Blindly

There is that noise again.
That cold, cutting, deafening
noise that she knows so well now.
The sharp familiarity is coming to her
painfully, almost conveniently
to unleash what she thought was already dormant.
It is spinning around inside her empty head,
dull and biting.
She lulls herself to sleep,
confused in not knowing
the difference between the realities
of the waking
and that
of the dreaming.

INDIA: Somewhere I have traveled gladly beyond any experience (e.e cummings)

Sunset @ Bongao

A Day @ Silisad Beach in Bongao

Sunset @ Sitangkai

Sitangkai Town

Untitled and Unfinished

For no particular someone or something, here goes:

I should not be writing right now
I should not be wearing my emotions and posing right now
But what do I do
When you cannot see me preen
Even though the broken shards of glass still reflect

I need you just as I need words to tell you I need you
Words are all you understand and do not understand
But know, my life is this poem
Struggling to be complete

Postcard from Tawi-Tawi, Philippines

Somewhere I have traveled gladly beyond any experience (e.e.cummings)

Ha susulan Tawi-Tawi

Quid Pro Quo

Blogging on the internet has come a long way. Talking about expressing one’s self, this is the right place to be to do the “write” stuff.

Talking about life and for the lack of it, I say I am standing on the edge of the earth. Other than hope and faith, I believe more in Tolkien’s Middle Earth or Gaiman’s Stardust. I believe that glass flowers can turn into fairies, and witches do exist to give you bright red apples when you starve in the middle of a forest. I believe in the curses of nature. I believe that what you give you will get in return. Quid pro quo.

I have stopped believing in faith realizing that it is not tangible. I have stopped holding on to hope because it did clip my wings. I am simply sashaying through the best of times and the worse of times. I toss a coin when I feel like it. Head or tail doesn’t matter I just enjoy tossing a coin and sometimes I imagine it being suspended in the air, falling only in a flick of my finger.

This is my present state of mind, suspended in the air. Inanimate moments of silence while staring at my own black shadow, overwhelmed by the smell of rain on melted earth as I bask in my own fears.

I have reached the pit some time in the past and the pendulum still sways.

Colored candies and holy smokes can only do so much to calm the rising tide inside and they are nothing but temporary salve.

I sleep less and I smoke a lot.

And yet I manage to be reasonable, but not quite enough to find the answers to my seemingly perpetual quest for the truth that I cannot handle.

I chanced upon an old friend today and somehow I felt a certain relief. There’s no point drowning in my own misery if there is still something I can do about it. What you give is what you get in return.

Quid Pro Quo.

Maria's Blues

Happiness she sought in one

and found in him an uncanny son.

Time-shared now long gone

for thoughts unreal, an adventure of fun.

Now she sits alone and waits,

understanding what love from hate.

Never knowing when he’ll open the gates,

to his heart she awaits for fate.

But in this time reality amends,

the enemy she tries to defend.

Nevertheless there will come an end,

when life itself death did befriend.

She sits still wondering,

staring into her mind she sulks.

A figure exterior proud,

yet chaos dwells within.

The scent of fruits surrounds her skin,

and an air of gloom holy facade, disfigured beauty,

searching endlessly for love unkind,

her words unwind, the longing for death.

Message from Pooh

If ever there is tomorrow when we’re not together.. there is something you must always remember. You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important thing is, even if we’re apart.. I’ll always be with you.
-- Winnie the Pooh

Giving Away

When you put yourself out there, bite more than you can chew and play a game you do not know the rules for sure, is that an emotional investment?

In a story about relationships, almost always there seems to be a double standard. He said she said kind of thing. He says we are just having a good time and she says let us see how far this goes, and he keeps doing what he does best and she is blind sided by giving it away not knowing nor understanding the consequences.

Like losing a piece of a puzzle that is she while he says that is all her.

It all starts with the slightest friendly gesture, one hello it is how it starts as the popular song would tell you.

