Lola's Hands

Her hands always reminded me of an old book, just like the ones you find on a dusty shelf. Thick and aged, I’ve always liked old books because they often had that distinct smell I found comforting and curious. Leafing through their pages, I was sure to find the most interesting and unique of stories. Like many of the old books lined up at home, Lola Pering's hands were just as filled to the brim with distinctive tales that I still remember.

Whenever I held Lola’s hands, the creases on her palms felt like crumpled pages, each fold rich with a memory, an interesting story to tell. There was the tale of how her family had escaped to the mountains during the Japanese occupation, living on whatever the jungle had to offer. The story of how she was among the chosen few to have been hired to work at a posh department store during the American regime. There also was the story of how she had finally met Lolo Eking whom she said not only fell in love with her face, but her pretty legs as well. Indeed, Lola had the best legs, her skin fair and unblemished. I’d like to think I got all that from her. As a child, I’d enjoy these tales, rolling on the bed beside her or whenever we’d play a game of forty one with 25 cents or matchsticks as prize money.

She was great company as I was growing up. She would take me with her whenever she’d visit the seamstress for a new outfit, tag me along when she’d take the ferry back to Bacolod, or when she’d visit Lolo Eking’s grave. I remember her paying for my “ice scramble” one boat ride. Even though she knew that street food could make us sick, she knew better that I had a sweet tooth; and was happy to give up 5 pesos for me to have my sugar fix.

Lola was really great with her hands. I remember those pieces of bread that she would mix with a little water and roll it into a ball of clay for me to play with, long before I discovered the joys of Play-Dough. Or those bread slices that she’d lightly spread butter on and drizzle with a layer of sugar or a generous helping of condensed milk during meriendas. She would also make the sweetest warm milk that can calm any hyper kid down. When I got older, whenever I’d visit, she would always remind me how I loved being with her when I was a baby, crying out to be carried and cuddled constantly.

As the years went by and I began to build a life in the big city, though my visits to her had lessened, I still made it a point to come to her room and sit beside her whenever I was home. I would hold her hands and relish the feel of her palms. Sometimes she would forget who I was, or comment on why I didn’t have any hair. Then, she would ask me if I had a girlfriend. I would always reply, “Many”, to which she would say,”That’s good. You’re still young. Enjoy life.” She would always add one of my favorite quotes: “Collect and select.”

Recently, during conversations, she would always manage to include how tired she was, how sour her stomach was, how constantly hungry she was, how she always had a headache. I would immediately change the topic by recalling the stories she told me when I was a kid. It was a delight to hear her repeat everything. Not only did it remind me of my childhood days, I was glad to get her mind off whatever she was feeling at that time. I would even tease her to dye her hair to make her look younger. I was glad to make her smile even for just a while, hold her hands, and peck her on the cheek whenever I came home for holidays.

I have to admit that hearing her repeat that she longed to die soon did put me off. I would always respond that everyone had their own time, and that her being alive still meant that she wasn’t through yet. But she would always ignore my comment, sigh, and repeat her desire for the end. I wanted her to be happy at the twilight of her life. But recently, I was glad that Fr. Arthur had made us all see a different perspective with her words. She had raised 8 children, buried a husband, and still had time to enjoy herself. She survived the average lifespan of a human being. She was ready to go. I respect that. I admire that. Her courage to face death, armed with a full life is indeed something for all of us to envy.

I miss Lola’s hands; the creases on her palm, the stories she would tell. But I know wherever she is now, she will have more hands to hold (perhaps Baby Matthew’s and Lolo Eking’s) and more unique and comforting stories to tell of the life she had here.

We love you Lola. And thank you for sharing yourself with us.

Post-Mortem

I woke up with my jaw clenched. Amid the morning grogginess, there was a pervading anxiety that kept me staring blankly. I had a nightmare.

From what I remember, it was about my bed and how it began to bother me. Though it remained adequately soft, I felt lumps in several areas. I’d usually consider them a banality. Just like the many stains and the occasional odor during summer, the lumps were something I’d easily ignore. But in the dream, they called out for my attention.

Interestingly, even my silent and brooding brother took part in it all. We were amicable when I approached him with my concern. He offered me advice and asked that I check what was underneath my mattress. My curiosity welcomed it, interested at what things I may have swept underneath the bed through the years.

Sunset lit my room weakly. Amid the shadows, there were patches of orange and scraps of sickly yellows. My bed was half-shrouded in gray darkness.

My inspection began by pulling the dark blue sheets off one corner of the bed, exposing the layers of mattresses. As I lay on my stomach, the view below me was so novel. The long-hidden area was covered in an almost paper-like film. It was light brown and had darker patterns that simulated some parquet floor. I thought it cheap and tacky, and was glad that it lay hidden underneath all this time.

Excitement grew as I took off the rest of the sheets and pillows. Moving the top mattresses was an unexpected struggle. I didn’t realize how heavy they were. I smiled at how silly I was to not have gotten out of the bed first before doing all the moving. Then, I gasped. It was horrible. The site before me made my jaw drop. I wanted to scream but nothing escaped.

