the day, will have me smiling without me knowing it, just before I finally close my eyes.

Now, that’s an accomplishment. Yeah. That will make you sleep.

- - - - - - - -

Letter #1

2011-06-23T04:53:00.004+08:00

My dearest Sophie,

I know, I know, I’m late—as per usual. Sorry, Chief.

Writing this letter, I can almost swear you’re right here behind me with your cute little face giving me that "I knew it." look; like when I used to play hide-and-seek with you back home, and you always catch me behind that old Spanish lamp post you were just counting from, remember? You always had that look – wrinkly nose, with dimples and all.

And I’m pretty sure you’re giving me one now.

Sorry, Sophie. You know how I am with doing things for myself. It takes time. Didn’t had enough practice, you know. Stick with me though; you know I’ll find my way through, for you — and, oh, for me too, of course. Man, this pick-me-up thing is tricky. But, seriously, I will really try my bestest, Chief, I promise.

Hey, the last communiqué was a blast! It just makes my heart all warm and fuzzy listening how you’re, how-you-say, “luvin’ it” there beyond the high grounds. And, that new house, wow, sounds like a dream. I’m proud of you, Sweetheart. I had, have, and will always have, complete faith that you’ll be just fine out there. S’yempre may pinagmanahan ‘yan. Oh, and don’t worry on exaggerating how great the house is; for me, just seeing you there (wrinkly nose, with dimples and all, hah!) will make it absolutely perfect. (Never mind all that “sleepy paint.") Just keep up at it, Fearless Leader!

Yes! We will be there! I can hardly wait too. Just let me OK things here, Chief. I know the calendars are all unclear yet, but it is getting there. Although I have to admit things are all quite bigger than they seemed, but, I’m on it every day. Just keep praying, Sophie. You know there’s always a plan and it’ll always work out; and I’ll sure be sticking it out ‘till it does. Hey, I’ll be seeing you before you know it, you’ll see.

Chief, can I tell you something? I’m having a bit of difficulty with her lately. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just me. All these stress, bound to hit somewhere. This may be just nothing though. But, right now, I have this feeling I’m getting myself in bad crossroads lately.

Wait. Before I start bleeding all over you, I’m laying this now: I love her like crazy. You know how I do, and that isn’t changing. No matter how crazy things get out there, definitely, this stubborn tin heart, it’ll love her, always; like crazy. Got it?

Promise me you won’t go all worrying, Sophie.

I just need to let out steam. Should be telling her, I know, just not yet though. You know how it is. I’m that one wall that keeps the monsters out— can’t appear to be breaking. I can’t also keep these things to myself. That’ll make me really break. So, if I need to, I’ll be telling you.

Just keep an ear out for me on this one, ‘k?

Thanks for the pick-me-up, Chief. That last one was probably more than the small fry cheering-up you expected to do when you said, and I quote, I hereby dubbed meself little miss personal cheerleader-slash-bartender! Unquote. But, tell you what, you were right, just writing already makes me feel better.

Take care, Sweetheart. Remember to be always better than your father. God bless.

Write to you soon.

Love,
Dad

- - - - - - - -

Baptism

2011-05-12T22:59:00.001+08:00

Life is a struggle. Every push against the ground, every hard step forward, every grapple embraced, is victory. And I will, conquer you.

Happy 27th.

- - - - - - - -

Pencil

2010-06-23T00:45:00.009+08:00

By noon, I felt a bit overwhelmed.

Isn’t this too much for me? Am I really ready for this? Can I make this work?

I walked at the university not really sure where to go. It felt like I wasn’t really all there. I smiled, talked and said hi, but everything felt distant; like I was on autopilot or something.

One thing I’m certain though: It’s time for lunch, and I’m getting hungry.

Then somehow I found myself walking pass the chapel, looking at the mass about to start inside. I felt this sudden longing to go inside and attend. But then I thought it would probably take too long and I’m simply in no mood to attend. Still, I felt deep inside, I need this.

But shouldn't I be going to lunch? Do I still have the time for this? Should I really do this now? I really should go eat and get to work.

I went inside the chapel anyway.

Thirty minutes later, as I walked out of the church starved and about to be late, I was happy. Somehow, I stopped feeling all fraught and anxious about the future ahead for me. I felt calm, and ready.

For somehow I knew, everything will be just fine.

Destiny is that something you never really thought of doing, but you’ll end up doing anyway. Then, at the end of the day, when you find yourself changing the world around you, you realize it was not really for you to do, but for the Great Master to do, through you.

- - - - - - - -ii
“I am a little pencil in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world.” -- Mother Teresa

Circle

2010-05-25T22:32:00.006+08:00

12:13 PM.

This will be forever.

04:20 AM.

I woke up too early in the morning. My muddled head was filled with regrets of staying up too late. It was dark and cold, this morning. It'll probably rain again.

Dazedly, I felt around the sheets for my phone. There it is. I fumbled with the keypad and managed to turn off the alarm.

Why did I set it this early anyway? It's the weekend for heaven's sake. I groaned. My head felt like the night before a deadline.

What the hell did I do last night? I wondered vaguely, and buried my head in a pillow.

09:08 AM.

“And if this is your final destination, ladies and gentlemen, welcome home.” the pilot greeted from the speakers.

We just landed, and outside beyond the wide runway was a festival of concrete, where an endless wall of roads and skyscrapers covered the horizon. It was a strange place. This is not my last stop. Still, as the plane slowed to a halt, I felt home.

10:32 AM.

The taximeter says exactly three hundred pesos. I paid up, thanked the good driver, took up my bag, and groggily stepped out of the cab. Solid ground at last.

I walked towards the door of the dormitory. I’m here, finally. I made it. Of course, she’s not here. She’s somewhere busy figuring out numbers on a paper.

I must get to that somewhere.

Where’s Jenny?

05:55 AM.

My flight! I bolted awake.

I stared at the clock on my phone. I should be at the airport thirty minutes ago.

Sunlight was filling my room. I noticed my traveling bag all packed, ready to go, and impatiently waiting on my study table. So that's what I was doing last night. Packing. Jeez.

No time to think. I jumped out of the bed, snatched my towel and rushed to the bathroom.

09:23 AM.

They're not picking up.

I sat at the large airport lobby hopelessly looking outside. I had just done trying to call everybody I knew here. It's weekend morning, nobody's awake.

I sighed. No choice. I have to do this on my own. I took out my wallet. Let's see now. Three hundred pesos. And a twenty. This should be enough for a taxi I guess. I caught a glimpse of her photograph in my wallet. Unfathomable eyes. Full cherry lips. She knocks me out every time. I grinned.

Not too long now, sweet.

“Let’s do this,” I whispered with newfound conviction.

I picked up my bag and briskly walked to the exit.

06:23 AM.

“How much money you got?!” My brother shouted over the wind as we rushed across streets on his motorcycle.

“I got enough for the airport fees, don't worry!” I shouted back.

“Good! You got money left after the airport?!”

I blanked. I haven't exactly thought of that.

“ATM!” he shouted, pulled the breaks, and rushed into a U-turn.

10:42 AM.

“Kuya!” someone called.

It’s Jenny! Everybody calls her Jenmac actually. But I’d like to call her Jenny in my head. It’s sweeter, which fits this girl perfectly. Seeing her then, that far from home, completely cheered me up; like finally finding the way back after being lost for a long time.

“Jen! It’s good to see you!”

She hugged me, I hugged back, and I felt tension start to leave my system. I have made it. I’m really here. And right then, I knew everything will be perfectly alright.

09:42 AM.

I was in a yellow cab cruising on an overpass passing along skyscrapers.

That wasn’t too difficult, was it? I just went out of the airport lobby, walked some, followed a few signs, (which said something like, “Taxicabs here. Come and be saved!”) Then I waited in this very short line and, voilà! I’m in a yellow cab to my destination. Easy.

I got with me a grand total of three hundred AND twenty pesos. That's probably way more than enough to get to anywhere, right? I'm pretty good at this first-time-going-on-my-own-in-the-big-city thing. Maybe I'll reward myself some ice cream after this, a cup or pint maybe. Hey, let’s see how many delicious ice cream we can get by calculating our change. He he.

“Say, mister. Around how much will this ride cost?” I asked the taxicab driver excitedly.

“Oh, about four hundred pesos, sir.”

I screamed alright.

06:44 AM.

It's useless. The rotten luck bunny had a field day.

“No luck,” my brother concluded, seeing my face as I hurriedly stepped out of the third ATM booth we scrambled into. “Hey. I got cash here. You can have them, if you like.”

“Man, that'd be great!” I answered, relieved. “I'll pay the moment I get back, I promise. How much you got?”

“Three hundred. And a twenty.”

“Thanks! That should be more than enough for a cab. You’re the best, bro!”

“Here. You pay triple in interest.”

“Wah?!”

“Kidding. You sure you’re good with three C's? We can go try one more.”

I put the cash in my wallet, and grinned. I’m coming home, sweet.

“No need. I’m good. Already late. Airport.”

He nodded and the motorcycle engine roared to life.

“Let’s roll.”

09:43 AM.

“No problemo, sir,” said the taxicab driver cheerily. I just explained to him why he might end up giving me a couple of miles free ride (or wrestling me out of the cab.)

“I’ll get us there with three hundred pesos,” he assured with a grin.

“Really? Thank you!”

Hallelujah for golden-hearted taxicab drivers! I’m actually given a free ride! I thought.

Then, my phone rang. It was Jenny calling! I hurriedly answered.

Jenny told me she got my message earlier, and she can help me get around. I thanked her a hundred times.

“Jen, will she be there?”

“I don’t think so, kuys. It’s still morning. They’re probably still taking the exams.”

“I see. Hey Jen, is it OK if you take me where she’s taking the exams?”

“Sure. Just meet me at the dormitory, ‘k?”

I thanked Jenny a hundred times more. She’s such a nice girl. I so owe her one. Maybe I should tell the world how sweet she is or something.

“By the way, sir,” started the driver as I put down my phone. “It would be best if you put on your seat belts.”

And the taxicab rocketed through the highway.

06:49 AM.

“Check-in time closed.”

The airline guy pointed at a notice that pretty much told me I’m too late.

“But I really need this flight,” I beseeched.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s policy.”

“Come on. Please. Look. Have you ever been lucky enough to have met a beautiful girl, who, when she smiles, just brightens you up like nothing in this sad lonely world ever did? And if you have, wouldn't you just do everything, defy anything, just to see her smile that smile again?”

The airline guy paused, stared at me. Panting and sweating all over, I must’ve been some sight.

“OK,” he said taking my papers. “Next time, earlier.”

YES!

A couple of minutes later, I took out my phone and keyed-in a message to my brother waiting outside: Got in. Thanks for the assist. Give my love to Mom.

He replied: No prob. BTW, in case of pressure, chew gum.

I chuckled and hurried into the boarding area.

11:32 AM.

We’re on a jeep going to that school where she is. Almost there, sweet.

“How do you know forever anyway?” I remembered Jenny asked at lunch earlier.

It got me wondering, as I stared outside at the blur of people and buildings, and things unrecognizable. It’s a totally different world here. I wonder if she’s different. Will I recognize her still?

Yes. Forever. How do you know it? How can you know it enough to promise it in a world of constant change? They say, love is forever, but how exactly do you know that love stays when those who speak it and are spoken to by it never stay the same? Where time wearies all that is made by the hands of men to endure, how do you know forever?

“We’re almost there, kuys,” Jenny told me.

“Hey, Jen. I’ll pay,” I said, waving my hand insistently.

I took out a twenty and passed it up to the driver. As I closed my wallet, I caught her picture again. Eyes. Lips. Her head tilted curiously, an expression far too sweet for her own good.

I smiled. And then, I knew.

07:00 AM

I crashed on a bench, dropped my bag, and heaved a huge one. Ah, respite.

The boarding area was already filled with people -- many walked about, some nodded off trying to catch sleep; most were just staring at the runway, waiting for that plane that will take them away.

I crossed my arms and laid back.

Funny how things never really end up how you thought they would. You could plan as much as you want but you’ll never really get what you planned for – not exactly.

I stared at a kid staring intently at the runway. He was seated farther ahead with arms folded and little feet swaying. He sighed and his entire body went up and down.

Although, I guess preparing is not really about knowing absolutely everything that will happen. I mean, what would be the fun in that? You know what, I think the unknown, no matter how it generally tries to be as scary as possible, is really this fun, exciting thing in the inside. That’s the stuff of adventure, right? Going someplace not knowing what’s there; discovering the unknown. And when you prepare for an adventure, it’s really all about telling yourself that, no matter how much you have no idea what’s in store for you, you’re sure that, at the end of it all, you’ll find what you set out for. And I think that magnificent thought —that faith— is really what makes it so.

I heard the rising roar of jet engines as the plane landed on the runway. I saw the kid jumped up and pointed at the plane as it zoomed pass the boarding area. He was tugging his mother’s arm, talking excitedly, and eyes laughing in pure wonder. I caught myself laughing as I stood up, shouldered my bag, and walked towards the runway.

And faith, I think, definitely makes the best stories.

10:00 AM

I chuckled to myself as I tried to relax at the back of the cruising taxicab.

And I’m saved, again.

There are really times when I just know that, when I get myself into some trouble, something would always happen and, just like that, I’m out; and that’s without me even putting much effort to try to get out of the situation. It’s like I have this eternal “Get out of trouble” card that I take out and everything just turns out alright. But more than that, it always feels like I’m being constantly guided, like everything is laid out before me, and all I have to do was to just set out and go – to just say, yes.

I looked out; at billboards filled with color, at cars with people seemingly still, at soaring buildings with glass windows reflecting morning sunlight. We passed this huge bridge and I saw a vast sea; calm and endless.

I closed my eyes and whispered a heartfelt thank you.

I think everybody is always being saved. All it takes is to say yes to see it.

12:00 PM

I waited for her at that small cafeteria. It was quiet here, with only the whisper of conversations and the occasional twitter of birds in those two giant trees farther away.

“Ate is probably somewhere at the top floors, kuys,” Jenny said pointing up at the school building across us.

“Soon now.” Jenny smiled reassuringly. I smiled back.

I looked out to the trees at the sound of another twitter. I thought then that everything in this place – the entire campus, that school building, this cafeteria, the wooden table I’m leaning on – may all ruin down and disappear forever, and still those trees will stay. They’ll stay because when everything around them passes to the unrelenting will of time, they will just grow. It’s as if they simply fated themselves to remain no matter what happens around them, and somehow, just like that, they will.

I closed my eyes. I felt the softness of her hair, the touch of her skin, like an endless summer field; that sweet scent of gentle breeze and soft rain; that voice of sunshine and perfect dreams that linger. I felt home. And that smile. Ah, she always has that smile.

“Kuys, there she is!”

I opened my eyes and looked up. I saw those darling eyes looked back at mine. They were sort of misty then. It made me worry that she might be crying or something. I saw those compellingly immaculate lips, slowly forming into a smile. There she was.

I was the happiest man on earth.

And again, I’ll always know.

- - - - - - - -

concluded, June 15, 2010

Found one

2010-03-14T09:35:00.002+08:00

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
by: William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

- - - - - - -
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

The first entry of five-eight-three-dash-one

2010-03-01T00:25:00.012+08:00

"I have a lot of questions about this. It just looks bad.

Ok. It’s not that I don’t believe that we need to improve our way of doing things. We do. It’s in the way we are actually trying to improve. That’s what's bad. I think.

It’s true. Traditional aphid farming isn’t working anymore. We take too long and too much work to produce results. And the results are always something we are not sure of. When we touch the aphids wrongly, they spoil. When we carry them too long, they molt. When we don’t watch them carefully, bacteria get them. There are too many opportunities for mistakes. Actually, it has so many disadvantages that I can’t figure out any advantage worth mentioning at all. Except maybe for the fact that this is a method we are all used to and have been doing since the beginning.