Then they exchange stories, the wooing is tangled up in the friendly gestures and romantic innuendo is somewhere between the lines.

He digs deeper into her and after proving his sincerity she opens up allowing herself to be driven, taking the passenger's seat and pretty much enjoying the view of what is yet he would call an adventure.

He has invested to make sure his goal is achieved, while she is left to wonder, what now?

He has taken something from her.

She has given something away.

It is not a case of quid pro quo because what is at stake is not something one gives to get the same thing back. If only that is the case then there would be no more people walking around with their hearts on their sleeves.

No balls and chains there. Nobody forced no one into giving away what not. It is all you.

A Homeric Simile of English, Filipino and Literature by Isagani Cruz

After hearing the buzz about James Soriano's article branding the Filipino language as the language of the streets published in the Manila Bulletin, a friend of mine posted a link to this beautiful speech by Isagani Cruz at a Literature Seminar. This is a fitting speech to cap off the buzz about the Filipino's national language.

It is beautifully written and everyone who appreciates both languages and the literature can appreciate this.

SPEECH DELIVERED AT THE CLOSING OF THE TWO-DAY LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE SEMINAR ON "RE-THINKING AND RE-DIRECTING PARADIGM AND PEDAGOGY IN THE TEACHING OF LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE" HELD AT FAR EASTERN UNIVERSITY, 19 FEBRUARY 2011, SPONSORED BY THE ALLIANCE OF LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE TEACHERS (ALLT)


Since you are teachers of language and literature, allow me to think aloud through a Homeric simile or, if you wish, a 17th-century conceit, or simply, a talinghaga.

I am an adulterer. I have a wife and two lovers.

My wife is the English language. I married her, making my marriage vows to her, my credentials, my MA and PhD in English, at the Ateneo and at the University of Maryland. She cooks my meals, gives me sustenance, by helping me participate in meetings for which I get paid. She bears my children, which are my English columns and books. I come home to her, I rush back into her arms when I want to feel secure. I love her. I love English.

I have a lover, who is female. My girlfriend is the Filipino language. She is much sexier than my wife, because she has all these terms for taste, smell, and touch – the senses that I use when making love. She is much younger than my wife; English was born about 1,500 years ago, but Filipino was born only in 1973. My girlfriend’s mother is Tagalog, but her father is Spanish and her grandmother is Chinese. That is why she is so attractive, because she is down to earth like the Tagalogs and practical like the Chinese, yet she speaks the language that God speaks. You know, of course, as the Spanish people put it so well, that “children speak in Italian, ladies speak in French, God speaks in Spanish, and the Devil speaks in English.” Yes, my girlfriend thinks my wife is a devil.

I have another lover. He is male. My boyfriend is literature. He understands me much more than my wife or my girlfriend does.

I have to struggle with my English, worrying about whether my behavior, my grammar, is perfect. I am always so careful when my wife is around. On the other hand, I cannot take my girlfriend to so-called respectable gatherings. People do not look kindly at me when I use Filipino to speak at big education or business or international conferences. Of course I enjoy caressing my girlfriend’s body, all the literary works written in Filipino, such as those by Bob Ong, but I am a bit apprehensive about boasting about her, because my wife is extremely jealous of her. When I travel outside the country, I have to keep introducing and apologizing for my girlfriend, something I do not have to do with my wife. Fortunately or unfortunately, my girlfriend is not well known outside the country, so I can take her there and limit our friends to the ten million or so of my compatriots working or living abroad. Abroad, my girlfriend is our shared secret and we can talk secretely without my wife knowing anything about her.

But the situation with my boyfriend is very different. I can take him with me anywhere I go. Nobody raises an eyebrow when we travel together, stay in the same hotel room, engage in public displays of affection. After all, boxers and basketball players hug each other tightly, cry on each other’s shoulders, even walk together with their arms on each other’s shoulders. People think it’s natural when I quote lines from literary pieces, when I have a book of poetry tucked under my arm as I walk down a street, when I read a novel in public. In fact, when I quote a line or two written by my boyfriend, people even applaud.