Gangrenous with splotches of dried blood, there were three sets of human limbs. Brutally decapitated and neatly laid out in the corners of the last mattress were hands, a pair of legs, and something wrapped in soiled cloth. It frightened me to recognize that the legs were those of a ballerina, the toes still pointed in some frozen dance. The severed hands had intricate Elizabethan cuffs attached to their gory wrists. They were delicately placed on top of another as if readied for a sculptor to mold. I couldn’t, I didn’t dare touch the bloody rag.

Questions raged in my head, choking me: Whose were these? Why are they here? What beast had done this?! I began to tear with all the confusion and fear. My body couldn’t stop trembling. Without taking my eyes off the brutality before me, I slumped to the floor and wept.

Even when I had awakened, the horror in the dream was as real as my heartbeat. I couldn’t move. My eyes, unflinching, gazed at the beige wall paper on my bedside. As I traced the insipid features of the wall, the images of the ballerina’s legs, the Elizabethan hands, and the soiled rag flashed before me. I stared at the wall even harder. The questions continued to nag: Whose were they? Why my bed? Who killed these women? Why? Why was this all so familiar?

A chill crept through me.

Oh my god. I knew it! The Fear! The Fear!! I recognized it so well. It was that monstrous terror so powerful that it had taken shape and lain beside me. Somewhere beneath the crumpled sheets, it hid—content, glowing red, and filled with knowing. It had accompanied me through those secret nights, ravenous in my search to kill, to dismember, to keep. I remembered the feel of crimson slippery between my fingers, its rawness smelling like the sea.

I turned to my side. With eyes still wide open, I tried recalling who else I may have killed, where else I might have stashed their decapitated limbs. I stopped breathing. How could this have happened?! Why? Why? Why?!!

I got up, grabbed my towel and rushed to the shower. The cold water slammed against my skin and jolted me back to the womb-like comfort of my bathroom. I closed my eyes and let the shower run. As the water flowed through my body, I imagined it washing away the stickiness of the nightmare. I whispered a chant: it’s gone… it’s over… you’re ok. My breathing eased. My heart took on a steadier pace.

After drying myself up, I sat on my bed and looked around me. The mid-afternoon sun was bright, painting my room golden. My bed was its usual mess: three pillows scattered, sheets creased into some mad swirl. The mattress was soft. The avenue downstairs was alive with buses and jeepneys coursing through it.

In my stillness, I went through the nightmare again in my head. It was a relief to know that it was just a bad dream. I knew that everything was alright, that all would be well.

I touched my legs, I clasped my hands, then I felt the warmth of my cheeks. Everything was intact, everything was in place. I was innocent. I was alive.

Laundry Day (a.k.a. "F*CK YOU")

Just like the dirty laundry hanging on the chairs in my room; like the crumpled sheets and limp pillows on my bed, my feelings for you have burdened me for quite some time now. Folding each piece of clothing, changing the musky sheets into new ones, I seem to have found a clearer view of what had happened between us. I even found the courage to finally write my thoughts down. So here, the bitter bile that I have long cradled deep within my gut:

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It took me two miserable months to come terms with everything. My embarrassment at having risked my tender heart to hope and love hard; blaming myself at having asked the question of what exactly we were; my being blind to your refusal to take things further; my sightless understanding at how you can be one cold-hearted and manipulative bitch; accepting your arrogance, your penchant for the high life, and your tight attachment to money and material things.

Yes, each time I recount what was, what happened, I reek of resentment and anger. My voice always seems to swell, my eyes widening in scorn. I even refuse to utter your name. For a time, the mere mention of it made me recoil in pain. I kept whining and pining; even in the silence of my room. I wanted my anguish to be loud enough so that it could reach you. I wanted you to feel me. I wanted you to hear me. I wanted you to understand me. Sadly, that's not how things work. And even if it did, the power to prevail rests in my hands and nobody else’s. After all, you refused to see me when you were here. You refused to answer my call, respond to my texts, and were scheming enough to keep me in the dark. You even had the gall to lie to my friends that you tried to reach me. We both know what the truth really was.

It all exhausted and infuriated me. I can only imagine what it did to my friends, who seemed patient and courteous enough not to roll their eyes at me whenever I would rant. Your cowardice and cruelty couldn’t have been any clearer.

Friends say that this is all so tragic. They said we had a good thing going. I admit, for whatever it was worth, it was great while it lasted. Yes, we had a good thing going. But, you let go and left me gasping. Unfortunate that it all had to end this way. Tragic? No. Unfair, yes. I’d like to think tragedies are made of more honorable stuff. In some ways, we validate our unkindness with stories of our brokenness but it never constitutes cruelty.