So, as maybe all of us agree, traditional aphid farming is indeed bad. But why should aphid farming totally go? Why can’t we find any other way of farming aphids than the traditional way? Why can’t we improve it? Aphids, though tricky, still works. They are easily available, and everyone already knows a lot about them. I mean, why leave them altogether instantly when ants in other trees can farm them effectively? (Believe it or not.) Why is it not better to stay with local familiar aphids? Why can’t we, industrious resourceful ants that we are, find our own effective way of farming them?

Then there’s this whole idea of fungi farming. Which ant thought of that anyway? I often wonder if the Queen was really consulted about this, or if this is what She wants at all. Why in the termites’ rotten caves fungi farming? Come on. This is farming used by a colony thousands of meters from us, introduced by ants completely different from us. We don’t live the same way. We don’t eat the same food. We don’t even have the same problems. So, I don’t really get it why the drones keep on insisting this is what is best for us. Frankly, a lot of us don’t think so.

Fungi farming is hard work. Yeah, maybe chewing fungi is easier to do than suckling aphids. But it’s that part on actually making edible chewable fungi from leaves that concerns me. Can we really do it? Should we really do it? Can we choose the right leaves? Can we carry these leaves? Can all of us learn to process these leaves properly? Do we even eat fungi? We don’t know this for sure yet, and yet we are so bent on applying fungi farming to the entire colony. Why? Why shouldn’t we instead, like all new systems, carefully test this system first? Not just test it once and to a limited chamber in the colony, then pronouncing it right away as ‘the solution to the farming problem’. Test it many times in gradually increasing level of ways. See if it really fits. See which ways we can apply and which ones we can’t. Aren’t we risking too much in relying everything right away to a farming system we are not even sure of?

Come to think of it, why in the Queen’s name are we thinking like this: ‘Ok, guys. We can’t seem to perfect this aphid farming. What should we do?’ ‘Hey, I know, crap aphid farming! Let’s do fungi farming! Like those other ants way out there. And let’s try doing this on that season when we badly need food. Al-right!’

Isn’t that just strange?

A lot of questions. And you know what, maybe the real answers are far worse." - C

- - - - - - - i

Define heaven

2010-02-19T06:37:00.003+08:00

1. Dad's binisaya grilled pork chops with tomatoes, onions, garlic, and calamansi on soy sauce sawsawan, and green mangoes on the side with perfectly sautéed shrimp bagoong.

2. Mom's special Ilocos-style pinakbet with lots of stock and lots of steaming rice.

3. Mae's mean sinigang na hipon with pechay, kang kong, radish and sabaw a plenty.

4. Selecta's double dutch ice cream.

- - - - - - -

Spell despair.

2009-07-06T21:54:00.010+08:00

“You need to study 6 hours every day,” says the law professor in class. “To have any chance at passing the Bar.”

OK, I thought, then hurriedly-- not quite desperately-- looked for anything to write numbers on.

Let's see. There are 24 hours in a day, I calculated, writing on the margin of the 3-days-old issue of PDI I had with me. This issue has this cool front page photo of the coolest balcony in the world. Anyway, 24 hours minus the things you generally can't do anything about, 8 hours of sleep and 8 hours at work. So, minus 16 hours. That's only 8 hours left. Minus the other important activity you need to do to be able to study well: Eating food. Which of course you likewise need to actually, you know, live. I mean, if you don't you won't have your 24 hours at all. So that should be there, and that should have been calculated with the first two, you beanpole. Hookay. That's 8 minus 3 hours. 1 hour every meal. And that's... 5 hours left.

OK, ok, don't loose hope. Maybe you could adjust your 8 hours of work a little, and a bit of your hours of sleep, and, yes, your meals. I think you can still fit an hour of study there. Yessiree, that solves the problem, right? Ah, but you still have your classes, dumbass, and that's 3 solid hours out there waving goodbye.

“Syempre, you still have to count those hours you need to travel to work, and school, and of course, taking a bath, brushing your teeth, doing chores, talking to people, blogging, and the usual staring blankly at the air in disbelief at all the important things you didn't do. Which is roughly around 2 hours,” whispered my seat mate as he looks at my calculations in the same way we'd generally look at roadkill. Tsk, tsk.

“6 hours,” our good professor iterated for emphasis. “Minimum.”

Yep. I'm doomed.

- - - - - - - - i

Verse of the Day

2009-04-15T20:37:00.002+08:00

Leafear said to Aya, she who is beginning and end,
“Do not let one reason to be unhappy make you forget happiness.
As long as you can be happy, then be happy.
Always choose joy over sadness, life over death.”
(Diwat 2:13)

- - - - - - - -

Staying at Mae's house after taking her home from the airport and eating dinner of sea shells

2009-04-08T22:08:00.006+08:00

Sweet scent of lavender.
Soft secret kisses.
Long tender talks at night.
My baby is home.

- - - - - - -

Seeing Scales

2009-04-04T05:42:00.012+08:00

This morning I found out that someone I know just passed the BAR. It was still early in the morning when I did, just a little before sunrise. It was still dark in my room, but outside I can already hear the occasional carefree twittering of early morning swallows and roosters cautiously crowing as the day was slowly stirring awake. I was stirred from my sleep, and remembered that yesterday at the office we were excited to check out the results of the bar exams, which was due to come out anytime yesterday. We know people, acquaintances and friends, who took the last bar. I guess we were excited for them. We waited the entire day, constantly checking the Supreme Court of the Philippines website for the results, but it didn't come out as we have expected it would during our office hours. We left the office still wondering about the results. So after I woke up this morning and said my morning prayers, I took out the trusty Aspire One and went to the supreme court website to see if the results are already there. It was. I browsed through the name of the passers and found that familiar name there, in silent black and white. I grinned.

You see, I'm studying law right now and someday I'll take the bar exams too. They said it's the most difficult professional licensure exam in the Philippines. Having seen that name there of someone who studied Law as I did, who went to the same university as I am now, who studied while working as I did, in the same agency where I worked... Ah, my heart was filled with hope. If someone roughly four years ago was in a very similar situation as I am now has passed the most difficult licensure exam in the Philippines - so they say - well, I might do too.

There are very few things in my life that I can say I really worked hard for, things to which I have given enough of my heart and soul, of all that I am, for me to actually remember them in great specific detail. I think I just found the second one.

- - - - - - - - i

On welcome farewells

2009-04-03T00:47:00.008+08:00

Ah, I needed this.

I just came from this SALT Activity – the Despedida. It's when the community celebrates the success of members who are done with their fourth year in college. Despedida is Spanish for, “Farewell.” Salt is essentially a community that revolves around friendship and college life in the Ateneo. Since fourth year is usually graduating year for members, the year's end would be the time the member would move on and say farewell from life in college and from life as member of the community as well. It's not totally goodbye though. Friendship remains strong, if not stronger, after college. And if there's one thing about Salt that I know for certain, it is that it is about friendship – total, true, human friendship. Thus, former members still do stay part of the community as Alumni, who are regularly invited from their stress-filled responsibilities in the real world of life after college to again feel that magical feeling of loving togetherness and be reminded of a community of friends we will always belong to. Which is exactly what happened with me tonight. So, Despedida will simply be a transition from one state of belongingness to another, from a stage of relationship to the next. And its celebration is always one of bittersweet emotions, always between letting go of a life filled with fulfillment, of wonderful experiences and heartfelt gratitude, and welcoming another life of promise and great things to come.

For this and much much more, we will always be grateful for Salt.

On a side note, I personally think taking one's Despedida – that part on becoming an Alumni from a member – is quite less like a retirement and much more like getting a promotion. I mean, in every Salt gathering, which is usually a dinner party when it involves Alumni, the Alumni would be the ones to take a shot at the buffet table first. Members are the last. And then, the Alumni get to be entertained by this beautiful series of song numbers, wonderful serenades, while they eat their dinner – heartily. Members are the ones doing the entertaining and serenading, and preparing the entire event. Alumni just go there and enjoy themselves, reminiscing their beautiful memories back in those college days when they were still Salt members. So like, less work, more privileges. Sounds like a promotion to me!

Disclaimer: I sort of remembered I work in the government. So I might have twisted concepts of promotions. *sigh*

- - - - - - - -

Butterfly Wings

2009-02-21T12:26:00.016+08:00

Seven days ago I told the girl who taught me how to love that I'll marry her.

I saved my entire paycheck for half a year to take her on a summer vacation to this island in Visayas. As I sat beside her on the grass on top of a quiet hill watching the sun majestically set like a crimson ship sailing slowly over the horizon, I took out an ivory gold ring --which cost me my paycheck for the other half of the year-- took her hand and gently slid it around her finger. She laughed sweetly and gave me one of her warmest hugs that made me feel like I won the whole world. I starved to death for a year and almost got kicked out of my apartment, but she made everything worth it, and made this life filled with disappointment and uncertainty seem perfect.

She wanted to have lots of pictures on our wedding. She wistfully told me then. Her hands were holding my hand; her head resting on my shoulder. She said she wanted to remember every detail forever.

I got a bit worried. I told her I might ruin a lot of her pictures. Getting pictures taken makes me nervous. It's the flashes. I have this rare condition called squama chromatea syndrome. It makes me see light at a higher rate of brightness than normal people. That doesn't really bother me much. What bothers me is that it made my irises and pupils ashen gray in color, which makes my eyes most of the time far too noticeable than I would have wanted. And also bright flashes would really hurt.

She knows about this, of course. She stroked my hand reassuringly, and told me it's OK. She grinned at me and said I can close my eyes in all the pictures if I wanted to. Then she teasingly told me that it's my ashen gray eyes that made her notice me in the first place.

Without them, she never would have found me.

We first met in college. I was a sophomore and she was a freshman. It was ten years ago; the first day of the first semester of the school year. I met her when I was sitting in one of the corridors at the university.

I remember I was thinking of cross-pollination. I was wondering if red flowers can pollinate with blue flowers of the same type, and whether that's the reason how violets started. If that's the case though, what started primary-color-colored flowers, like yellow? I was a weird kid in college.

While lost in between thoughts of red, blue and yellow, I felt a tap on my shoulder. And when I looked up, that's the first time I saw her. She was in a white summer dress, and she had that sweet smile that I never really fully recovered from even now.

I sort of thought she was an angel. Honest. She really looked like one then. Not that I've actually seen angels. But I'm pretty sure that when I do, they would look pretty much like her at that moment.

She told me she was a first year, and had no idea where the College Audio Visual Room was, which was in this pretty-difficult-to-give-directions-to place. And it took me an awkward while to explain to her where it really was. That made her smile that enchanting smile of hers a lot though. And after I was done making a fool out of myself trying to give her the best directions, she was very grateful.

Then she commented on how cool my eyes were. That gave the right amount of nudge to my self-confidence that I was actually able to offer her that, if she wanted my contact number to text or call me in case she got lost or something, I'll gladly give it to her. I'll gladly give her anything for that smile actually.

But, she told me she had no cellphone. So, much to my embarrassment.

Although, being the strangely self-confident person I had suddenly become then, I quickly took the notebook I had with me, wrote my number on a page, tore that page, and gave it to her.

Just in case, I said.

She smiled another sweet smile, thanked me, and left. I caught myself stupidly waving.

It would not be until my fifth year in college that I finally received a text from her. But that's a story for another time.

Only a bit of the orange sun was left on the horizon now, and the wind was starting to get cold.

I asked her if I had ever told her that she was the very first person, aside from family of course, that told me that my eyes were “cool”. Most comments before hers were somewhere around the lines of, “weird”, “scary”, or “that's so sad, I'm very sorry for you.” Hers was actually the very first positive comment I got for my eyes from any first encounter.

She laughed.

She teased that I was also the only boy that did not ask for her number, but offered to give his number instead.

I laughed with her at that.

Right then, I'd give up anything to stay at that moment forever. I wished I can stop time then and things would stay perfect.

I told her that.

She snuggled close, and we were quiet for a while. There was only the sound of the waves gently washing away on sand nearby.

She then told me that time does not stop because we need to have sad memories to make our happy memories truly happy.

Besides, she said, if it does, we wouldn't have other happy memories, like our wedding. That would definitely be a very very happy memory to look forward to.

I couldn't agree more.

And I guess the sun did too agree because it was totally gone; it was getting really dark and cold so we had to go back to the summer house we were staying.

As we were walking slowly back to the beach, she whispered that she will be making me breakfast tomorrow. I was surprised. I stared at her and then grinned in absolute delight. It would be the first time she'll cook a meal for me. I guess the excitement showed too much on my face, because she laughed at seeing how silly I must have looked. I wonder what she'll be cooking.

I never did find out though.

The next day, six days ago, what I found out was that it was fifteen years in the past.

When I woke up, I was in my old bed at my family home. I was in my room with my brother sleeping on the other bed across mine. And I was thirteen-years-old.

What happened here? Was my life all a dream?

No, it can't be. I remember in clear detail a whole fifteen more years of life I have lived. I was to live. I lived it. My memories in that life are far clearer than the ones I'm supposed to have in this past life I'm in now.

Will I be able to go back to that life? Maybe I'll wake up tomorrow and find out that this is the dream. I sure hope so. For I have an unsettling feeling that this life will not be the same as the one I had, the one I love.

For the morning of that day I first woke up here, I was so shocked and confused, and was desperately trying to figure things out, that I was late for school that day. That day was my first day in my first year of high school.

You see, I remember that day clearly. I know I wasn't suppose to be late that day. On that morning, I was so excited to see the new place I was to stay for this next big stage of my life, that I came early.

The sun has just come up from the horizon and the morning air was still very cold. I supposed to have been curiously exploring my new school building that day. I supposed to have found myself on the top floor. I supposed to have stopped for a moment right there below the flag pole attached to a wall. I supposed to have been there watching how the flag danced quickly as strong winds rushed all over it.

For on that fateful moment, as I stood there watching, a lightning hit that pole. It burned the flag, blinded me for seven days. It turned my eyes to ashen gray, and made me see too much light for the rest of my life.

But now, I wasn't there at that morning seven days ago. I was still at home confused. When that lightning hit that pole, I was far away --perfectly safe. My eyes, they are now fine. Black and normal as can be. And that may be for the rest of my life.

I had always hated those ashen gray eyes when I was growing up. But as I found myself now beginning to write my life again, I can't help but be haunted.

Without them, how will I ever find her again?

- - - - - - - i

Pause

2009-02-18T17:29:00.003+08:00

I questioned the tree.
Leaves and branches, sway with wind.
It gave no answer.

- - - - - - - -

Loaf

2008-03-28T16:49:00.009+08:00

You know what I really hate about myself right now? It’s the vile fact that I always cram. I cram in everything. Anything that has a deadline, I’d cram in it. I cram in studying for my finals. I cram when submitting things at work. I cram every morning when I have to wake up, take a bath, get dressed and not be late for whatever. It’s so chronic I’m starting to think I’m addicted to it. I have this suspicion that I secretly deliberately cram, that I actually like the rush in doing things like crazy just to fit everything in a ridiculously small amount of time, all that excitement of the possibility of not making it and getting screwed up in the worst ways. I think I told Mae one time while she was panicking for her final exams that,

The most blissful form of relaxation is the kind done in the middle of a deadline.

Here is no doubt a manifestation of my perverse way of thinking, particularly on the idea of “taking it easy”. The worst part in this whole cramming business is I somehow always find a way out of any situation I cram in, which really sums things up as hopeless. It’s hard to convince myself to do things on time when I could simply slack off and still get away with it (sometimes with flying colors even).

This should stop. I can’t settle for things half-baked, petty excuses, and mediocrity. If I let myself continue on cramming, I’ll end up cramming for the rest of my life. I will not stagnate. I will be better than this. I will change.

Another thing I hate about myself is that no matter how I would tell myself to change, I can’t seem to do it. But that’s another story.

- - - - - - - i

Knots

2008-03-25T02:57:00.008+08:00

It was the night of our second anniversary, and things ended up quite different from the way we would have liked them to. Dinner wasn’t in that place we were really hoping to go back to, and we talked about things we weren’t really ecstatic on talking about. It was a bit far from the sweet and happily-ever-after way that dinner dates and anniversaries usually go, but, you know what, somewhere along the way I think I fell in love with her even more.