Of course, like other adulterers, I have to admit that I have a real psychological problem, for which I need to see a psychiatrist. I also have a spiritual problem, for which I need to see a priest or pastor. Moreover, I have a philosophical problem, because I do not really know who I love more or best or all the time.

I write in English in an English newspaper. I talk in English when I am in an international or even sometimes in a national conference. But I do not really like being with my wife all the time. I get bored with her and she gets bored with me. We have done so much together that we find that there is not much to do that now interests us. Besides, she always seems like a stranger to me. Like the Duke in Robert Browning’s poem, I feel like my wife, my last Duchess, bestows her favors on everyone, not just on me. I do not feel that she belongs to me. I do not own her nor does she want to be owned by me. She insists on her own rules and does not want to make allowances for my weaknesses.

On the other hand, I write in Filipino when I feel The Urge, when I feel hot and eager, when it is that time of the month when my hormones are raging and I just want to have someone I can have a very physical, very honest, very intimate, very enjoyable time. I do not have to worry about my behavior, my grammar, when I am with my girlfriend. I can let my hair down, whatever is left of it. Since she is young, she looks up to me and admires me. She does not have a personality cast in stone, so she does not mind changing when I want her to change. Since I give her a condo, a maid, a car, and spending money, I own her. I create words that she has to include in her vocabulary. I teach her. She is not my teacher, the way my wife is. She is my student, someone I mold according to my own likes and dislikes.

Still, I look forward to being alone with literature, being alone with a short story or a poem or a novel, watching a film based on a literary text, writing a literary text. My boyfriend combines the best traits of my English wife and my Filipino girlfriend. He is equally comfortable with both and he joins my wife and me when we entertain at home. He joins my girlfriend and me on trips abroad. My wife and my girlfriend, not being of the same gender as I am, do not really understand my needs, physical or psychological. But my boyfriend does. He excites me, keeps me interested, makes me eager to be with him, with his texts done from the time of Sophocles to the time of Jaime An Lim, Gemino Abad, Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo, Oscar Campomanes, Ferdinand Lopez, and all the writers in this audience. He knows exactly how and where to excite me. He is one with me in emotions, in sex, in love, in everything.

It’s not easy being an adulterer. My wife does not want me to be with my girlfriend. My girlfriend wants me to leave my wife and to marry her instead. My boyfriend wants me to be alone with him, not with my wife nor with my girlfriend. On the rare occasions when I have all three of them around the dinner table, they seem cordial enough, though I know that they really cannot get along that well. My boyfriend keeps breaking the rules of grammar that my wife and my girlfriend make. My wife keeps telling me that she is from a very rich and old family and I would be a fool to leave her. My girlfriend says that my wife does not understand me and only she can.

It’s a mess. Sometimes I feel that I should just go into a Trappist monastery and renounce all language, keeping a vow of silence instead. But my boyfriend insists that he should come with me to the monastery. They let males in there, but not females.

Sometimes I feel that I should just find an uninhabited island among the 7,100 islands of the Philippines and live there without books, without anyone, but my boyfriend is already in my memory, my wife has molded my thoughts, and my girlfriend has conditioned my physical needs.

There is a practical solution, but I don’t want to take it. I could just leave the country and become an OFW in a country that does not speak English – and there are quite a number of these countries. That way, I will never use English, there will be no reason to use Filipino, and I will soon forget all the classic lines of literature that define my being. But there’s a catch. That country will have its own literature. I will surely find a new boyfriend. My boyfriend will surely introduce me to a new girlfriend. Before I know it, my new girlfriend will become my wife, and I will be back where I started.

I am glad I was invited to this seminar, because I can now rethink and redirect my personal paradigm. I can now teach myself a new way of looking at myself, rethink and redirect my pedagogy in teaching language and literature. In my imagination, I can be constructive. I can resolve issues. I can keep alive my live circuit. I can break out of my depression and get rid of all my repressions by letting the world know who exactly I am.