Beyond the fluff of emotions, justifications, pointing fingers and regrets, my self-imposed guilt in being responsible for causing it all to unravel, the simplicity was this: you were just not that into me. I asked some questions, you reacted a certain way. We, with our assumptions, blew everything out of proportion by making it mean more than what actually was. That’s all there is to it. In the spirit of magnanimity at having accepted your flaws, I also accept that the way you deal with affliction is that you run away from it, letting go quickly like a hand to a flame. Nothing wrong with that really. That’s just the way you are. That’s your business, not mine. So keep running. You only have yourself to wrestle with.

Good luck. Goodbye.

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Lately, I'm glad that my voice has softened, my smile more sincere, and the sheets at home, all neatly folded and hung.

One Calm Day

An interesting thing happened on my way to the theater the other day.

The commute was as expected: crowded, rude. I was relieved that I had my music on to calm me. Each time I felt shoved, stepped on, or a damp back lean on me, I tuned in closer to what was playing. I breathed in a little deeper and stared out till the view blurred. No fantasies of me brandishing a shotgun and blasting offenders to pieces surfaced.

Getting down the station’s steps, I lit a cigarette. My music kept on, drowning out all the noise. Beneath the canopy of the train’s tracks was Taft, the cramped avenue teeming with vehicles and pedestrians in some frenzied thicket.

Walking past the whitewashed walls of the World Health Organization, I took several more drags from my cigarette. I caught several people staring, and it made me wonder how I must have looked. Was it perhaps that I may have had a smile on my face? Or did I look intimidating and serious again? Was it because I was wearing black; and, as according to many friends, made me as pasty as the walls I walked beside? Was it my skinhead, pallid under the gray sky? Dare I think that I looked attractive that day?

Whatever. The questions did not seem to matter much. I was calm and that was good. I continued smoking my cigarette. I kept walking, my stride dictated by the beat of Wolfmother’s “Vagabond.”

Then the pedestrian lane began to get uneven. I found myself dodging random holes either filled with gravel, trash, or murky water. The music was still on, but I felt my rhythm beginning to waver. No bother really, I was nearing my destination anyway.

Passing the police station, an old man caught my attention. He was in a tattered yellow shirt, dark and dusty jogging pants that reached his shin, and ashy toes spilling over his slippers. Though he had a dirty red cap on, he seemed bald underneath.

The moment our eyes met, I saw his widen. Not really one to stare at strangers eye-to-eye, I looked away and kept walking.

In the softer parts of what I was listening to, I heard somebody yelling from behind me. I kept walking thinking that maybe some person was having a conversation with someone else across the street. In the silence between track changes, I heard the yells more clearly. It was a raspy bellow; and it spat out the words, “maangas”, “putang ina mo” and “kalbo.”

I kept walking. But the cruel words persisted. My music, as loud as it was, seemed to ebb as I focused on the blatant crassness behind me. He seemed to scrape every insult from the bottom of his gut as I imagined him shaking with each shout. As my steps quickened, I began visualizing scenes of him charging like a bull, maybe throwing stones, or kicking the murky water at my direction.

But I kept walking.

Interesting that, while smoking, I continued my pace. Interesting that I still heard the music. Interesting that I never looked back.

As soon as I got to the theater, past the guard and metal detector, I went straight to backstage. When the doors opened, the smell of coffee hit me and reminded me of home. In the inner corridor I saw my friends, smiling. As soon as I put my duffel bag down, I went to the coffee dispenser for a hot cup.

After the first sip, I smiled. Then I sighed in wonder at such a calm day.

Atonement: A Tale for the New Year

Your emeralds are green, glowing with envy. Your rubies, red, seethe with all your anger. You have diamonds and sapphires too, cutting and cold like your arrogance and pretenses. And those gleaming pearls, your bitterness and self-doubts, strung tightly like a litany of curses.

Through time, you have decorated your armor with many and the brightest of gems, wearing them proudly. You have done so that you may shine and have the right to shun. You have worn them as proof of all your past hurts, traumas, and despairs. They tell of the vengeance coursing through your veins, your heart yelling retribution for all the pain and suffering the world has given you.

Each night, you madly ride through the land on your white horse, glaring at passersby, shaking your fist at the moon. Yet on this night, this particular night, your steed pants in exhaustion. The cadence of your journey grows familiar, and loneliness begins to invade and gnaw at you. Your body then begins to ache under the weight of your rage, your resentment, and your heavy, heavy armor.

Unbearably weary, you decide to stop. You wince at the pain that shoots through your arms, legs, and spine as you get off your stallion. After tying the beast to some craggy tree, you limp your way to the edge of a lake. As heavy as stone, you drop to your knees. Eyes closed, you bend your head back, and the deepest of sighs escape your mouth. A faint breeze begins touching you. You hear the leaves of nearby trees rustle and the rhythmic lapping of the water. You open your eyes.

A multitude of stars is flung across the dark sky. The ominous moon, round and full, paints the lake silver. Calm begins to envelope you. In your stillness, you realize how worn down you have become, your battle with the world having led you nowhere. You become aware that you have adored your own woundedness far too long. It has brought you even more heartache and suffering. Your enemies are but figments of your imagination, tales you concocted to justify your ways; to affirm your hurts and pains. You begin to weep and comprehend the reason behind your solitude.