Who is she whose spirit was as free as the haze that cuts across the night sky? Who is she whose will was as fierce as the darkness of evening twilight? Her heart was as tender as the silver moon. She was free to go anywhere her heart desires. She can choose to have anything she can dream of. And yet, she’d rather have me.

I guess I’m caught right there, again, with no hope whatsoever.

I'm hers, now, always.

- - - - - - -

On the hardest part

2008-03-22T23:56:00.005+08:00

The hardest part in loosing those you love is not that moment when you are actually loosing them. Not really. I think that is the easiest part. That's because you don’t usually expect those so close to your heart to just go away, just like that. You always had that idea that your love for them will keep them near and safe always, and so when you loose them, you are usually in shock and denial. You fall, with nothing to do but wait for the bottom to hit. You cry and you feel lost, but that was just the beginning. The hardest part comes much much later. It is when you start missing them, and you realize they are never coming back. Not this time.

I miss Dad. However, I try not to stay sad too long at one time. I say, take one pint of sadness a day, because the whole bottle will drown you. If a pint is not enough, take two, and then sleep it off and wait until morning, or thirty minutes before deadline, whichever panics you first.

- - - - - - -

to my favorite teacher and other girls

2008-02-12T04:12:00.001+08:00

Monday, December 25, 2006

Sofie pulled her legs up and crossed her arms over them. It was night, and everything was dark and cold and silent in her room. She tried to embrace as much of her self as she can, keeping the cold at bay. Her thoughts were of nothing in particular, nothing important, only a jumble of old memories and happy thoughts, close friends, and sweet dreams sticking out from a pile. She had her PC on. The dull glow of its monitor faintly reflecting on her face. Five minutes ago, she was trying to remember something that she needed to do. She never did remember though. And so she was left with a waiting PC and herself drifting away thinking. Sofie sighed, and she thought she heard her soul do the same.

Prentice_hall: Why so lonely?

A message came up the screen. For a second, Sofie thought she felt her steady heartbeat stop. She read the message slowly, one letter at a time, and frowned slightly at the end. She uncrossed her arms and felt for the keyboard. Sofie typed in a reply.

Cottonmouthgirl: I’m contemplating, not lonely. Lonely are for fools, sir. I’m not.

She smiled and crossed back her arms. She felt like sticking her tongue out and laughing like the silly girl that she was. But the room was too quiet and she felt she’d rather not break the silence for fear that something bad might happen when she does. Something bad always happens when one is enjoying too much. So, she contended herself with slightly smiling at the screen. Besides, thinking made her tired.

Prentice_hall: No. You are lonely. Why?

Sofie frowned again. This is getting to be boring, and annoying. But Sofie realized that she was more annoyed with herself than at whoever was repeating stupid questions on her PC. She was supposed to be busy. She was supposed to be trying to remember what she needed to do so she could start getting them done before other new things needed to be done come up, clutter her head more, and make her forget again. Instead, she was busy thinking why some weirdo was asking her some odd question, and why this sudden feeling in her heart that finding the answer to it was the most important thing she needed to do. Sofie wondered, and everything seemed to feel colder. Sometimes, there are things that needed to be settled first before you can start on anything else. But some things just cannot be settled, not really, and you are left to go on with your life in between closure and moving on. Sofie stared at the monitor. It’s dull glow reflecting on her face.

Cottonmouthgirl: Missing someone.

Sofie read her answer on the screen and smiled. Sometimes, one needs to break things up so that one can see what went wrong. And then, when one is already wiser, one can build up something that is better. Sofie realized as she felt her heart break into pieces, she’s finally starting to get things done. And she laughed at how silly she was, her soft sweet giggles filling up her cold cluttered room.

Prentice_hall: Ah, don’t we all?

- - - - - - -

fiat voluntas tua

2008-01-27T01:40:00.000+08:00

Almost there.

I woke up. There were flowers, and that sweet scent of candles burning. I can hear the soft music of a guitar being played. Everything was white and fading shadows. My body felt so tired. I remember.

Almost there.

I watched my Dad as he lay peaceful and still. His eyes were closed, and I kept seeing in my mind how keen they were when open, so filled with wonder and kindness, and pride and contentment. His body was so still, and I kept remembering the times when I would see him work with so much skill, dance with so much life, speak with so much wisdom. I remember how warm his hands were, always there to give an encouraging pat, telling me everything will be alright.

Almost there.

I followed him, as we passed slowly through familiar streets. Above us, the morning sky was dark and gloom. The sound of gold and silver, beneath our feet. The air was biting cold. When it began to gently rain, I whispered a prayer.

Almost there.

I heard my voice rang through the little church. The echoes stirred across hallowed walls, to the ears of the people quietly listening, to the spaces of my hollowed heart. The ink on the sheets I was holding was blotched, the paper slightly crumpled. I wanted to make them see. I wanted them to remember.

Almost there, Dad.

In the place of grass and trees, and stillness, I saw my Dad one last time. The tears no longer came. I wanted so much to smile, but it was hard when your heart kept breaking with longing. I watched them close the coffin. I watched as they rested my Dad far beneath the earth. I closed my eyes, and remembered him say goodbye.

We’re here, Daddy. Rest now. You’re home.

- - - - - - -
Three days before Christmas, I buried my father. He died on a hospital bed with two gunshot wounds on his body. He still lives in my heart. He is always a hero for me. Now, he is a hero for everyone too.

Defy

2007-11-08T20:16:00.001+08:00

Fashion statement (if I ever had one) for today is:

"I wear what I want and I just don’t care.”

So if I got out of the bath this morning, and had the impulse to wear that brown corduroy pants that I haven’t touched for ages, along with a scandalously mismatching faded blue polo shirt, then I will go out to the public wearing exactly that. If I had the compelling desire to ruin my dysfunctional social life a little bit more by not wanting to wear shoes to work, then I will meet with provincial treasurers, city mayors and regional directors in my trusty worn-out sandals with feet proudly bared, toes and all. If I wanted to clip my office ID on the collar of my shirt right at the middle where the buttons are, then the world may cringe in horror for all I care. If popular opinion thinks that my tastes are way too uncool, then they’d better be having new opinions by noon, ‘coz I ain’t changin'.

I say, bow to me, World.

- - - - - - -

naïve

2007-11-04T18:41:00.001+08:00

Five simple words surprise me.

"I still read your blog," she says.

All thoughts escape my head, and there is only her, and those cheerful caramel-colored eyes behind glasses of summer and sunshine. Time stops, and I wonder about second chances, soft porcelain skin, and things far beyond uncomplicated friendship.

And then, it was over.

I smiled at how naïve I get with her. What was I thinking? I shrugged, and quickly said goodbye.

She was pretty in that dress she had. She always was.

- - - - - - -

of firsts and lasts

2007-10-28T07:34:00.001+08:00

2005, the last week of May. It was morning and I was sitting in an office that smelled like fresh bond paper and air-conditioning. I was supposed to be happy today. I was supposed to have had graduated, after all the putting up and keeping on just to finish college on time. I was supposed to be having my first vacation in four years, after longing for it in a life that felt like nothing but a string of dull Mondays, of meaningless rooms and empty streets, and silent nights that refuses to end. I was supposed to have love, after waiting for so long for that one chance to make her see, never losing faith in believing and hoping. I was past facing the music and moving on. But then, after you move on, where exactly do you go? I felt so lost.

This office was too bright. I wished the fluorescents would go out and it would be dark and dim. I’d bow my head and sulk in the shadows, and no one will notice. Outside was another tedious midmorning. I wished it would rain hard, and the gloom and the cold would match how my heart is. Stupid heart. I was sick of it. I was fed up of listening to it tell me that I was different and that something special was meant for me out there. I was tired of following it to nowhere, to nothing but stupid mistakes and never-ending loneliness. I wanted to rest so badly. I wanted to feel safe in giving in and staying away. I wanted to let go of all these lost hopes and failed dreams. I would soon, when my heart would finally listen, break into a million irreconcilable pieces, and never speak again. I was almost there.

Someone called my name. I was done here. I stood up. I took another look outside and saw a cloudless blue morning sky. I sighed, then slowly walked to the door, and stepped outside. Then, I saw her -- white blouse, jeans, cap. She reminded me of soft breezes and endless fields, and laughter fading in the wind. She was seated on one of the chairs placed in front of the office door I just came out of. Her small lithe frame was the first thing I noticed the moment I walked out. I took the seat beside her. She stared at me with warm inquisitive eyes, veiled in soft shadow and partially hidden beneath the visor of her cap. I smiled as we heard each other’s names for the first time. Some words were said and then she was leaving. I caught myself watching her walk away. Where do you go after you move on? I think there is a part of ourselves that nothing and no one in the world can change, not even ourselves -- a courage that makes you try, an innocence that makes you hope, a passion that makes you persevere, a spirit that makes you endure. You lift yourself up, and try it again. You go back. And this time, you’ll get it right.

- - - - - - -

an elephant's memory

2007-10-22T10:32:00.000+08:00

Note to self: You’re the worst journal keeper on earth. Live with it.

Friday night, last, last, last week was a big accomplishment for me in the being-a-swell-boyfriend department. (Or was it a Thursday? Saturday? Sigh.) Apparently, I was able to fulfill one of Mae’s longtime dreams. I taught her how to drive a bike, a motorbike. It was on this street beside the Parish Church in Tetuan, the one between the Church and the Immaculate Conception High School. That street is usually empty at night and the place is very safe --no drunks, gangs, or muggers strolling about. It was perfect for driving lessons. You should have seen the look on her face when she was finally able to race across the street. (Ok, more like tottered across. But, hey.) The big smile on her face that night was beyond priceless. Her eyes were all aglow. Her mouth was sort of somewhere between a big grin and a laugh. She was so adorable. You should have seen how I looked. I was cheering, and screaming, and generally making a dork out of myself all over the place. It was great.

There are moments in life you wish you could keep forever. Until time machines are invented, this blog will have to do.

- - - - - - -

Bliss

2007-10-19T08:38:00.000+08:00

I think I will be happy today. Amidst the downpour and the cold, I stared out the window and smiled. I felt the sweetness of the cool air in my breathing. I felt the slow steady rhythm of my heart. I felt the frigid wind trace my skin, felt my muscles coil in anticipation, felt the rush of hot young blood beneath. I felt alive. Today, I believe that fleeting hopes do come true, in exciting, unexpected, messy, beautiful ways.

- - - - - - -
Yesterday, a little before noon, I was the happiest man on earth.

Mutiny

2007-10-09T02:03:00.001+08:00

It’s half past 1AM and I refuse to sleep. I refuse to give in to that cunning determined temptress they call rest. I will not be pulled slowly but surely into the gentle warm embrace of my bed. I will not be swayed by the soft silky whispers that tell me to forget the failures of yesterday and the worries of tomorrow, and escape into the bliss that is slumber.

Nay.

I will stay awake. I will keep my eyes open and my brain conscious until I get what I want. I am indomitable. I am vigilant. Never again will a day end without being productive. Never again will life pass without being remembered. Each moment will be forever! This will be my immortality! I WILL NOT sleep!

Zzzzzzz…

- - - - - - -

K1

2007-10-05T02:00:00.000+08:00

Banged up as hell, first time I saw him. Scratches and bruises all over. Half mud soiled. Strings of plastic tape passed up as bandages. A nasty scar cuts across his face, a souvenir from a particularly ugly memory.

“Practically new that one,” the trader was saying. “Bought it just a year ago, give or take some. Barely used it. Check the milo. I’d say a little over a thousand miles.”

Black as night. Bad as he may look he had something about him, like some ancient duelist refusing to die, a sense of unbreakable dignity. Proud. Stubborn. Defiant to the core. Beneath that broken body, there was strength that cannot falter, freedom that can never be stilled.

“Very well-maintained that is. Nothing modified. Get ‘em cleaned and that’ll be as good as new.”

I let myself another long wandering look. I nodded my head, agreeing to the bargain. The trader had a big grin wide across his mug. Inside, I let myself a smile as well. I walked over and stared at my purchase up close. Scarred face. Broken frame. I placed my hand gently on the throttle, felt the rubber beneath my skin. A black Honda Wave Alpha. Banged up as hell. It was the best motorcycle I’ve ever seen, better than all the rest. For this one, this one is mine.

- - - - - - -
July 2006

Senti

2007-07-04T03:28:00.001+08:00

Lately, I’m more and more inclined to think that I’m beginning to be a silent type of person. Ok. I’m sure a lot of people who knows me personally would think the idea of me anywhere near ‘silent type’ is either the most hilarious freaking joke they ever heard in their life, or some vile misconception the Pope himself should expurgate. Probability-wise, silence and me, would not even be in the same zip code, nay, the same space-time continuum, like chocolate and green mangoes. It just couldn’t be.

But lately though I’m thinking maybe that idea is not that silly after all, regardless what most people would think of me, or even what I think of myself.

My brother once explained to me that I’m like a teddy bear when it comes to confrontations. I’m more of the passive type who thinks that relationships are far more important than seeking out correctness. When there are fights or disagreements, I tend to be quiet, giving in, the one who amicably takes the fault. In an argument, I’d rather save a relationship than prove who is right, even if I’m a hundred percent sure it was me. That is why, my brother says, when there are spats at home I just sit there not saying anything most of the time. Hence, a teddy bear. And, you know what, he’s right. I am a teddy bear.

Case in point:

Last night, our law professors decided to skip class, of course without informing us. I reckon that the reason for this secrecy is to facilitate to some kind of elaborate training in the aspects of judicial processes in the Philippines, say, the idea of a “speedy trial”. We waited a good two hours just to make sure they’re not coming. Patience is definitely a law virtue.

While waiting, between tiredness, boredom and the hopeless effort to study in the noise that was once the classroom of LLB 1, Section A, I somehow ended up talking with S, R and K, my three regular seat mates. We were having a nice pleasant chat that for some twisted reason ended up into this teasing contest, with them teasing me. Now, S, R, and K were all young ladies, and while they are relentlessly ganging up on me, I barely did anything to defend myself. Three reasons: (1) they’re girls, who, by nature, have sensitive feelings, and, I’m me, who, by nature, teases with no sense of sensitivity whatsoever; (2) I was trying to think of a way to tease a girl without hurting her feelings; and, (3) there’s no such thing as teasing a girl without hurting her feelings.

I ended up being bullied by three girls that night. Thus proving that, I’m one big stupid teddy bear, who would rather be wantonly harassed by girls than risk hurting feelings and risking friendships.

I think I’m not just a teddy bear in confrontations. I think, in one way or the other, I’m always a teddy bear, someone who is always careful in sharing himself for fear of breaking relationships – cautious to the point of never. I know of a time when I’d share my ideas with no sense of fear at all. There was that Dr. Seuss quote that Mae really liked.

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

I think I lived by that at some point. But then, as I grow older, some opinions and criticisms can’t help but matter, regardless of whatever I feel about them. For every rejection, the loss of others' acceptance grows heavier than the silence of one’s ideas. Eventually, there are people you don’t want to misunderstand, and ties you cannot afford to break. I let my ideas grow quieter and quieter until I got used to simply silently witnessing, content on keeping my ideas to my own, reflecting and contemplating on them, polishing them, for maybe someday, someone still would come and ask for these ideas, and maybe understand.

In some way, I think I’m a teddy bear needing someone else’s hug to be alive.

In some way, I think we all are.

- G-man

- - - - - - -

renata

2007-06-22T12:57:00.000+08:00

Today, we begin again..
.. with a hope that this beginning..
.. will be the last.

- - - - - - -
written on a text file
created: March 12, 2007, modified: May 12, 2007

Prodigal

2007-06-19T04:05:00.000+08:00

I know, I know, I promised.

And no, promises are not made to be broken. I mean, they wouldn’t hurt like fiery torment if they were. This is why I’m really sorry for being gone for almost a year without as much as a decent goodbye. Although, I did try my best to write, and it was quite a disappointment every time I didn’t get to. Promises do hurt like hell when broken, especially ones made to one's self.