You cup your hands and try to reach for the lake’s soothing waters, but in doing so, your armor gets in the way. Piece by piece, you dismantle it, flinging its parts around you. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires, diamonds, and pearls are strewn across the shore tainting it with a sparkle. You are now naked as the day you were born.

You knead the flesh of your arms and shoulders, surprised at the novelty and power of your real body, of your true self: vulnerable, humble, human.

As you reach the glistening shore, tears fill your eyes anew. An unbridled feeling surges inside you. It is unfamiliar, yet it stirs you so you welcome it anyway. As you take each step, the cool waters begin to touch your toes, your knees, your belly, your shoulders, neck. You walk on till you are swallowed completely.

A moment passes and you find yourself afloat in the middle of the lake. You savor the million tongues that buoy you. Above, the sky is awash in streaks of deep purple, blue, and orange. Only a handful of stars remain, unblinking.

You marvel at the firmament before you, astonished to witness the birth of a new day. Then, faint signs of the sun emerge; its rays shrouding the world in the gentlest of glows. Softy, you chant: “I forgive you… I forgive myself.”

Silent Night

The night is black and clear. There are no stars in the sky, but wisps of fragile clouds. The streets glisten under the orange lamps. Cars and people go about their way, sharing the main avenue in slow procession. The night air is cool and calm, restful in its silence. The storm has just passed, and I feel much safer in my room knowing that the tempest is over.

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Looking out my window, I realize how much I love my friends. Earlier I was riddled with anxiety, wondering if they were alright, hoping that they all be safe and sound. I hated that the streets were in a standstill. I hated the howling wind and the pelting rain. I hated watching the news, and how it exacerbated my feelings of unease. I wanted to go and visit each of them to offer my help. I wanted to be with them to lighten the moment with laughs and random topics of conversation. But I was stuck at home. Instead, armed with my mobile, I settled on calling people, sending out texts of prayers, hope and love.

My friends matter so much for they have always been there for me, witnessing and supporting my existence. Like them, my life has its own share of disappointments and frustrations. We turn to each other in such dire times. They see my humanity as I see theirs. We pacify each other’s egos, offer respite, and are always ready with the best of intentions. At the end of the day, we know we have each other.

My birthday is nearing, and I have been in a sentimental mood lately. While recounting fond memories (both good and bad), watching movies and listening to music, I find myself tearful and overjoyed. Though I am present to the anxiety that I may have turned into an adult without accomplishing anything substantial, there is the love I have always shared that reminds me that my existence is not insignificant. The love I am surrounded with, so warmly generous and humbling, makes all the self-doubt go away. The thought of all of my friends fills me with the deepest gratitude and wonder, knowing that having made their acquaintance has expanded my heart and soul.

My spirit is full, whole and complete.

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News of various friends slowly surface, telling me of their fortunate circumstances. I am glad that they are all alright. The havoc of previous events is in the past, and the night is still once more. Pregnant with hope, this quietude heralds a bright new day, a clearing for even more love to share.

Tall & Beautiful

Cabin fever nearly got the best of me today (unfortunately for me, there wasn't a single hair to pull out!). So I rifled through my boxes of memories here at home, posted a lot of old pictures online, and found this essay that made me smile. I remember writing it for some straight male friends in the past, them clandestine and craving for fashion advice. I sent them this for their perusal(!). The piece is a peek into some of my own philosophies on style.
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TALL & BEAUTIFUL


I've always hated leafing through men’s lifestyle magazines. Well, that’s a lie. I admit I get great ideas on dressing well. I fantasize about wardrobes that distinguish me from the hoi polloi . I also fantasize about the men. But that’s another story (don't worry, my dear hetero reader).

So what am I saying? Many times, I find men’s lifestyle magazines ridiculous. There are the clothes that cost a regular employee’s minimum wage, the promoted lifestyle that require a five to six-digit monthly income to sustain. And oh yes, not everyone can be that tall and beautiful! I say this with all my bitter heart. Though I exhaust myself lifting barrels at the gym, secretly watching suspicious growth pill infomercials on the shopping channel, and admiring the Adonis-like men who strut past the coffee shop I hang out in, sometimes I feel I fall short in my attempts to be in some model's shoes.

No. I will not surrender to the thought that only in fantasy can I enter the seeming impenetrable world of men’s lifestyle magazines.

I, even only 5’4” in height, can still be tall and beautiful. Yes, men like me or even those who try to claim to be an inch taller that what they actually are (you know who you are), can make fantasy a reality. It is my goal that post-digestion of this article, I have imparted and shared some possibility, some hope, some knowledge on discovering or resurrecting the giant Adonis in all of us beautiful and petite men. Here are some basic styling tips, to heighten ourselves beyond the prevalent standard of men's high fashion.