But, rejoice, oh patient one! Dayeater is back eating his days again. It was a very long ten months indeed, long and tiring. I couldn’t even remember half of it. Everything was a blur of chalk and paper, and falling over dead tired. But if I do remember, I promise I’ll try to write about it. At least to make up for my going AWOL. Again, really sorry.

Blogging after one of these long hiatuses feels like having one of those bizarre dreams, you know, the ones that are so wonderful or scary that after you wake up you’d scramble for pen and paper to write them so as not to forget. When I'm finally able to write again, I feel like I’m dissecting my blur of a life, sorting out each moment, remembering each detail, finding myself in the edges. It’s like looking at a half-polished mirror, and seeing yourself clearer.

Anyway, it’s good to come home. Thanks, Minna-san.

- - - - - - -

Pamamaalam

2007-06-17T11:45:00.000+08:00

I left something in the Jesuit Retreat House in Malaybalay. In its red brick walls, narrow staircases, darkened corridors, in the cradle of the rocking chairs, the verandas with their view, the quiet of the library, the calmness of the chapel, in the sound of the crickets and the feel of the cold mountain air, I left a dream, an ideal, a part of myself, a piece of my soul. Maybe I will leave it here forever, forgotten. Or maybe I'll come back to this place, between the sky and the mountains, where heaven and earth meet, and find myself whole again.

But not yet. Not yet.

- - - - - - -
November 1, 2006
Northwing Veranda

Malaybalay

2007-06-17T10:39:00.000+08:00

silence.
a spider weaving its web
leaves falling between trees
foggy downpour
manresa conference room
glorious food
fallen bracket, lower-right side
southwing room b
a rainbow
orange river
durian trees, yellow caution lines
scary mirrors at night
pictures on the wall
san francisco a?
long walks
butterflies chasing each other
"stay in solitude"
two dead clocks
cold reflections
chapel of san ignacio
pretty young nuns
friendships found
north wing veranda
birds under the rain
trees swaying
crickets "brring"-ing
writings on red brick wall
"I was here."

- - - - - - -
November 3, 2006
Jesuit Retreat House
Impalambong, Malaybalay City

Respite

2007-06-17T09:09:00.000+08:00

Dewdrops on grasses,
raindrops on leaves,
the sky, a field of shadows,
the earth, a sea of green.

- - - - - - -

When life has to wait...

2006-08-28T18:46:00.001+08:00

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by: Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- - - - - - -

A day in the life of...

2006-08-27T08:00:00.001+08:00

I have to say this:

AAAAAAARRRGH! I can’t take this anymore! I’ve had enough! I won’t do it! I won’t! I wooon’t!

Ok ok. I’m done. Let’s get back to work.

- - -

Teaching is really not what I thought it was. Not when I was in elementary, or high school, or college, or even until that time when I actually took the job. It really wasn’t. It’s not as easy as stepping into a class and saying some BS that made sense, and giving out exams for the heck of it, and out-of-town holidays for the summer. No, it’s not. It’s piles and piles and piles of endless paperwork, and a mountain of responsibilities, and emergency meetings that takes up whatever time for rest you squandered for yourself. Oh, and your classes of course, those wonderful adorable classes. Sarcasm there.

God, I miss student life.

There are times in class when I just want to shout, “You idiots, you don’t know what you’re missing! Life’s cut out for you and you’re just sitting there like it’s unfair?? You should check out my life. Ingrates!”

Ah, but we’re teachers and models, and society demands decency. So, the teacher drones on and the students sit there bored, both wishing for each other's lives. We’ll never really know what we have until we lose it.

Well, maybe someday I’ll miss this life to. I could imagine it now. I’m bald and old, and nobody is in need of me. I’ll probably wish for work then, for a chance to be useful, to be alive. That’s when I’ll hope that I’m still a teacher and half of the work was killing me, and the rest of it beating what was left to a pulp.

I guess I should learn to love the teaching life. I have to admit it also has its beauties, like having a decent job and being independent, the sweetness of mentoring, of sharing a part of yourself to someone who will grow by it, and there’s the absolutely full rights to the books in the library. Being a teacher, I can freely read all day without being afraid to look uncool or geeky. Come on, I’m like being paid to read. Hah! And there are those delicious books in the Teachers Section that I coveted so much back in high school and I thought I’ll never get to read. Oh ho ho, they’re mine now! Ah yes, I could learn to enjoy this life, one paperwork at a time.

So, here’s one for me when I’m old. I promise, when we’re done, we’ll never be regretting.

- - -

This is an illustration of a portion of my paperwork. Just to give a picture of how awfully relaxing life as a teacher is. And why that last statement is oozing with sarcasm.

I have 7 classes with roughly 35 students each.

So, when I give a quiz, that’s about 245 papers to check for a week.

Ok, the minimum number of quizzes you could give in one quarter is 5.

So, in about two and a half months, I should have a minimum of 1225 quizzes to check.

We have 4 quarters in one school year. That’s like 4900 quizzes.

Four thousand nine hundred papers to check in one year.

And that’s not counting projects, recitations, and activities, and grades for 245 students you have to calculate. Oh, and there’s the lesson plans, syllabus, and test drafts.

Way cool, huh?

Ah, well, it’s a living.

- - - - - - -
Note: Today is Sunday, and I have to go to school for work. No, not because I'm getting paid to do it. But, because I have to prepare for the work I'm getting paid to do. Twisted.

Bad night

2006-08-20T23:38:00.000+08:00

It's...

Just...

Not...

Right.

- - - - - - -
Why does it still have to take one hard fall, one painful experience, before we could really understand, before we could really learn, before we could really change?

On Getting Through

2006-08-20T09:08:00.000+08:00

Sometimes, I feel like it’s difficult for me to express myself. Like now, that previous sentence alone took like five minutes and a thousand backspaces just for me to decide that the thing ‘sounded right’. At first it was, “Sometimes, I find it hard to communicate.” But then I thought it sounded like something from psychotherapy or something. And I kept on editing the damn thing until I got all exasperated and just stopped. I can’t believe I just spent five minutes of my life redoing one stupid sentence. No wonder I can’t seem to get things done. It just always didn’t sound right.

There are all of these ideas in my head. I wish I could tell them to another person just as they are. But my words seem to filter them down into some other form, totally unrecognizable from what they actually were. I envy people who could pull words like ‘ennui’ or ‘genealogy’ with ease and just flawlessly use them in one fine perfect sentence. I just can’t seem to express myself like that, free and effortless. There’s always this barrier somewhere, like I’m constricted with rules that I don’t even know what. But what bothers me more is that I seem to find it easier writing sad things than happy ones. Take this post for example. I mean, right now, I’m not even anywhere near sad. But reading this, it sounded like I’m about to jump off a building or something. It’s almost like I was made to suffer. I wonder why.

- - - - - - -
Compulsion, kom-pul’shon, n. An urge to do or say something that might be better left undone or unsaid; an irrational motive for performing trivial or repetitive actions against your will.

frazzy little kitty

2006-08-18T19:05:00.000+08:00

Here's a big thank you post to Raiza for being so sweet.

Your IM actually saved me from a very lonely day. For that and for you, I promise to do my best to try and write at least one post a week.

Yes. 'Machiavelli' is way too serious for you. You deserve something sweet, like 'honey', or 'cookie', or 'soda' or something.

And I do love your life too. I still think you'd be great as a writer, by the way.

Take care, Rai. ^.^

- - - - - - -
Be happy. You're too special to be anything else.

Smelling the flowers

2006-08-13T11:27:00.000+08:00

Finally, rest. God, I almost forgot how this feels.

Ok. For those who are wondering what has been happening to me and why I hadn’t been writing in the past few months or so, here’s a fill-in. That is if any of you actually exist out there. But who cares if no one cares, right? I intend to write this for myself anyway. Maybe five, ten years from now I’d get to remind myself how kickass I was in my twenties. Hah! But if there’s actually someone else out there reading this, after three months of being M.I.A., wow, I love you. And kindly give my regards to Sophie too.

Ten most notable things that happened to me in the past three months or so

Got a job. That’s right. The most impossible of the impossibles actually happened. Dayeater is not jobless after college. Not only that. He’s a high school teacher at the Ateneo. Oh, yes. A high school Religion teacher. Now, at this moment I can’t really explain how this phenomenon actually came about. Everything’s a bit surreal right now. A part of me is still expecting the White Rabbit to run past or something. Besides, it’s hard to contemplate on life when you’re drowning on paperwork. I’ve got a hundred of lesson plans to make and a thousand of quizzes to check, and hang-ups from college. Maybe I’ll try to explain myself next time I get to surface out. Teaching high school in the Ateneo is a great experience, especially for someone like me who’s actually from there. Pay’s a killer though.

Got a ride. I’m now driving a motorbike. It’s a black Honda Wave Alpha. Mom and Dad bought it to help me commute to the workplace. Mae named it ‘Keiichi’, like that guy in Ah! My Goddess. I took almost a month to get used to driving. It feels good to have your own motorbike – speeding down a highway at sixty miles an hour, neatly pulling over, cutting the engine, taking off your helmet, brushing your hair with your hands. Can you almost see me grinning over here?

Learned to swim. I spent two weeks of April learning to swim. Yes, I got into my twenties not knowing how. Yes, I attended a swimming class with kids eight, nine years younger than I am. And yes, I did learn, thank you. No more playing tong-its, making sandcastles, and staying out of the water for me.

Birthdays. I got Mae a morning delight for her first birthday spent with me. It’s a flowering plant. The cute thing about it is it ‘sleeps’. In the afternoon and at night, its yellow flowers close and its leaves sort of droops. Mae named it ‘Mica’. She loves naming things.*

The it’s-just-not-your-night night. One night, while I was taking Mae home, it rained. Hard. Then my tires got flat. I pushed Keiichi for like an hour and a half, at night, under the rain. Every vulcanizing shop we got into was closed. I ended up leaving the bike at a friend’s house because it’s getting late, and I’m getting worried about Mae. Later, when I got home, I got into a fight with my brother. It was not a happy night.**

New hair. I’m not wearing a semi-kalbo anymore. I’ve let my hair grow for two months. It feels weird combing your hair after not doing so for like three years or something. I think this says something about my personality. I’m beginning to conform with society. My rebel days must be over. Sigh.

New bags. I got two new bags. One’s a Hawk satchel bag, to easily carry all those stuff I bring between home and school. The other one is a Kamaru backpack, to replace my old Trimark one that retired after four years. I love them.

New threads. Mom took me to the barters to buy me new shirts for school. You know that one at Sta. Cruz, where almost everything is under one hundred pesos? Apparently, they don’t allow teachers to wear t-shirts and slippers in class, not even chucks. It’s an outrage, I tell you. Hah! Anyway, we got five shirts for the bargain price of two hundred pesos. I was actually planning to buy something from the department store, where one decent shirt would cost me around four to five hundred bucks. Moms really know best.

New fixtures. My old PC got a new table. It saves more space in our room. Me and my brother can now walk around without pushing each other all the time.

New flip-flops.They're Islanders.

That’s it. You know, I think life’s pretty sweet at this side. I’ll actually be smiling a lot, if I wasn’t so busy.

Oh, and here’s a message for me five, ten years from now:

If you’re not rolling in the good life by now, don’t blame me!
I mean, come on, that fork definitely looked better in the crossroads.

- - - - - - -
* Here’s a shot at serendipity. Mae’s birthday actually follows mine. Mine’s May 12, and hers is May 13. So, I’m like one year and one day older than her. Ok ok. It’s ‘almost’ serendipity. But, hey, the chances of being with someone with birthdays that close is like one in a million or something. Ok, maybe half-a-million. But still.

* * It’s nice to know that someone’s always there with you when you get into trouble. Mark and his family were happy to help us out even at so late at night. His mom even went so far as lending us an umbrella and a dry t-shirt for me. Thanks so much. Also, Mae adamantly refused to leave me with the flat tire and the cold rain. She was even smiling and telling me it’s ok when I finally got to take her home that night. All through that, she never did complain. She’s such a sweetheart. Love you, Bi.

Escape

2006-07-31T00:41:00.001+08:00

I watched, as the endless clouds parted, and sunlight poured through.

- - - - - - -

Driven

2006-04-12T15:03:00.001+08:00

This morning is my third attempt in driving. The first was some years ago, in which I got pretty disappointed because I kept ending up with a dead engine every time I tried shifting into first gear. Nothing learned there. Well, except maybe for the fact that it is really a basic human instinct to really want to kick the godforsaken gears out of something when the damn thing refuses to work. That and, angry outbursts gets you nowhere. The second attempt was two days ago. I got my dad convinced that having finished college I’m now a mature calm stable person, and teaching me to drive would no longer be that traumatic. I’m glad to report that things are more productive this time around. Today I was able to shift up to third gear on the first try without so much as a hiccup. I still killed the engine loads of times after that feat though, but hey, Rome wasn’t built in a day.

Driving lessons is early in the morning, lesser traffic that way. I have to wake up at around 4am, an utter miracle I tell you. Dad would take me and our 1972 Volkswagen Beetle to the Putik-Tumaga Road, somewhere near the place where the new Ateneo high school is being built. I’m having a bit of a hard time getting used to driving. An hour through the lessons, my left leg would get tired from all those clutches. It’s not that bad though. I think a little more practice and I’ll be fine. In teaching, Dad has this habit of putting analogies when trying to explain certain concepts, like how timing the accelerator when shifting gears is much like hand-feeding a crocodile, or pushing the break without the clutch is like strangling the engine. It sort of adds a whole new perspective to the whole driving thing. Now, I’m not just simply learning how to turn wheels, press pedals and shift sticks. I’m dealing with crocodiles here. Too much push on that accelerator and I might get my hand eaten off. No wonder I feel so tired when we get back home, must be from all that excitement.

There’s this sort of streamer we always pass by every time we go home after driving lessons. It’s over a bridge somewhere in Tumaga, I think. It says, “Make yourself useful”. I guess I want to learn to drive because I feel that I’ll be more useful that way. Maybe in some emergency situation, I could now have something practical to offer. I hate it when I’m just standing there not being able to do anything, when everything around me is moving. When a time would come when someone would ask for someone who could, I want to be someone who can step forward. I want to find more things to do, experiences to live, more stories to tell. But more than that, I want to someday race down on a deserted highway, the wind on my face, the wheel beneath my hands, and an endless road ahead of me.

- - - - - - -

College Teaching

2006-04-07T17:57:00.000+08:00

Elegy to the Rabbi
Sunday, October 3, 2004

Sometimes, College is hell. Irritating, mind-numbing, exhausting, disappointing place of anguish and torture. For teachers, that is.

I guess it is partly our fault, the relentlessly cynical audience in the classroom. A lot of us prey on weakness, you see. Give us an excuse to mock, tease, jeer, ridicule, insult, lie or cheat and we'll sure as hell do so. And when all these becomes too much, teachers would eventually end up changing themselves, some for the better, some for the worst. Now, if they didn't make every effort to go for the better, that hell would be partly their fault too.

Some teachers end up thick-skinned, a lot of them do. When the floodgates of disappointment brakes loose, they just swallow everything up, take one big shrug, and continue on with their lives like nothing ever happened. Everyday they quietly take on the beating and everyday their hearts harden. And one day, they'd just give up caring. They become as apathetic as the classes they walk into. For them, teaching ceases to be a vocation and becomes just another way to pay the bills. In the end, they retreat into that awful place of routine, conformity and indifference, of dead dreams and lost hopes. They hide there and rot.

Some end up vengeful. How would you feel when you get your pride deflated and ego hurt? What would you do? You'd get even of course. Make the bastards suffer. They'd be sorry they messed with someone like you. You'd be as obnoxious, as abusive, as cold, as they have been to you. Maybe you'd even take out that red pen and wallop their dreams to kingdom come. You won't care. They had it coming. They'd get what they deserve and you'll feel good giving it to them. So good in fact, that you'd give it to the rest of the sorry lot, each and every one of your students. They're all the same.

Some end up dead. Well in a way, all teachers experience a certain level of death. A part of them is sacrificed to cope up with the demands of the teaching life. It might be a perspective. It might be a principle. It might be pride. After that, most of them would deal with it, rise up to face the music. Some however, stay dead -- dead and disheartened and afraid. Their ideals and potentials as lifeless as their spirits. Most of them pack up and leave the first chance they get, never to return.

Finally, some end up like coffee. If you get a cup of hot water and pour your coffee in it, the coffee would dissolve and change the water. Some teachers, the ones we fondly remember, are like that. After being mocked, ridiculed, insulted and cheated they didn't harden, lash out, or curl up and wither away. No. They looked up, straight back at our eyes with passion and idealism stronger than before. They’d become hell bent on making sure that we do learn what we are supposed to learn, that we do harness our potentials, and that we do fulfill our dreams. They didn't end up wanting to get along or wanting to get revenge. They end up being who they are, teachers, who want nothing more, or less, than to make their students learn. That self-sacrificing zeal would turn apathy to interest, insults to praises, and cynics to admirers. These teachers stared straight back at us, unflinching, and did what they are meant to do. They changed us.

---

One of my instructors supposedly wrote a scathing post about his two classes and published it in his Blog. It caused much din among my classmates as well as those in the other class. Most of them were taken aback and some were really offended. The article was given much flak of course. I even heard that people went as far as to give equally scathing comments on said instructors Blog.

The sensational post was deleted eventually. The deletion came with an apology note from my instructor. I thought of not going to class the next day. You don't expect a fine sight when people finally see each other after indulging in insults and derision. It usually ends in sickening hypocrisy, if not more servings of insults and derisions.

But what I really didn't want was to see a young teacher, who was once filled with idealism, now broken and disillusioned with nothing but doubt and disappointment. I didn't want to see someone become frozen and stiff inside. I certainly didn't want to be there when he exacts revenge.

I decided to go to class anyway. We should never loose hope on someone. Maybe he'd get over it. Maybe he'd start truly living up to the challenge of College teaching. Maybe I'd witness the wonderful beginnings of an excellent teacher. It was just blogs and silly words anyway. It couldn't possibly destroy dreams and aspirations. Besides, I already missed too many classes and I'd be in trouble if I miss one more.

I found our classroom empty. For some reason our instructor cancelled our class that day. How did he take it? I'll never really know.

So here's to the young College teacher, in your passing may we all learn.

- - - - - - -
originally posted on old blog

Graduation Day

2006-03-30T12:51:00.002+08:00

Apparently, I’ve graduated. Yessiree. I’m student status no more, and if I wanted, never will be. Think about it, a life of bumming around the house with nothing to worry about but too much food, too much sleep, and the next form of passive entertainment to ingest. Well, at least until mom and dad, in deep love and concern for my future, and theirs, kicks me out of the house and tells me to go get a job, or at least a life. But that wouldn’t be until years. Ah, unemployment, here I come!

So how does it feel like, graduating? Bittersweet, I guess. The joy of finally accomplishing one part of your life is always followed by that uncertainty of facing the next, whether or not you’re ready to move on, whether you even like to move on. What bothers me the most though is the thought that I didn’t get the most out of my previous life, too many parties unattended, too many lessons not learned, roads not taken, all those wasted opportunities. I remember yesterday, in the graduation ceremony, I was watching all these people get awarded and all, and I was thinking, hey, I could also deserve that. If I worked on it, made the right decisions, I might have gotten myself an award too. I could have given mom and dad the gratitude that they really deserve. I kept remembering all those times I played when I should’ve worked, and worked when I should’ve played, stayed at home when I should’ve been out there experiencing more out of life. I look at what I sacrificed and the things that I bargained for, and I can’t help but have that all too familiar nostalgia that feels so much like regret. What if, you know?

But life moves on, whether you want it to or not. I think there’s a saying somewhere that says having regrets make life more miserable as it is. So, I won’t. But, if I would regret, I would be regretting about all those times I spent mulling over piles of what-if’s, of considering the things in the past, of regretting. In the end, I guess I could never change history no matter how much I think about it. What I could do something about though is the future, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to spend it regretting over today. A life on regrets is not living at all. So from now on, I’d stop mulling and go out there and do something with what’s left of my life. I’ll be reckless. I’ll make a lot of mistakes. I may even end up exactly where I am now. But, by all that is holy, I’ll be out there living. In the end, I guess it’s not what we do that makes life such a pain to think about, it’s how we did it that really does the cake. If you’re doing something full of uncertainties, full of doubt, full of longing for some other life, then for the love of self, stop doing it, or at least do it in another way. I want to look back and see a life enjoyed, if not lived to the fullest. I may not accomplish much, but at least I’ll leave this world grinning.

I guess bumming around the house will have to wait.

- - - - - - -
march 28, 2006 – graduation day

it's official

2006-03-25T11:38:00.000+08:00

“Had fun?”

She smiled, nodded her head, and softly whispered a thank you.

I smiled back. It was nice to see her happy like this. It had been a rough week and it’s been ages since we did something nice together. But dinners at fancy restaurants really do pay off.

“You didn’t get a souvenir though,” I teased. She wanted to keep our dinner tab as a keepsake, but it was not until too late that the thought crossed her mind. She had been genially griping about it all the way to our ride home.

“Well it’s a good thing then,” I said smiling broadly, “that I got this.”

I took something from my pocket, and placed it in her hands. She seemed genuinely surprised. I grinned. It was a small heart-shaped box.

“Open it,” I told her.

She did so quickly, but she seem to have done it quite in the wrong way, practically broke the poor box into pieces. We were laughing uncontrollably by the time she got out the small silver ring.

I took the ring from her hand and gently placed it around her finger. I looked at her for the longest of moments. I have never seen her this happy before. She was so beautiful, always was.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” I said, grinning widely. “I should be asking a question, right?”

I leaned and gently whispered to her ear.

She smiled and softly said, "Yes."

- - - - - - -
march 24, 2006, around half-past eight

3 / 4

2006-03-23T15:07:00.000+08:00

11:59 pm
Friday
Rooftop

You really did love her, more than anything else in the world. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You love her so much you always want to be with her, but no matter what you do, you know being with her can never make her happy, not really.

The metal sheet you’re lying on feels cold. You continue to stare at the night sky, wondering if there was really no moon tonight or you’re just too tired to look. The countless stars were a grand sight to watch.

It’s about trust really. She just couldn’t trust you. You’ve been lying all your life that you simply forgot how to tell the truth. Countless of times you hear yourself desperately trying to explain to her the truth, with as much conviction as when you were selling a lie. Then you keep on hoping she’ll somehow see through, somehow she’ll trust you, but she never really did. You even promised her that you’d always be honest, to always tell the truth. But for every truth you sell like a lie, you loose her. And you’ve been loosing her ever since.

You laughed at the irony of it all, and the sound that came out was as empty as your heart. You gazed up at the heavens and found them again, three stars that were almost in a straight line, and five stars in a rough pentagram around it -- Orion, the hunter, killed by misunderstanding.

Maybe it’s time you stop. Maybe you should let her go, let her find her happiness with someone else, someone she could trust, someone better. All these going around in circles, it’s tearing both of you apart. For no matter what you do, somehow you’d always end up hurting her. The only thing you could really promise her is that you’d try to do better, and maybe that is just not enough.

You saw the heavens one last time. They say the stars already dictated your destiny. Maybe she’s just not for you, and there’s nothing in this world you could do about it.

But then again, you really do love her. Yep, that’s it. That’s the problem right there.

- - - - - - -

2 / 4

2006-03-23T12:42:00.000+08:00

9:47 am
Monday
A small café

They have been sitting here for ages it seemed. She was listlessly stirring her coffee. He was resignedly looking away. They didn’t feel like talking. There was not really much to talk about. Everything that needs saying has already been said, and all else is better left unspoken. Now, even being together seemed inappropriate.

“You should be drinking that, you know.”

“It’s cold.”

“Well, it should be. You did nothing but stir it.”

“I guess. Do you want to leave? You can go if you want to.”

“I can’t just leave you here.”

“No, don’t worry, I’ll be ok. Go, if you want.”

“You very well know I won’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Well… because… I’d be worried about you.”

“Would you? Would you really worry about me?”

“Well, of course. What else should I be?”

“I don’t know.”

“Look, why don’t you finish your coffee, so I could take you home?”

“I don’t want to go home. No one’s there but me.”

“I could stay if you want.”

“No.”

“Well, what do you want me to do then?”

“Nothing.”

“Ok, do you want us to stay here for a while longer?”

“No.”

“Look, we’ve been here for hours, why don’t you just tell me what you want?”

“I want you to stop talking, to stop caring. I can’t take all this pretending anymore, or keep seeing you do. I want to be over this, to be over you. Just kiss me now and leave.”

“…”

For the briefest of moments he kissed her, and it was over.

- - - - - - -

1 / 4

2006-03-23T10:55:00.000+08:00

4:12 pm
Wednesday
Her room

“Don’t touch me!” she shouted at him, bitter tears finally welling in her eyes.

He just sat there, stunned. He was about to gently caress her back, try to comfort her, try to stop her from shaking. His hand abruptly fell. It was the first time anyone shouted at him. But it was not really the shout that made him stop, that deeply stabbed his heart.

“If you just let me explain, ” he started, trying to break the numbing silence. Again, he’d try to make her see that he’d never want to hurt her, to explain to her that things now are not really what they seem, to try to save this relationship that seem to slip away the more he tried to hold on, and to tell her that he love her, more than anything else in the world.

She was silent, tears flowing down her cheeks. She never heard him. She never heard anything but the bitter sound of frustration and resentment. Everything that brought her close to him seemed to turn into spiteful malicious things. His touch was acid. His voice was ice. And the deadening silence persisted, embracing, smothering her young heart until she was cold and still, and felt no more.

He fell quiet. He felt tired, weak. He was exhausted from the effort of doing everything he thought was right and seeing them ending up all wrong. He felt pathetically inadequate of not knowing what to do, of desperately trying to find solutions that never were there. Without her, he felt alone. He stared into her eyes, trying to find solace, trying to find hope. She stared back at him, her eyes still wet with tears. His heart bled, even before she spoke.

“I hate you. Get out.”

He stared at her for a moment, and left.

- - - - - - -

Breather

2006-02-28T08:30:00.000+08:00

I opened my eyes, and the tree was still there.

- - - - - - -

Poetry of the Day

2005-09-17T18:50:00.000+08:00

ORGANIZATION
by: Paula Mangin

Fits together,
Picture perfect,
organized,
and clear.
This is for certain
not
my life. Well, maybe
next year.

- - - - - - -

On God

2005-07-28T17:47:00.000+08:00

“Why do you believe in God?” she asked.

M and I were killing time in the library that afternoon. She was studying, I think. She had that all too familiar pages of photocopied paper resting in her hands. The chapter title on this one reads, “Rational Belief in God.” I, on the other hand, was reading Tom Clancy’s Red Rabbit, a paperback copy I had salvaged somewhere in the shelves. Clancy was droning on something about a plotting KGB agent in some sinister bar, when M got me wondering about God.

I guess I always did believe in the Almighty. Sure there was that time when I started asking myself for sensible reasons as to why I had to believe, but that was as far as I ever got. The fact of the matter is, it was actually far more difficult for me to convince myself that there is no God. I just simply, you know, believe. I might hate to admit it sometimes, but I was quite contented even without sensible reasons. For me, sensible reasons were like those pair of really fashionable sneakers you find interesting, but didn’t really need. The only reason I get them is because, well, I could.

Still, there are sensible reasons, and my favorite among them wasn’t that sensible at all.

I think believing in God is much like falling in love. No one could tell me to be in love, not even myself. I simply know it, feel it. Sometimes, no amount of reason or reflection could encompass at its entirety the cause as to why I am, in fact, in love. And the feeling, the very experience of being in love is such that it simply cannot be fully explained, but at the same time, somehow, I do completely understand it, I do completely feel it. I don’t give much of myself for someone only because of the magic of her beauty, or the charm of her manner, or for any other petty reason. No. The cause of my sacrifice to that someone is so profound that the only way I could adequately justify myself is by saying that I am simply pathetically in love. I guess I can only go so far as to name love as love, but in explaining it, in telling why or even what exactly do I feel, words would just fail me. In believing in God as well as in falling love, the feeling is so complex that you can never totally communicate it to someone, that is, unless that someone is in love too.

This is exactly why I end up telling myself stuff like God is in the marvel of the heavens, or the sweetness of life, or the acceptance of a parent’s love, or any other touchy feely stuff. It’s just that my experience of these things makes my belief in God so concrete it’s almost tangible. It’s just practically impossible to enjoy them without that feeling of recognition. God is just, there. You can’t explain it, but He is there. There may be a more simple, commonsense explanation to this feeling, but when you’re right there, experiencing that moment, it’s difficult to convince yourself that it’s just air getting in your head. There is something good and wonderful in the universe that goes beyond logic or reason, and you may refuse to see it, but you know it’s there. But when you do finally find it, it fills you up so completely, so wonderfully, I can’t even begin to explain it.

I watched M curiously tilt her head sideways, an expression far too sweet for her own good.

Why do I believe in God? I couldn't really say. Why shouldn’t I?

- - - - - - -

Tipi

2005-07-17T11:00:00.000+08:00

Cutest Girl on Earth
Friday, September 22, 2004

I think in every boy’s life there is that one ideal girl. You could talk to her. You could laugh with her. You could be crazy about her. Perfect in every way.

But for some reason you’ll never really take a shot at her. Why? Maybe she wants you to be her best friend, or your best friend wants her. Or, you’re busy being best friend to grow some balls and realize the fact that you want her.

And, for peculiar boys like me, you just don’t know why.

Tipi, the cutest girl on earth, wears glasses. God, I love those glasses. Sometimes, they have a way of hiding her eyes, making them charmingly mysterious, almost like a gypsy scarf or a wedding veil. Looking at them, it gives you this feeling that there’s this big secret in there, and the curiosity of it all just draws you to her, to those glasses, to those eyes.

God, I love those eyes.

I was walking with Tipi the other day. I was taking her to the jeepney stop so she could commute home. There was a shop I wanted to go to and, since I’m as al fresco-ish as a shellfish, she was sweet enough to usher me to the wonders of our little town and find that shop. Astoundingly, she was OK being left alone with eccentricity incarnate, much to my delight.

I cracked jokes along the way. They, being as corny as they are, made her laugh. Her cheeks slightly blushed at every giggle. They also made me sensible enough to ensure that I wouldn’t say things I’d sooner regret, and did well to hide that stupid grin I was wearing the whole day. Still, I can’t help but steal glances at those endearing elusive timid eyes. She was simply adorable.

Tipi herself wasn’t exactly that elusive and timid. She is fun to small talk with, as long as it’s you that starts the small talk. She has a lot of wonderful ideas. It’s amazing that at times she’s practically naive at how wonderful they really are. She was still keen in sharing them though, and I’d willingly trade a lot of my study hours to hear them. Well, come to think of it, I’d trade study hours for anything.

Our little conversations rarely turn to her though. Herself was one thing she was prudent on sharing. Like most girls, she is afraid that people might take it wrongly when she shares too much, which, of course, makes her even cuter. And I think if she opens up, she’ll be so beautiful that the world would just stand still in admiring awe. Well, at least I think it should. That girl is simply too cute for misunderstanding. Either that, or I’m getting a crush.

“I guess this is me.”

She was saying good-bye, touching my arm before she left. I thanked her. She thanked me. I continued on, elated. My cheeks are getting sore. I just couldn’t stop grinning.

I was turning the block when it finally sinks in. There goes one of the happiest moments in my life, and I just spent it in small talk and stupid jokes. I actually considered running back, getting on that jeep, and start telling her something that made sense. Then, it hits me. There is really nothing more to say. There is nothing beyond small talk and stupid jokes, and everlasting friendship. I sighed and walked on.

Tsk.

Indeed, there’s that one perfect girl you just couldn’t hit on.

And life just sucks.