• First of all, stay away from common and mass-produced International brands. They cater mostly to men of their race; where a small size for them translates to a large for us. Would you believe that I actually fit in what they label "For Kids"? Leave the baggy style to the adolescents and the real hip-hoppers. Nobody wants to drown in an excess of fabric right? Well, unless you’re Elizabeth on her coronation day. Besides, if you resort to mass-produced garments, you’re bound to meet a twin somewhere in the mall. Being an individual is always important.

• When you’ve finally settled with the fashion aesthetic you’re comfortable with (e.g. preppy, casual, sporty, S&M), consider either local brands or products from our cute Asian neighbors like Korea, China, Taiwan and Japan (yes, ukay-ukay included). In most cases they carry the size just right for us: a small is really a small. Be wary of department stores because aside from having the same shirt with the guy across at the far end of the MRT, many of their fashion lines come in safe and bigger sizes to accommodate mass consumption of their products.

• Take your time when shopping. If many optimists urge us to live each day like it were our last, then dress up like it were so. I don’t mean deck yourself with boughs of holly, silly. I’m referring to keeping in mind the same urgency. Hence, to anticipate the end, time is of the essence to prepare for it right? Try on the items you like and don’t just pick them out like bread in a bakery. Take note that though it may look delicious on a mannequin or a hanger, it does not necessarily mean it will on you.

Taking one’s time also allows the consideration of price. Unless money is no object to you, go ahead and do an Imelda. For those conscious of a budget, keep in mind that there is always a cheaper alternative somewhere. And it’s great if you’ve got your girlfriend, sister, gay friend, or mother with you so that you consider endless comments and ideas aside from the ones running through your head.

• Make sure that the fit is just right. If it’s too tight that you find yourself constricted and uncomfortable, stay away from it. Pigs in a blanket are yummier served on a platter. Remember that most items shrink further after washing and drying. And there is the issue of the silhouette or what is commonly known as the ‘cut’. Ask yourself (and whomever you’re with) if it flatters your body type. Does it shorten your legs? Does it expose your child-bearing hips? Does it make you look sharp or like a hobo? Does it conceal your jelly-belly? And the most important question, Does it look like you're wearing the clothes or are they wearing you?

• What’s your favorite color? I say mine is green but it brings out the dark circles under my eyes. And sometimes, if I'm not careful I could look like a grasshopper or a forest patch. Though you’re itching to have that indigo shirt, to your friends it may make you look like an aubergine. Keep these in mind, and consider that it may be better to look at your favorite colors than to wear them. You’ll be surprised at how you’ll actually like how you look if you just try on a color other than your favorite.

Do pick a color that compliments your skin tone. If you’re on the fair side, light colors are great for a fresh and preppy look and dark ones accentuate what you’ve worked so hard to shield from the sun. Darker guys should stick to either light colors to lighten their complexion or dark colors that flatter and not clash with their skin tone. If you’re a black beauty, stay away from those tangerine and burgundy shirts lest you disappear by twilight.

Remember that colors have a life of their own and can swallow you alive unless tamed. Remember Big Bird? What comes to your head when you think of him? YELLOW and not the bird right? Do not let the colors you wear speak for you. Use them to work for you. And that includes extending your height vertically. Keeping tones close to each other when mixing pieces creates an illusion of continuity, thus lengthening the wearer. Juxtaposing clashing colors between a shirt and a pair of pants only cuts you horizontally, announcing how petite you are to the world.

• Someone once said that shoes are not mere accessories but an extension of your whole outfit. And by this, he was pertaining to the tip of the shoe. Thus, the usual options: Square-toe? Pointed? Round? Consider this first: how does it balance your whole look? Does it lengthen me in my ensemble? So, Square-toe? Never! Unless you’d like to look like a robot or worse, have the misfortune of having all your toes hacked off by a butcher. Round? Too round and all you’ll need is a tutu to frolic with a basket of flowers. Pointed? Careful with this one or you can look like Santa’s long-lost helper. The safest choices are the varieties that subtly elongate to a not-so pointy end.

• Lastly, WALK TALL. When one is comfortable with his chosen ensemble, confidence will simply flow like the rivers of the Amazon—--in all directions. Clothes do not make the man. You do. The right fit, the right colors, and the right shoes wouldn’t matter without the right attitude. So, taking charge of one’s fashionable life and making the clothes work for you makes any glossy magazine fantasy a reality. Great things come in small packages right? Really, they do.

Rising to the Occasion

After another disaster earlier, attempting to un-inhibit myself in a tryst, I caught a bus with another commuter who seemed interested in me. Lanky with black-rimmed glasses (real, by the way), he was actually handsome upon second glance. Skimming through the seating arrangement in the half-filled bus, I caught the eye of a seemingly cute guy in the upper rows. My insecurities rendering me to shrink, I immediately took on the empty two-seater right behind him. “Nerdy”, following behind me, took the empty space beside “Cutey”. With the both of them cramped together, I was to witness their quick-forming relations all the way home. Left already with a broken ego earlier, the sordid duo in front of me made the long way home almost insufferable.