- - - - - - -
Originally posted on my old blog.
My very first blog post, I think.
Tsk. Some girls are just hard to get over with. ^.^

On Resets

2005-07-09T10:29:00.000+08:00

Maybe it’s time to reformat the PC again. The glitches have been acting up lately and pressing that little reset button is becoming too much of a habit. I should free up the system before all this hanging starts doing real damage.

I wish life could be like that. If things go bad, you could just reformat and start all over again. You could simply erase all those bad memories, just sweep off that big mess you made.

Then again, if it was so, chances are you’d be bound to make the same mistakes all over again. You’d just end up in that same pit, and I bet everything would be much more bitter and hopeless the second time around, or the third, or the fourth. Mistakes, I guess, are there for us to learn, not forget. Then again, trying to forget is a lot easier.

Maybe I better leave life’s design to the Maker.

- - - - - - -

Proficiency Schmoriciency

2005-07-07T01:30:00.000+08:00

Apparently, I failed in my IT Proficiency Exam. It’s this aptitude test to determine whether you’re familiar with MS Word and MS Excel, probably two of the most commonly used applications ever. The exam runs you through a series of basic exercises on Word and Excel, with items ranging from, “In this document, change the font size of the first paragraph to 14 pt.” to the more challenging, “Delete the second and third sheets of the worksheet.”

Now, I’d like to say that I have been using a PC for more than twelve years. That’s right. One. Two. Twelve. And yes, I am quite familiar with MS Word and Excel. I very well know how to change a font size and delete sheet no. 2 and 3, thankyouverymuch. Furthermore, I loved the PC so much that I had Computer Science for my higher education, regardless of how geeky that may sound. I have taken up approximately fifteen computer subjects for the past four years, studying course descriptions as scary as, “Logic Design and Switching Theory,” and “Computer Architecture with Assembly Language.”

And so, I ask myself, why am I taking IT proficiency? And why, the bleep, did I fail?

Let me take the easy one first. Why did I take the test? Well, to make a long story short, thanks to my excessive optimism, our final project last year bounced. So, I have to take up a second major, Information Technology, or I’d be bored to tears doing nothing for twelve months. One of the subjects I got for this major was IT 111, which is “Introduction to Word Processing and Electronic Spreadsheet”. Now, I could take IT 111, and go through lessons such as, “How to change a font size” or “How to delete a worksheet”, or I could take the IT proficiency test with my twelve years of experience and background on fifteen computer subjects.

I took the test, with much optimism if I may add.

So, if I'm such a smart bleep, why the bleep did I fail?

Apparently, here’s how the whole proficiency thing works. First, you will save an edited Word document and an Excel worksheet in a folder, as per the instructions of the exam. Then, a program automatically locates your file, checks if the edits you made were correct, and submits that score to the instructors. Apparently, instead of saving it in C:\proficiency\students\010273, I saved it in C:\proficiency\010273. So, the program didn’t locate my file. And, since it didn’t get to check any correct answers, it efficiently failed me.

I talked to my instructor and he was kind enough to check my files. He told me, if not for that one single mistake, I would’ve surely nailed that exam a hundred percent. I mean, come on! It’s MS freaging Word, for crying out loud! Yes, that test result may say that I am a careless prick but surely it doesn’t reflect my proficiency. If this were some board exam, where admitting a CPA, lawyer, or nurse aspirant that gets careless under pressure might mean doom to us all, I’d understand. If this were a proficiency exam to see if you could perfectly follow instructions or not, I’d concede. But no, this is a proficiency exam on Word and Excel. You take it to see if you are already familiar with the basics of Word and Excel or not. If I was wrong with all the items, then go ahead and give me a zero. But if I only made a mistake in one, then why fail me? Cura personalis is surely much more sensible than this.

And so, I appealed for a reconsideration. My exam files were still there and they could still check it if they wanted. But apparently, they don’t. They told me they were sorry but what the program showed was the final results. They told me that that’s just how the system works. Although, they assured me that they’d think about it. How nice.

I have no right to complain really. I work as an enrollment encoder, and I rarely considered coming to the aid of those who needed a little help with their forms. Well, I did help some, but mostly I was just too busy to care. They’re college people and they should take enough responsibility to take care of themselves. So who am I to complain, right?

But you know what, I hope I could learn a better outlook, better than this callous, indifferent, I-couldn’t-care-less approach to things. I hope when the time comes, I’d discern on the individual situation and stop rushing into cold generalizations. I hope I could always find the time to think and decide, and not conform on letting the system think for me. I hope someday I could go beyond myself, and start seeing others for what they really are -- human beings, just like me.

Well, until then, it’s font sizes and sheets for me.

- - - - - - -

33. Who's your daddy?

2005-07-04T23:29:00.001+08:00

My chronic burn-your-wallet, forget-your-homework addiction was real-time strategy PC games, specifically Blizzard’s Warcraft 3: Frozen Throne. In this game, you play as this badass war general commanding an army of mighty warriors, powerful wizards, and fearless heroes, waging battles both epic and pandemonium. We’d hook up in a network game and spend hours bullying workers, slaughtering armies, and razing bases in a bid for supremacy. Every graphic detail was instant testosterone gratification. And by the heavens, we just love it.

For two years, I owned Warcraft. I was the king, the top dog, the guy too damn good to beat. I won every game I played by a landslide. I was the master among my peers. The very presence of my horde strikes fear at the heart of any army. Then, a little more than two weeks ago, I got my backside kicked, hard.

In the early wars, there was this player, Ego, who inspired such skill that no one dared to challenge him alone. But, on a glorious Lordaeron summer, my Orcish horde single-handedly crushed his fêted Human alliance to the ground, thrice. It was then that each general realized that supremacy over all others is but his for the taking. It was then when my rise to power began.

I endured one challenge after the other. Night elves, Undead, Humans wanting revenge, I struggled ruthlessly over the power I had tasted. I was beaten several times but my horde savagely fought back until we were never beaten again. And at the end, it was I who was left standing at the bloody battlegrounds, victorious but not unscarred. Thus, I claimed my territory. I am Bathala and Warcraft was mine.

After that, peace settled over the digital battlefields. The warlords tired and penniless have moved on to other trivial activities such as school and relationships. Everybody already knew his place in the ranks and we were more or less satisfied. I, for one, being at the top, was definitely satisfied. Those who thought otherwise were quickly reminded of their more humble places. Challenges like these, however, were already getting rare. As long as he wasn’t the weakest in the group, as long as he wasn’t that gay weed whose pathetic army amounts to nothing more than creeps, a warlord was happy. Actually, it wasn't clear who was the weakest. No one cared, as long as it wasn't him.

So for two years, Bathala’s reign continued on, and all was right in the world.

The second age of conflict began with the rumors. The warlords, bored and craving for contest, started regaling their peers with their tales of glorious combat. They bragged of their might and greatness over all others. We goaded and taunted the armies we had defeated. Egos were struck. Challenges were made. There were rumors of unbelievable victories, disturbing victories -- rumors of noobs winning over masters. This made the warlords restless. For if those weaker than you have won over those stronger than you, then who's the gay weed now? Thus, the tides of war rose again. Nobody wanted to be recognized as weak, and certainly nobody wanted to be the weakest. Imagine the mockery you’ll get every time the warlords hang out. The ranks were broken, and it was time to seize back ascendancy.

We decided that the best way to define the warlord ranks was to recognize the greatest among us. From there, you’ll know your ranking by counting how many warlords along with the greatest have beaten you. The greater the number, the lower your rank is, and the more effeminate you appear. However, if you defeated the greatest then it follows that you have crushed the rest of the warlords as well. Thus, you will take his place and become the first in the ranks.

And so, a great war was waged. The old warlords were there: Amerie of the Frost Wyrms, Amiah of the Damned, Aire of the Highborn, Ego of the Archmagi, Link of the Ancient Druids, Zelda of the Sentinels, and myself, Bathala the Master of All. In the heart of the Barrens, we lunged into a free-for-all mayhem. The last warlord standing will have the highest rank in the warlord echelon, the respect of his peers, indefinite days of bragging rights, and the necklace of destiny, the symbol of victory: a bark from the tree of eternity carved into the form of a shadow wolf’s teeth, chained in a lace of braided gryphon heartstrings, and cursed with the sorrows of war. This was Warcraft itself, nulli secundus, the very soul of the greatest.

Unfortunately, my rule over Warcraft ended then. Link wiped us all out with his mountain giants and chimaeras. When he invaded my camp, I had nothing but grunts, a couple of raiders, and witch doctors. They all fell like mangoes, green ones. Well, the witch doctors were sort of grayish blue, kinda like rotten mangoes. Tsk. The poor babies...

Later, they handed Link the prize. He held it up for all to see, and we basked in the glory that was the greatest. We watched him grin from ear to ear. We were grinning too. Warcraft, after all, was not about winning or loosing. It was about enjoying a good game with your friends. I secretly vowed by all that is holy I'd kick his Elven behind.

I swear, loosing was such a beatch.

It took me almost a month and two more miserable loses before I finally defeated Link. I got him in a best-of-seven, 1-versus-1, an hour and ten minutes match. The necklace now decorates my PC table. I am now the greatest, and again, I own the battlefields. I’d say in Warcraft as well as in life, you have your ups and downs.

Up is way better.

- - - - - - - ii

God Memorandum

2005-05-31T22:41:00.000+08:00

An excerpt from the book, The Greatest Miracle in the World

The God Memorandum
by: Og Mandino

To: You
From: God

Take counsel.

I hear your cry.

It passes through the darkness, filters through the clouds, mingles with starlight, and finds its way to my heart on the path of a sunbeam.

I have anguished over the cry of a hare choked in the noose of a snare, a sparrow tumbled from the nest of its mother, a child thrashing helplessly in a pond, and a son shedding his blood on a cross.

Know that I hear you, also. Be at peace. Be calm.

I bring thee relief for your sorrow for I know its cause... and its cure.

You weep for all your childhood dreams that have vanished with the years.

You weep for all your self-esteem that has been corrupted by failure.

You weep for all your potential that has been bartered for security.

You weep for all your talent that has been wasted through misuse.

You look upon yourself with disgrace and you turn in terror from the image you see in the pool. Who is this mockery of humanity staring back at you with bloodless eyes of shame?

Where is the grace of your manner, the beauty of your figure, the quickness of your movement, the clarity of your mind, the brilliance of your tongue? Who stole your goods? Is the thief's identity known to you, as it is to me?

Once you placed your head in a pillow of grass in your father's field and looked up at a cathedral of clouds and knew that all the gold of Babylon would be yours in time.

Once you read from many books and wrote on many tablets, convinced beyond any doubt that all the wisdom of Solomon would be equaled and surpassed by you.

And the seasons would flow into years until lo, you would reign supreme in your own garden of Eden.

Dost thou remember who implanted those plans and dreams and seeds of hope within you?

You cannot.

You have no memory of that moment when first you emerged from your mother's womb and I placed my hand on your soft brow. And the secret I whispered in your small ear when I bestowed my blessings upon you?

Remember our secret?

You cannot.

The passing years have destroyed your recollection, for they have filled your mind with fear and doubt and anxiety and remorse and hate and there is no room for joyful memories where these beasts habitate.

Weep no more. I am with you ... and this moment is the dividing line of your life. All that has gone before is like unto no more than that time you slept within your mother's womb. What is past is dead. Let the dead bury the dead.

This day you return from the living dead.

This day, like unto Elijah with the widow's son, I stretch myself upon thee three times and you live again.

This day, like unto Elisha with the Shunammite's son, I put my mouth upon your mouth and my eyes upon your eyes and my hands upon your hands and your flesh is warm again.

This day, like unto Jesus at the tomb of Lazarus, I command you to come forth and you will walk from your cave of doom to begin a new life.

This is your birthday. This is your new date of birth. Your first life, like unto a play of the theatre, was only a rehearsal. This time the curtain is up. This time the world watches and waits to applaud. This time you will not fail.

Light your candles. Share your cake. Pour the wine. You have been reborn.

Like a butterfly from its chrysalis you will fly... fly as high as you wish, and neither the wasps nor dragonflies nor mantids of mankind shall obstruct your mission or your search for the true riches of life.

Feel my hand upon thy head.

Attend to my wisdom.

Let me share with you, again, the secret you heard at your birth and forgot.

You are my greatest miracle.

You are the greatest miracle in the world.

Those were the first words you ever heard. Then you cried. They all cry...

You did not believe me then... and nothing has happened in the intervening years to correct your disbelief. For how could you be a miracle when you consider yourself a failure at the most menial of tasks? How can you be a miracle when you have little confidence in dealing with the most trivial of responsibilities? How can you be a miracle when you are shackled by debt and lie awake in torment over whence will come tomorrow's bread?

Enough. The milk that is spilled is sour. Yet, how many prophets, how many wise men, how many poets, how many artists, how many composers, how many scientists, how many philosophers and messengers have I sent with word of your divinity, your potential for godliness, and the secrets of achievement? How did you treat them?

Still I love you and I am with you now, through these words, to fulfill the prophet who announced that the Lord shall set his hand again, the second time, to recover the remnant of his people.

I have set my hand again.

This is the second time.

You are my remnant.

It is of no avail to ask, haven't you known, haven't you heard, hasn't it been told to you from the beginning; haven't you understood from the foundations of the earth?

You have not known; you have not heard; you have not understood.

You have been told that you are a divinity in disguise, a god playing a fool.

You have been told that you a special piece of work, noble in reason, infinite in faculties, express and admirable in form and moving, like an angel in action, like a god in apprehension.

You have been told that you are the salt of the earth.

You were given the secret even of moving mountains, of performing the impossible.

You believed no one. You burned your map to happiness, you abandoned your claim to peace of mind, you snuffed out the candles that had been placed along your destined path of glory, and then you stumbled, lost and frightened, in the darkness of futility and self-pity, until you fell into a hell of your own creation.

Then you cried and beat your breast and cursed the luck that had befallen you. You refused to accept the consequences of your own petty thoughts and lazy deeds and you searched for a scapegoat on which to blame your failure. How quickly you found one.

You blamed me!

You cried that your handicaps, your mediocrity, your lack of opportunity, your failures... were the will of God!

You were wrong!

Let us take inventory. Let us, first, call a roll of your handicaps. For how can I ask you to build a new life lest you have the tools?

Are you blind? Does the sun rise and fall without your witness?

No. You can see... and the hundred million receptors I have placed in your eyes enable you to enjoy the magic of a leaf, a snowflake, a pond, an eagle, a child, a cloud, a star, a rose, a rainbow... and the look of love. Count one blessing.

Are you deaf? Can a baby laugh or cry without your attention?

No. You can hear... and the twenty-four thousand fibers I have built in each of your ears vibrate to the wind in the trees, the tides on the rocks, the majesty of an opera, a robin's plea, children at play... and the words I love you. Count another blessing.

Are you mute? Do your lips move and bring forth only spittle?

No. You can speak... as can no other of my creatures, and your words can calm the angry, uplift the despondent, goad the quitter, cheer the unhappy, warm the lonely, praise the worthy, encourage the defeated, teach the ignorant... and say I love you. Count another blessing.

Are you paralyzed? Does your helpless form despoil the land?

No. You can move. You are not a tree condemned to a small plot while the wind and world abuses you. You can stretch and run and dance and work, for within you I have designed five hundred muscles, two hundred bones, and seven miles of nerve fiber all synchronized by me to do your bidding. Count another blessing.

Are you unloved and unloving? Does loneliness engulf you, night and day?

No. No more. For now you know love's secret, that to receive love it must be given with no thought of its return. To love for fulfillment, satisfaction, or pride is no love. Love is a gift on which no return is demanded. Now you know that to love unselfishly is its own reward. And even should love not be returned it is not lost, for love not reciprocated will flow back to you and soften and purify your heart. Count another blessing. Count twice.

Is your heart stricken? Does it leak and strain to maintain your life?

No. Your heart is strong. Touch your chest and feel its rhythm, pulsating, hour after hour, day and night, thirty-six million beats each year, year after year, asleep or awake, pumping your blood through more than sixty thousand miles of veins, arteries, and tubing... pumping more than six hundred thousand gallons each year. Man has never created such a machine. Count another blessing.

Are you diseased of skin? Do people turn in horror when you approach?

No. Your skin is clear and a marvel of creation, needing only that you tend it with soap and oil and brush and care. In time all steels will tarnish and rust, but not your skin. Eventually the strongest of metals will wear, with use, but not that layer that I have constructed around you. Constantly it renews itself, old cells replaced by new, just as the old you is now replaced by the new. Count another blessing.

Are your lungs befouled? Does your breath of life struggle to enter your body?

No. Your portholes to life support you even in the vilest of environments of your own making, and they labor always to filter life-giving oxygen through six hundred million pockets of folded flesh while they rid your body of gaseous wastes. Count another blessing.

Is your blood poisoned? Is it diluted with water and pus?

No. Within your five quarts of blood are twenty-two trillion blood cells and within each cell are millions of molecules and within each molecule is an atom oscillating at more than ten million times each second. Each second, two million of your blood cells die to be replaced by two million more in a resurrection that has continued since your first birth. As it has always been inside, so now it is on your outside. Count another blessing.

Are you feeble of mind? Can you no longer think for yourself?

No. Your brain is the most complex structure in the universe. I know. Within its three pounds are thirteen billion nerve cells, more than three times as many cells as there are people on your earth. To help you file away every perception, every sound, every taste, every smell, every action you have experienced since the day of your birth, I have implanted, within your cells, more than one thousand billion billion protein molecules. Every incident in your life is there waiting only your recall. And, to assist your brain in the control of your body I have dispersed, throughout your form, four million pain-sensitive structures, five hundred thousand touch detectors, and more than two hundred thousand temperature detectors. No nation's gold is better protected than you. None of your ancient wonders are greater than you.

You are my finest creation.

Within you is enough atomic energy to destroy any of the world's great cities... and rebuild it.

Are you poor? Is there no gold or silver in your purse?

No. You are rich! Together we have just counted your wealth. Study the list. Count them again. Tally your assets!

Why have you betrayed yourself? Why have you cried that all the blessings of humanity were removed from you? Why did you deceive yourself that you were powerless to change your life? Are you without talent, senses, abilities, pleasures, instincts, sensations, and pride? Are you without hope? Why do you cringe in the shadows, a giant defeated, awaiting only sympathetic transport into the welcome void and dampness of hell?

You have so much. Your blessings overflow your cup... and you have been unmindful of them, like a child spoiled in luxury, since I have bestowed them upon you with generosity and regularity.

Answer me.

Answer yourself.

What rich man, old and sick, feeble and helpless, would not exchange all the gold in his vault for the blessings you have treated so lightly.

Know then the first secret to happiness and success - that you possess, even now, every blessing necessary to achieve great glory. They are your treasure, your tools with which to build, starting today, the foundation for a new and better life.

Therefore, I say unto you, count your blessings and know that you already are my greatest creation. This is the first law you must obey in order to perform the greatest miracle in the world, the return of your humanity from living death.

And be grateful for your lessons learned in poverty. For he is not poor who has little; only he that desires much... and true security lies not in the things one has but in the things one can do without.

Where are the handicaps that produced your failure? They existed only in your mind.

Count your blessings.

And the second law is like unto the first. Proclaim your rarity.

You had condemned yourself to a potter's field, and there you lay, unable to forgive your own failure, destroying yourself with self-hate, self-incrimination, and revulsion at your crimes against yourself and others.

Are you not perplexed?

Do you not wonder why I am able to forgive your failures, your transgressions, your pitiful demeanor... when you cannot forgive yourself?

I address you now, for three reasons. You need me. You are not one of a herd heading for destruction in a gray mass of mediocrity. And... you are a great rarity.

Consider a painting by Rembrandt or a bronze by Degas or a violin by Stradivarius or a play by Shakespeare. They have great value for two reasons: their creators were masters and they are few in number. Yet there are more than one of each of these.

On that reasoning you are the most valuable treasure on the face of the earth, for you know who created you and there is only one of you.

Never, in all the seventy billion humans who have walked this planet since the beginning of time has there been anyone exactly like you.

Never, until the end of time, will there be another such as you.

You have shown no knowledge or appreciation of your uniqueness.

Yet, you are the rarest thing in the world.

From your father, in his moment of supreme love, flowed countless seeds of love, more than four hundred million in number. All of them, as they swam within your mother, gave up the ghost and died. All except one! You.

You alone persevered within the loving warmth of your mother's body, searching for your other half, a single cell from your mother so small that more than two million would be necessary to fill an acorn shell. Yet, despite impossible odds, in that vast ocean of darkness and disaster, you persevered, found that infinitesimal cell, joined with it, and began a new life. Your life.

You arrived, bringing with you, as does every child, the message that I was not yet discouraged of man. Two cells now united in a miracle. Two cells, each containing twenty-three chromosomes and within each chromosome hundreds of genes, which would govern every characteristic about you, from the color of your eyes to the charm of your manner, to the size of your brain.

With all the combinations at my command, beginning with that single sperm from your father's four hundred million, through the hundreds of genes in each of the chromosomes from your mother and father, I could have created three hundred thousand billion humans, each different from the other.

But who did I bring forth?

You! One of a kind. Rarest of the rare. A priceless treasure, possessed of qualities in mind and speech and movement and appearance and actions as no other who has ever lived, lives, or shall live.

Why have you valued yourself in pennies when you are worth a king's ransom?

Why did you listen to those who demeaned you... and far worse, why did you believe them?

Take counsel. No longer hide your rarity in the dark. Bring it forth. Show the world. Strive not to walk as your brother walks, nor talk as your leader talks, nor labor as do the mediocre. Never do as another. Never imitate. For how do you know that you may not imitate evil; and he who imitates evil always goes beyond the example set, while he who imitates what is good always falls short. Imitate no one. Be yourself. Show your rarity to the world and they will shower you with gold. This then is the second law.

Proclaim your rarity.

And now you have received two laws.

Count your blessings! Proclaim your rarity!

You have no handicaps. You are not mediocre.

You nod. You force a smile. You admit your self-deception.

What of your next complaint? Opportunity never seeks thee?

Take counsel and it shall come to pass, for now I give you the law of success in every venture. Many centuries ago this law was given to your forefathers from a mountain top. Some heeded the law and lo, their life was filled with the fruit of happiness, accomplishment, gold, and peace of mind. Most listened not, for they sought magic means, devious routes, or waited for the devil called luck to deliver to them the riches of life. They waited in vain... just as you waited, and then they wept, blaming their lack of fortune.

The law is simple. Young or old, pauper or king, white or black, male or female... all can use the secret to their advantage; for all the rules and speeches and scriptures of success and how to attain it, only one method has never failed... whomsoever shall compel ye to go with him one mile... go with him two.

This then is the third law... the secret that will produce riches and acclaim beyond your dreams. Go another mile!

The only certain means of success is to render more and better service than is expected of you, no matter what your task may be. This is a habit followed by all successful people since the beginning of time. Therefore I saith the surest way to doom yourself to mediocrity is to perform only the work for which you are paid.

Think not ye are being cheated if you deliver more than the silver you receive. For there is a pendulum to all life and the sweat you deliver, if not rewarded today, will swing back tomorrow, tenfold. The mediocre never goes another mile, for why should he cheat himself, he thinks. But you are not mediocre. To go another mile is a privilege you must appropriate by your own initiative. You cannot, you must not avoid it. Neglect it, do only as little as the others, and the responsibility for your failure is yours alone.

You can no more render service without receiving just compensation than you can withhold the rendering of it without suffering the loss of reward. Cause and effect, means and ends, seed and fruit, these cannot be separated. The effect already blooms in the cause, the end pre-exists in the means, and the fruit is always in the seed.

Go another mile.

Concern yourself not, should you serve an ungrateful master. Serve him more.

And instead of him, let it be me who is in your debt, for then you will know that every minute, every stroke of extra service will be repaid. And worry not, should your reward not come soon. For the longer payment is withheld, the better for you... and compound interest on compound interest is this law's greatest benefit.

You cannot command success, you can only deserve it... and now you know the great secret necessary in order to merit its rare reward.

Go another mile!

Where is this field whence you cried there was no opportunity? Look! Look around thee. See, where only yesterday you wallowed on the refuse of self-pity, you now walk tall on a carpet of gold. Nothing has changed... except you, but you are everything.

You are my greatest miracle.

You are the greatest miracle in the world.

And now the laws of happiness and success are three.

Count your blessings! Proclaim your rarity! Go another mile!

Be patient with your progress. To count your blessings with gratitude, to proclaim your rarity with pride, to go an extra mile and then another, these acts are not accomplished in the blinking of an eye. Yet, that which you acquire with most difficulty you retain the longest; as those who have earned a fortune are more careful of it than those by whom it was inherited.

And fear not as you enter your new life. Every noble acquisition is attended with its risks. He who fears to encounter the one must not expect to obtain the other. Now you know you are a miracle. And there is no fear in a miracle.

Be proud. You are not the momentary whim of a careless creator experimenting in the laboratory of life. You are not a slave of forces that you cannot comprehend. You are a free manifestation of no force but mine, of no love but mine. You were made with a purpose.

Feel my hand. Hear my words.

You need me... and I need you.

We have a world to rebuild... and if it requireth a miracle what is that to us? We are both miracles and now we have each other.

Never have I lost faith in you since that day when I first spun you from a giant wave and tossed you helplessly on the sands. As you measure time that was more than five hundred million years ago. There were many models, many shapes, many sizes, before I reached perfection in you more than thirty thousand years ago. I have made no further effort to improve on you in all these years.

For how could one improve on a miracle? You were a marvel to behold and I was pleased. I gave you this world and dominion over it. Then, to enable you to reach your full potential I placed my hand upon you, once more, and endowed you with powers unknown to any other creature in the universe, even unto this day.

I gave you the power to think.
I gave you the power to love.
I gave you the power to will.
I gave you the power to laugh.
I gave you the power to imagine.
I gave you the power to create.
I gave you the power to plan.
I gave you the power to speak.
I gave you the power to pray.
I gave you the power to heal.

My pride in you knew no bounds. You were my ultimate creation, my greatest miracle. A complete living being. One who can adjust to any climate, any hardship, any challenge. One who can manage his own destiny without any interference from me. One who can translate a sensation or perception, not by instinct, but by thought and deliberation into whatever action is best for himself and all humanity.

Thus we come to the fourth law of success and happiness... for I gave you one more power, a power so great that not even my angels possess it.

I gave you... the power to choose.

With this gift I placed you even above my angels... for angels are not free to choose sin. I gave you complete control over your destiny. I told you to determine, for yourself, your own nature in accordance with your own free will. Neither heavenly nor earthly in nature, you were free to fashion yourself in whatever form you preferred. You had the power to choose to degenerate into the lowest forms of life, but you also had the power, out of your soul's judgment, to be reborn into the higher forms, which are divine.

I have never withdrawn your great power, the power to choose.

What have you done with this tremendous force? Look at yourself. Think of the choices you have made in your life and recall, now, those bitter moments when you would fall to your knees if only you had the opportunity to choose again.

What is past is past... and now you know the fourth great law of happiness and success ... Use wisely, your power of choice.

Choose to love... rather than hate.
Choose to laugh... rather than cry.
Choose to create... rather than destroy.
Choose to persevere... rather than quit.
Choose to praise... rather than gossip.
Choose to heal... rather than wound.
Choose to give... rather than steal.
Choose to act... rather than procrastinate.
Choose to grow... rather than rot.
Choose to pray... rather than curse.
Choose to live... rather than die.

Now you know that your misfortunes were not my will, for all power was vested in you, and the accumulation of deeds and thoughts which placed you on the refuse of humanity were your doing, not mine. My gifts of power were too large for your small nature. Now you have grown tall and wise and the fruits of the land will be yours.

You are more than a human being, you are a human becoming.

You are capable of great wonders. Your potential is unlimited. Who else, among my creatures, has mastered fire? Who else, among my creatures, has conquered gravity, has pierced the heavens, has conquered disease and pestilence and drought?

Never demean yourself again!

Never settle for the crumbs of life!

Never hide your talents, from this day hence!

Remember the child who says, "when I am big boy." But what is that? For the big boy says. "when I grow up." And then the grown up, he says, "when I am wed." But to be wed, what is that, after all? The thought then changes to "when I retire." And then, retirement comes, and he looks back over it and somehow he has missed it all and it is gone.

Enjoy this day, today ... and tomorrow, tomorrow.

You have performed the greatest miracle in the world.

You have returned from a living death.

You will feel self-pity no more and each new day will be a challenge and a joy.

You have been born again... but just as before, you can choose failure and despair or success and happiness. The choice is yours. The choice is exclusively yours. I can only watch, as before... in pride... or sorrow.

Remember, then, the four laws of happiness and success.

Count your blessings.
Proclaim your rarity.
Go another mile.
Use wisely your power of choice.
And one more, to fulfill the other four. Do all things with love... love for yourself, love for all others, and love for me.

Wipe away your tears. Reach out, grasp my hand, and stand straight.

Let me cut the grave cloths that have bound you.

This day you have been notified.

You are the greatest miracle in the world.

- - - - - - -
Oh, the God Memorandum is such a nice excerpt. Regardless of how many times you have read it, it just touches every time. It’s like that voice I hear reading in my head is the Big Guy himself talking. When I was reading it now, I got all giddy and the hairs on my back were standing.

No no! I meant that to be a nice feeling. Hah! ^.^

On Death

2005-05-27T22:53:00.005+08:00

Of course everybody dies. It’s just a matter of when and how. But yes, this truth is as real and unquestionable as the sunset. Sooner or later you and I will indeed kick the bucket. Now this may sound quite morbid, but it was more an expression of curiosity rather than anything else.

The very first time I had a chance of riding a real life airplane was way back in fifth grade. I was so excited then that the night before the flight I was having trouble keeping my eyes shut. I kept wondering what it’d be like to be among the heavens soaring miles and miles from the ground. I then felt that the night would go on forever, and I’d just be stuck there waiting in vain for the sun to go up. But then, the night did end and the sun did come up, and soon enough I found myself peering through an airplane window, blissfully watching clouds as if they were waves on the ocean. Everything was even more wonderful than I imagined them to be.

Maybe then I knew that no matter what you do or how you feel about it, the future will indeed come. There is just no escaping it. Sooner or later we will find ourselves actually living these realities we were only imagining ourselves in, whether it be that exam tomorrow, or that party this weekend, or graduation at the end of the year. And, yes, even more certain than anything else, sooner or later we will find ourselves at life’s end.

What then? What is in store for us at the end of it all? Will it be a big bright light? Will it be a great tribunal? Will it be the answer to all our questions? No one can really tell. One thing is certain though. Soon enough, you and I will find that out.

- - - - - - - i
"To die will be an awfully big adventure." -- J.M. Barrie, "Peter Pan"

Twilight Zone

2005-05-08T15:47:00.002+08:00

There’s this story I remember telling over family breakfast a few days ago. I think I read it from one of those SRA booklets. My brother thought it was cool. My mom however found it quite umn… moving. I do think there’s a lesson in it somewhere, but like most of my priorities in life, it escapes me as of the moment.

Anyway, the story goes like this...

In the near future people on earth were filled with awe and amazement when we made contact with a group of extraterrestrials. Yes. Aliens from outer space landed on the planet. Big spaceships. Supreme intelligence. Advance technology. Homeplanet far far away. All that jazz. For lack of creativity, let’s call these aliens the Neighbors.

Now the Neighbors have body structures that look much like our own, except that they only have three fingers, absolutely no nose, and something that looks like hooves for feet. They are very tall, maybe ten to twelve feet with smooth gray rubber-like skin, huge football-shaped heads, and large black eyes. They communicate by instantly transmitting thoughts without any form of physical action, otherwise known as telepathy. And if I spent as much time studying as I do imagining aliens, I’d have graduated three courses by now.