I began recounting how dirty I felt, post-tryst. I couldn’t help feeling down as the other issues I thought I sorted out already began rushing in. I felt uglier than usual, smaller and insignificant. All these exacerbated by the duo in front of me, quickly hitting it off, as I could tell through their furtive glances and guarded movements.

Trying to drown out my thoughts and the scene playing in front of me, I turned up the volume of my i-pod, opting for some loud house music; while curiosity and envy swam in my head. To make things worse, thinking that the cute guy would get off alone, it surprised me that the other dude followed in haste. Then I thought to myself, why shouldn’t he? The guy was indeed cute, and you’ve got to hand it to the other guy for his courageous pursuit. Through the oily window, I watched them scamper along, imagining what else the evening had in store for them: an exchange of numbers? a tryst? a brewing future relationship?

As always, I got to the sanctuary of my unit alone. I got my mail and opened my phone bill hastily while riding the elevator, attempting to convince myself that I had something important to look forward to. It was due next week. Great, more money to shell out. I felt all the more down on my way up.

After quickly stripping my clothes off, I almost swallowed my fast food takeaway in front of the T.V. After a cigarette by the window, I jumped in the shower to wash away the day’s excess, and sang to myself melancholic tunes, relishing the womb-like safety of the bathroom's accoustics.

I got to bed, cushioned my head with pillows, my mind still hard with thought. Even with the T.V. glaring in front of me, my fingers relentlessly surfing channels, I wasn't really paying attention. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't help bashing myself for reverting back to my dismal distresses. I couldn't help feeling frustrated at my current space: stuck and petrified. I couldn't stop feeling... hungry!!! Oooh! Martha Stewart started baking in the Lifestyle channel!

As soon as she was done, I put on a jacket and a pair of shorts, took the elevator and bought me a pastry downstairs. Though it almost tasted like hardened papier-mache sprinkled with sugar, it made me quite happy. After smoking a stick, watching people pass by, I couldn't help but smile. I couldn't help thinking that all's well really. Life's still good, even when you've got a pathetic pastry in hand.

Over It 2

Here's the second installment to yesterday's bliss:

"The card reader says, 'Listen to your heart...' And though the pessimist in me thinks it such a cheesy cop-out, the romantic and optimist in me finds it all too delicious. Truly, I've been too concerned of what other people think, exhausting myself in trying to look good, over-thinking to justify my ways; all of this, swimming in my head, forgetting to hear my heart. Interesting how she tied my current stasis, that palpable dead feeling that has burdened me, the loss of inspiration and vitality---all of this, to how I've silenced my heart's voice for so long."

"Yet still, I hear my mother's voice in my head. 'There is a reason why the head is above the heart', she says; her voice dripping with pragmatism. Nonetheless, one cannot discount the heart's existence nor it's power to induce our thoughts and decisions right?"

"The card reader continues that it's high time that I live outside the box I've quartered myself in. True. I've been inside it for so long, even describing it in the past as how 'petrified' I've become---deadened and scared. Living is a risk, and there is no other way but to take it on. Great if one succeeds, but if not, then try again. One thing never fails... you learn."

Over It

Amid all the negativity I've found myself swimming in lately, I decided to accept my friend's invitation to meet with his psychic-therapist. Though things have gotten better these past few days, the glimmer of happiness and hope shined a little brighter today.

Last night, I found myself exhausted from all the depression that I decided to start taking on a new paradigm.I got up from my bed (the cocoon I've long languished in), stood up, looked at myself in the mirror, and began singing a happy tune.

Today, after seeing the card reader, I couldn't help but feel much lighter than before. Buoyed with a new sense of self, I walked around the mall with a lighter stride, excited to settle down and write in my journal.

On a dusty, lop-sided table, beside the chaos of the adjacent streets, a full cup of coffee across me, and my trusty ipod playing, here are several musings for today (direct from the pages of my journal; with a little tweaking, of course):

"I guess it all boils down to my having a conversation with a stranger. Without the filters of familiarity and consequent judgement (brought about by well-meaning friends), I felt freer sharing myself; saw my reflection clearer, and felt the tempest within me ebb."

"Similar to the card reading I've had in the past (with another psychic), I was told of my greatness, power, and fiery aura. But this time I was made aware that not only is my fire innate, having the ability to create and make a difference, I also had the power to destroy. And for the past months, I have taken on the destruction of my own self with fantasies of ineptitude and desperation (what can I say, it's the drama queen in me)."

"I got present to my recent despondent feelings, in search of some messiah to whisk me away into a brand new life. And I realized how it was all a futile attempt at not taking responsibility, feeding the childish in me to whine and pine. The card reader urged me that since I was more of a 'fire element', that it was never in my personality to be saved. Apparently, though I may have seemingly reached my weakest point, my kind remain strong and powerful."

"Truth be told, beyond all my bitching and negative musings, I remain optimistic and aware that only I can take myself out from all this. I may have made bed, yes, but I can choose another or even make a new one to lie on. And my recent disappointments whenever I seek refuge in a friend's company (constantly left wanting for solutions or a sympathetic ear) all seemed a petty excuse to point the blame elsewhere."