Anyway, these aliens apparently are one of those kind generous messianic aliens. Right at the moment they landed, they told us of their wish to help uplift the lot of the human race. To prove their most noble intentions, they offered -- absolutely free of charge -- certain pieces of their technology. And most wonderful pieces they are indeed. There are some pieces that could cure any illness known to man. Some could produce in an instant unlimited quantities of food. Some could even tame the weather. Within months, planet Earth became a far better place to live in.

Because of this, almost everyone in the world softened to the Neighbors. Everybody loves them. Some people even went as far as worshiping them as gods. However, there are still those who did not fully trust these so-called messiahs from outer space. One of them is an English teacher. Let’s call her Ruth.

Now, Ma'am Ruth was not really hostile by nature. As a matter of fact, she’s a gentle docile creature most of the time. Her students simply adore her. Why, common are the times when young naïve college boys would send her flowers attached with notes promising everlasting love.

There's just something about these aliens. There’s something terribly wrong with what they are doing, no matter how seemingly helpful they all are. Every time she sees them or hears about them, something makes her feel uneasy. Scared even. But poor little Ruth just can’t put her delicate little fingers on what it is.

So one night, Ruth was going home very late with her friend. Let's call her Jenny. It was a Friday night and Ruth and Jenny were just out doing what twenty something ladies do on Friday nights, which is something I have absolutely no idea what.

So anyway, as they were walking down La Purisima Street they came upon a group of Neighbors deep in conversation. This they concluded since the aliens were just standing there staring at each other. As can be clearly deduced if the said aliens are capable of telepathy. Then again, maybe they were just waiting.

- Oh look, Ruth! Aliens!

- Shush!

- What?

- They’ll hear you!

- So?

- Jen, you very well know I don’t trust those things. Who knows what they are really up to?

- Oh come on Ruth! Don’t you see them on the news? They just want to help. You know sometimes that’s what’s wrong with people today. They are too hardened by reality that they don’t know how to trust anymore. Besides, I think they’re cute. I mean, come on, what’s the worst that could happen?

- They could grind your bones to make their bread.

- Oh no.

Ruth and Jenny quickly hid themselves behind a lone Vios parked just a few feet away from the aliens. From there, they watched and waited. The Neighbors were three in number. Each one tall, gray and sinister under the yellow lamppost light.

- What are these aliens doing here, Jen? Aren’t they supposed to be out there promoting world peace or something? And what’s up with those things they’re carrying in their hands? It looks like a rolled up piece of thick silvery paper or something. Looks like some kind of reading material.

- Wow, Ruth. This Vios is cool. I should get me one of these. Hey Ruth, how bout it? Lilac Vios? Cool eh?

- Shush!

That moment, Ruth noticed a large brown sack at the feet of the aliens. It looks hefty with something, some kind of alien equipment maybe. The question is: An equipment for what?

As Ruth was trying to figure this out, one of the aliens stooped down and effortlessly lifted the sack up to his shoulders. Then all of a sudden, the group was covered with soft bluish light. And with a faint mechanical hum, the aliens vanished.

For a moment, both girls stayed there watching the empty street. Ruth then noticed that there was something left on the ground where the aliens disappeared. It’s one of those silvery things they were carrying! The Neighbor who carried that sack must have forgotten it.

- Hey, they’re gone… Ruth! Where do you think you’re going?! Hey, you can’t take that!

- I’m just borrowing it, Jen. This could hold the answer to the questions running in my mind.

- Hmmn. Like why do you keep falling in love with evil men?

- Shush!

So later, at Ruth's apartment both girls studied the alien thing. It looked quite like a scroll. It was about eight inches in length and about eleven inches in width. It was thick, flat and elliptically shaped. It was made up of some kind of smooth plastic-like material, held together by some form of magnet from its sides.

When opened, we could see a complex pattern of strange figures drawn all over the scroll. Also, when we put pressure on the sides, the strange figures change. Thus, a different amount of pressure results to a different kind of pattern. However, there is one figure in the pattern that doesn’t change. This was drawn right at the scroll’s middle. It was a circle with a triangle inside.

That very evening Ruth began to study the scroll secretly. This scroll was clearly some sort of alien manuscript, the Neighbor’s version of a book. However, having an extremely superior intelligence, the Neighbor's language was too complex for human beings to read. It was comparable to ants trying to understand Shakespeare. But Ruth didn’t care. She has a gut feeling that this thing is indeed the answer she was looking for-- the answer to why these Neighbors give her the creeps. And she’d find it out no matter what.

And so almost every night Ruth would hide under her basement and waste away hours studying mathematical diagrams and language patterns. She rummaged every library, perused every book, gulped every coffee. Jenny also helps once in a while, being the sweet friend that she is. Everyday they’d learn more and more about the scroll. And everyday their curiosity grew.

What does this scroll contain? Is it the secrets of the universe? Is it the answer to eternal happiness? Is it, “Global Domination for Dummies”?

Four years then passed. By this time the Neighbors have built thousands of weird looking structures all over the globe to facilitate their numerous activities on humanity. The presence of the Neighbors is already common in human society. From the biggest of cities to the smallest of towns the aliens were there, always eager and helpful. Most of them carried those silvery scrolls.

- I got it! I got it! I know what this circle and triangle means!

- Hey, not too loud, Ruth. Can’t you see I’m making Neiman-Marcus Cookies? This requires intense concentration, you know. Hmn. Let’s see. To cream, beat, stir, and bake, press pink button…

- Jen! It’s a heading! This circle and triangle is the heading of this whole manuscript. The circle is a short summary, and the triangle is the manuscript’s actual title. And guess what’s the title, Jen. Go ahead guess what it is.

- Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy?

- No! It’s, “How to Serve Humanity!”

- Oh dang.

- It’s a manual, Jen! This scroll must be some kind of guidebook they give to each other. It probably instructs those Neighbors visiting on our planet on the different humanitarian projects they’re doing here. They’re not evil after all, Jen. They’re just gentle concerned beings who really wants to help. Oh, I’m so relieved.

- Cool. Hey, now that you’re done with the scroll, can I have it? I think it’ll look good as a placemat. It’s not lilac though.

- No prob. I’m totally over with the whole conspiracy theory thing. Hey, shouldn’t we be going? There’s this pile of cases I still have to litigate. Are those cookies done yet?

- Almost. Wait here. Baking takes twenty seconds, k? I’ll just go get my stethoscope.

- Okidoki.

With the Neighbor’s help, the problems of humanity were completely eliminated. There was no more hunger or sickness. The environment was totally pollution-free. Human beings lived long healthy lives in a clean, abundant and peaceful Earth. A global consciousness towards solidarity among the human race was coming along. Wars no longer occur. With all their needs satisfied, people started thinking less of themselves and more of others. The nations of the world even decided to come together into a single Utopian body dedicated to preserving human prosperity and assisting in the noble works of the Neighbors, the aliens whom we now consider our beloved mentors.

And after a decade, the human race was absolutely dependent on the Neighbor’s technology. Thus, free from the struggles of survival, we busied ourselves with Philosophy and other noble pursuits of knowledge and wisdom. Thousands of our finest men and women journeyed to the distant home planet of the Neighbors to learn from the very masters of enlightenment themselves. We deeply hope that someday we may become like our mentors and help in their noble work of uplifting the lot of other races.

It was truly a golden age. All thanks to the Neighbors.

Meanwhile, at Ruth’s apartment…

- Ruth! Ruth! Open up!

- Oh Jen! Long time no see! How long has it been? Ten years? Oh, I missed you! Wait a minute. You look terrible. Here, take a seat. What happened?

- Ruth, remember that scroll we were studying on?

- You mean your placemat? Sure. What about it?

- Well, since practically no one was getting sick anymore I had a lot of time in my hands these past ten years. So I thought it’d be cool to continue translating that scroll. Last week I have finally translated that circle surrounding the triangle. You were right. The triangle is indeed the title of the scroll and the circle its summary.

- Yes. And the title explicitly says, “How to Serve Humanity.” Doesn’t it?

- It does. But that thing isn't a guidebook, Ruth.

- Huh? What do you mean?

- It’s a cookbook.

- - - - - - - i

Dodge City

2005-04-27T07:28:00.000+08:00

We were in a car, with clear glass windows.
She was driving quietly, carefully.
On the backseat I watched a scenery too blurred to remember.
I remember the asphalt road though, and a cloudless blue sky.

It was a maroon SUV.
Through the clear glass window I watched it come into view on the other lane.
I saw its driver, with his black shades and ugly face.
He had someone with him.
I would’ve seen him too.
But then the SUV rammed itself on us.

I felt the car jerk violently, felt the metal crumple.
I could hear the screeching of rubber burning on asphalt as she tried to gain control.
She quickly did, easing the car back into a cruise.
She turned halfway to see if I’m OK.
I looked outside.
Just in time to see the SUV crash into us again.

The next moment, I was lying on my side kissing the leather backseat.
Our car had stopped.
She was telling me to take out some guns.
Her voice calm, but stern.
I pulled a hard plastic box from beneath my seat.
I opened it and took out handguns, two of them.
One was heavier than the other.
She took the heavier one and cocked it.

I could hear the engines of the SUV coming closer.
I watch her shoot.
Her slender body composed at every shot.
I fired too.
Once.
Twice.
The sound of gunshot ringing in my ears.
They crashed into us again
An orchestra of twisted metal and breaking glass.
I fell from my seat, to the hard metal floor.

I look up at the cloudless blue sky.
Everything was quiet.
Shattered glass were everywhere.
I painfully pushed myself up.
I still had my gun.
I squinted at the sunlight pouring in.
I stared through the clear glass window at the back of the car.
I saw the driver with his ugly face and toothed grin.
I saw him slowly pull out a handgun.
I quickly pulled my own, aimed, and fired.

Click. The trigger was too hard to pop.

I woke up. A fading dream was clouding my head, the dull sound of gunshot and breaking glass. It was dark in my room. I could hear the hum of the neighbor’s air-conditioning. Somewhere, there’s a dog barking. I remember the sound of running engine on a highway. I remember gunshot.

I blinked. My eyes felt like lead. I turned to stare at my bedside clock.

2 am.

- - - - - - -

Runaway Bunny

2005-04-24T10:48:00.000+08:00

I got hold of the Runaway Bunny from the movie Wit (2001). It was a nice little movie. Poignant and profound are words that are simply made for it. It’s not just Mike Nichol’s directing, or Margaret Edson’s brilliant writing, or Emma Thompson’s superb acting. It’s the matter of human suffering distinctively portrayed in the film. I'd like to think that suffering is something all of us can relate to and empathize with. Nonetheless, being able to touch someone so deeply through an eleven-by-eight-and-a-half inches monitor - a cheap one I might add - must have taken such extraordinary genius and outstanding talent. Wit did it with such ease.

Posthaste: I cried in this movie, by the way. Unexpectedly. Excessively. Appallingly. Now, I have seen countless of characters on countless of movies die in countless of ways. Many of which I could very much relate to. Wit was about an English teacher dying of cancer. My acquaintance with cancer is as familiar as piloting a Boeing 747. But even so, on that part where Vivian’s mentor was reading to her the Runaway Bunny, for some reason, I cried.

The Runaway Bunny
by Margaret Wise Brown

Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away.

So he said to his mother, "I’m running away."

"If you run away," said his mother, "I will run after you. For you are my little bunny."

"If you run after me," said the little bunny, "I will become a fish in a trout stream and I will swim away from you."

"If you become a fish in a trout stream," said his mother, "I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you."

"If you become a fisherman," said the little bunny, "I will be a bird and fly away from you."

"If you become a bird and fly away from me," said his mother, "I will be a tree that you come home to."

"Shucks," said the little bunny, "I might just as well stay where I am and be your little bunny."

And so he did.

"Have a carrot," said the mother bunny.

Evelyn Ashford, Vivian’s mentor, said that the poem was a little allegory of the soul. Wherever the soul hides, God will find it. And while I was embarrassingly drying my tears, I thought: Isn’t it just wonderful to be found?

- - - - - - -
Soporific means, “makes you sleepy.”

The Bachelor

2005-04-19T17:00:00.000+08:00

There are days when being single feels like a kid in a window miserably watching all the little boys happily playing outside with all those pretty little girls. Days when you just feel like banging your head on the sill shouting, “Why, God? Why?” Well, today is certainly not one of those days. Indeed, today prayers are answered.

There's this girl in my Math class. There are two reasons why I love attending this particular class. One is that this is the easiest Math class I had since I got into College. I’m like pumping out A’s as if they were carbon dioxide. Two would be that girl. Silken hair. Porcelain skin. Divine lips. She was an angel.

Needless to say, I spend the better part of class stealing glances at her.

Today, the angel was wearing an impeccably cute blouse over perfectly fitting pedal jeans. She was adorable, as always. I hurriedly swapped seats to get a better spying point. The problem, however, was that the chair I swapped into was too far to the corner that it was difficult to figure out anything the teacher had written on the board. Now, since I was too busy glancing away to pay any real attention, I badly needed to take those notes. Then again, going back to my old seat would mean loosing sight of her.

Think, boy. Think.

Hey, why not sit near her? That’s M seating beside her. M and I were classmates back in elementary. That seat next to M is empty. I could go there, tell M that I needed to see the board better, and ask if I could take that seat. M would naturally accept. I’ll sit down and quietly start taking notes. No one would be the wiser.

“Hey.”

“Hey, DayEater.”

“Umn, can I sit here? Can’t see anything down there.”

“Sure.”

I’m a genius.

I sat down and started taking notes. The girls beside me were taking notes too, as well as chatting with each other in whispers. I tried to be as nondescript as possible. I could hear her voice. It was so sweet.

And to think I could just turn and look at her up close. I could see the depth of her eyes, the blush of her cheeks, the…

“Everything all right?”

“Oh yes. Everything’s fine, M. This is really a good place to see the board, isn’t it? Just the right angles… Not too far… Not too near…”

M looked at me suspiciously.

“I guess so.”

Hmn. From this angle, I couldn't see the angel’s face though, only tresses of silken black hair flowing down to porcelain white skin. She’s probably still taking down notes, perfectly oblivious to the conversation her friend and that weird guy were having.

If I could just tilt my head a little bit. Very very slowly. That’s it. Just a little bit more and I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of that oh so beautiful…

“Hey DayEater, you got perfect in the test, right?” she asks suddenly, tilting her head to see me. I saw her sweet gentle eyes, her straight Castilian nose, her pair of pale rosy cheeks. I saw how her exquisite lips part as they sweetly whisper my name.

Madre-de-Dios. She knows my name.

“DayEater?”

“Huh? O-Oh yeah. Yeah I did, didn’t I? Umn... Got lucky I guess. ”

The angel smiled, her tender lips spreading in a perfectly delightful grin. At that moment, I felt like there is absolutely nothing I can’t do. And at that sweet sweet moment, all I wanted was to keep on seeing that smile.

“So what’s your name, by the way?” I asked, grinning back.

Much later, I got picked as a class specimen to demonstrate the apparent usefulness of matrices in sending covert love letters.

“So, DayEater, do you have a girlfriend?” asked the teacher.

“Uh, no, not exactly sir.”

“Oh, you mean you're single?”

Hell yeah!

- - - - - - - -
DayEater's love life is locked up so tight he’s finding it hard to spell "relationship". Now as long as he’s in a university where all those genetically blest parents send their darling young daughters to get quality Jesuit education, as long as delectable kolehiyalas can show as much skin and curves as they want, and as long as he can write stuff like this without worrying about unfaithfulness, or his conscience, or a girlfriend’s clutch bag flying towards him, baby, you can throw away the key.

Beneath the Tree

2005-04-15T19:08:00.000+08:00

I rest, lying on a field of grass, admiring your magnum opus flow across the ever-changing heavens. Your sunlight flickered between the leaves, and I feel gentle shadows being playfully drawn across my face. I hear the breezes sing in soft whispers an ode of your timeless love. I breathe in the sweet fragrance of the field, the leaves, of the heavens.

This moment, I conceded. You have my love, now more than ever.

- - - - - - -

Reset

2005-04-14T02:00:00.000+08:00

I pulled the switch, and all faded from white.

- - - - - - -