In deference to a particular friend generous enough to take a look at my blog, I'll cut this short for now; and continue in another entry. I wouldn't want to vex any eyes with too many words (teehee!).

Pollyanna & The Wench

After staying-in the whole day, mad-dancing a sweat in the privacy of my place (that includes being naked... haha!), surfing channels, stuffing myself with fast food, fixing the pile of books, papers, CDs and DVDs stacked on chairs and my desk, I decided to meet up with a friend for a late-night craving for even more fast-food and a hang-out at a nearby cafe. I needed to get out, I needed to do something, I wanted to escape the imprisoned warmth of my room. Though my place was awash in the orange glow of the afternoon sun, a scene I usually love to immerse myself in, the heat gave me a headache, exacerbating my restlessness and boredom.

Conversations with this friend of mine usually hover from shallow flings to the abyssal world of metaphysics. And though at times I get frustrated and bored at how topics circumvent what we left off on in a previous meeting, I must say that what keeps me interested is the fact that our rhetoric reflects on so many truths about myself and my own life; even several truths that, in most cases, I refuse to accept or never realize. Discussions with a twenty-four year old can put a self-proclaimed twenty-six-year-old-old-soul to shame.

Just like before, three-fourths of our discussion went on about his current realizations about his unrequited (and long-distance) relationship with an ex. Probably I was groggy from this day's inactivity, but I couldn't help countering all he said with unspoken cynicism. Eventually I admitted to it after he mentioned that he had read somewhere that relationships were primarily based on the other's lack or need in something, fulfilled by the other. In this case, (he eventually pointed out) all my negativity was countered and complimented by his optimism (a characteristic this guy seems to be teeming with).

In the onset of our talk, over fast food and the distraction of noisy call center people, I couldn't help but feel confused at his current situation. I grew frustrated that he couldn't seem to move on. I then realized that I wasn't really listening to him. I was filtering most of what he said with my own cynical expectations. What I got then was that amid all his philosophies about coincidences, of reading the signs in his life and being so determined to understand his ex, was that he simply refused to let go of the reality that the other had moved on; and that he was just being played on. So I egged him on to admit these. My efforts fell flat when he did admit to it all nonchalantly. I grew even more frustrated.

I refused to admit that I had missed the point in all his sharing. I refused to see that he was simply happy at doing it all, willing to take chances, to embrace possibility.

Still wanting to prove myself right and able, I tried to explain further that the belief in coincidences and reading the "signs" were a result of one's desperate need to believe that something is real and true; an extended 'wishful thinking'. In such a science, things fall into place because we convince ourselves of it. I feel like what I had said fell on deaf ears as he continued sharing what he read from Deepak Chopra and what his psychotherapist told him. He felt that all the aspects in his life seem to be falling in one direction, outward, and toward his ex. I even chided that no matter how I 'sharpened my needle' to burst his optimist balloon, it never seems to be successful. Now I see that in our irregular meetings, I'm constantly charged to shoot him down.

In reality, I'm simply envious at the movement in his life. Compared to my current contemptuous sloth, who am I to judge his thoughts and ways as optimistic naivete? Compared to me who prefers resting on my dusty laurels and languishing in fabricated depression, he's working amiably toward goals. I was arrogant enough to remind him that his constant aims at lofty aspirations may end up in him falling and hurting bad. Again, it did not deter his spirit.

In all my efforts to make him see a bleak reality, I see how much I long to be in his place. All my warnings and discouragements, carefully articulated to sound smart and mature, was simply a resentment to all his advantages. Even his discourse of "sharing the love", that we are all child-like in need of attention and love met my unexpressed mockery at such 'corny' ideas.

Indeed he is someone to look up to. For all those brooding folk, he is someone to contend with; if not to argue with, for a window to see how many of us bitch about craving for the ideal, cowardly preferring to simmer in negativity, under the pretense of a pained, ruminating existence.

Re-birth

"I've found myself in a new place, and I'm excited to explore it!," were the words I found myself gushing when my sister surprised me with a call on my mobile. Caught in the middle of the walkway connecting LRT 1 and LRT 2 (Recto Station), I decided to take a different route on my way home. Sweaty and feeling quite icky from the arduous commute and the day's annoyingly sweltering heat (it was about 3 P.M.), seeing my sister's name pop in my mobile was a great respite from it all.

Aside from our usual pleasantries, she caught me off guard when she suavely inserted in our conversation that she was pregnant! There was a five-second pause. I couldn't believe it! I was ecstatic for her! It was one of the things that I've always wanted not only for her, not for my parents (who've been cradling the dogs at home in longing for a grandchild), but for myself as well. I've always loved babies, and the idea of taking care of one--holding it in my arms, being anxious at having someone's life in my hands, not bothering about my own self-- was simply, beautiful.

In jest, I've often told my friends that I'd love having a baby because I felt that I had so much love to give. I was even surprised when I told my sister that I didn't have to look for a boyfriend anymore, now that the baby was on its way. Ironic that it still is about me! Haha! But really, loving beyond yourself is always a good thing!

Interesting enough, those words I had blurted out when my sister called were the same sentiments she shared, figuratively of course. It wasn't a surprise to me but a confirmation that me and my sister were indeed siblings; people deeply connected not only by skin and blood, but by thought and soul.

Being in the long and boring commute, my i pod being a stubborn bitch again, hiding from the sun's torture: all these melted away after the call. With a smile on my face, I went on my way exploring one corner of busy Recto. First, I stopped by a mall housing kiosks reminiscent of Greenhills and St. Francis Square, only lesser in number. After making the rounds, ogling at the merchandise, I ended up buying fake perfume (a rip-off of Lacoste's "Style in Play" and 2 RnB CDs for Php 30). I stepped outside to take a quick drag and to soak up the charming chaos of Recto.

This place is so different from what I'm used to (i.e. Quezon City and Makati). Faces still looked tired and uptight, but they seem to give off a more "grounded" and deliberate aura vis-a-vis Quezon City and Makati's predominantly pretentious and guarded sort. Amid all the traffic and the mess of cheap and fake merchandise, the late afternoon's sun lit the area with an almost-sepia tone. Decrepit buildings and cinemas standing side by side with gaudily painted malls all added to the hybrid charisma of the area. I felt caught somewhere in time, in some drowned world where the past and present mixed.

But let's backtrack a little bit. Earlier in the day, I joined a friend to visit a massive Nike sale in one of Makati's high rises. The place, small as it was, was packed with all sorts of people: families, blue and white collared workers making the most of their lunch break. I wasn't really in the mood to shop at all. One, I was still groggy from sleep; two, I wish I had the audacity to shove and yell at people to get out of my way; three, I didn't feel like rummaging through boxes and boxes of sneakers and sports apparel; and four, I wasn't really a Nike (i.e. the sporty look) fan. But why did I go? Same as everyone in that damn cramped room: to find a bargain. I didn't find one, so instead I projected my frustration at my friend, holding his just-in-case-they-fit choices and goading him to buy a nice pair of sneakers.

That wasn't all that was interesting that time. The idea of going out with my ex-boyfriend (whom I broke up with after only one week of being together!... Actually, I'm not even sure if we were really a couple) was a curious thing. He invited me to the Nike sale, and being with him after that whirlwind romance kept me wondering what I was doing there with him.

During lunch, he was sharing with me stories about his new fling. Before, if I was who I was then, I would have felt terribly bitter and awkward with the conversation. Over cigarettes, a really oily Chinese fast food meal, and Coke zero, I couldn't help but listen. I couldn't help but pacify his ego with phrases like 'Good for you' and 'I'm so happy for you'. Indeed I was happy for him. I was glad that the emotionally turbulent time I had spent with him was over, that he had somebody else to be bothered with, and that we ended up as friends. But I must admit that while he was talking, I couldn't help but bitch (but only a little) in my head that this guy was simply trying to make me jealous or envious at his newfound happiness. It also sort of annoyed me that he admitted to lying about going out of town with friends (after our "break up"), when in reality he was alone with the new boy. It was annoying to confirm how much of a player and a liar (several aspects that complicated our relationship further) he was. I guess I still have feelings for him.

Later in the evening, he'd share through SMS that him and his new boy toy had a fight. I ended up giving him advice. I couldn't help it. All the more, I now feel that breaking up with him was a good choice. Indeed, he's simply too young for me, and too emotionally volatile. I am those things too; and if we stayed in the relationship longer, we would have been at each other's throats like petulant children. It seems better this way. I get to keep that distance between friends, where emotional investment is easily kept at a minimum.

Still full from the pricey dinner me and some friends from another choir had at a deli, I remember one topic of conversation we had. The issue of finding a "sense of fulfillment" in our lives crept up when he was curious to know why I didn't want to teach in the next semester. Let me share, in bullet points, the ideas I told him:

• having a "sense of fulfillment" is actually a choice one makes
• the choice must come from a place of "nothing" for it to work
• expectations and disappointment would be eradicated by this frame of thought because you've started from nothing. There's no point of comparison, there's no anticipation to base results from
• the idea of choice comes with integrity, being true to your word

It's funny how I remember being so glib and confident about these things to him. I somehow felt like a hypocrite in promoting such views (which I learned from a forum I attended before) when I myself am unable to follow through with them. But it's always a struggle, and that is what should matter. Right?

This is my first ever post. I've been putting off blogging for quite some time (my friends goading me to do so in the past). It has often been a constant in my life to keep a journal, but being busy with teaching has rendered me to stop writing temporarily. Moreover, the idea of having someone read my thoughts, the idea of being able to edit my thoughts were considerations in the past. Now I realize: don't these actually point to the same premise of journal writing? The idea that someone, somewhere somehow, would manage to witness another's life through writing?

I'm excited where this activity may bring me.

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