I am an adulterer, and proud of it. Maraming salamat po.

James Soriano's Controversial branding of the Filipino language as "the language of the streets"

This article has been removed from the website of the Manila Bulletin because of the criticisms the article has received. I can relate to the sentiments but come to think of it, most of us who do not come from the National Capital Region or Luzon, do not speak Filipino as a mother tongue, which is a prestige register of the Tagalog language according to Wikipedia. My mother tongue is Bahasa Tausug and English was the medium of instruction at school, and Filipino was a grammar subject which I was not very good at. Until now I would still say "nawala ako" (I got lost) when meeting friends at a place not familiar to me while being here in Metro Manila, instead of saying "naligaw ako" which is the correct translation for "I got lost" and most of the time I am being laughed at. I sound Visayan when I speak Filipino and I am not even from the Visayas Region. Definitely, when I am in the streets of Metro Manila, Filipino is the language I use, not English, and definitely not Bahasa Tausug.


Language, learning, identity, privilege

By JAMES SORIANO
August 24, 2011, 4:06am

MANILA, Philippines — English is the language of learning. I’ve known this since before I could go to school. As a toddler, my first study materials were a set of flash cards that my mother used to teach me the English alphabet.



My mother made home conducive to learning English: all my storybooks and coloring books were in English, and so were the cartoons I watched and the music I listened to. She required me to speak English at home. She even hired tutors to help me learn to read and write in English.

In school I learned to think in English. We used English to learn about numbers, equations and variables. With it we learned about observation and inference, the moon and the stars, monsoons and photosynthesis. With it we learned about shapes and colors, about meter and rhythm. I learned about God in English, and I prayed to Him in English.

Filipino, on the other hand, was always the ‘other’ subject — almost a special subject like PE or Home Economics, except that it was graded the same way as Science, Math, Religion, and English. My classmates and I used to complain about Filipino all the time. Filipino was a chore, like washing the dishes; it was not the language of learning. It was the language we used to speak to the people who washed our dishes.

We used to think learning Filipino was important because it was practical: Filipino was the language of the world outside the classroom. It was the language of the streets: it was how you spoke to the tindera when you went to the tindahan, what you used to tell your katulong that you had an utos, and how you texted manong when you needed “sundo na.”

These skills were required to survive in the outside world, because we are forced to relate with the tinderas and the manongs and the katulongs of this world. If we wanted to communicate to these people — or otherwise avoid being mugged on the jeepney — we needed to learn Filipino.

That being said though, I was proud of my proficiency with the language. Filipino was the language I used to speak with my cousins and uncles and grandparents in the province, so I never had much trouble reciting.

It was the reading and writing that was tedious and difficult. I spoke Filipino, but only when I was in a different world like the streets or the province; it did not come naturally to me. English was more natural; I read, wrote and thought in English. And so, in much of the same way that I learned German later on, I learned Filipino in terms of English. In this way I survived Filipino in high school, albeit with too many sentences that had the preposition ‘ay.’

It was really only in university that I began to grasp Filipino in terms of language and not just dialect. Filipino was not merely a peculiar variety of language, derived and continuously borrowing from the English and Spanish alphabets; it was its own system, with its own grammar, semantics, sounds, even symbols.

But more significantly, it was its own way of reading, writing, and thinking. There are ideas and concepts unique to Filipino that can never be translated into another. Try translating bayanihan, tagay, kilig or diskarte.

Only recently have I begun to grasp Filipino as the language of identity: the language of emotion, experience, and even of learning. And with this comes the realization that I do, in fact, smell worse than a malansang isda. My own language is foreign to me: I speak, think, read and write primarily in English. To borrow the terminology of Fr. Bulatao, I am a split-level Filipino.

But perhaps this is not so bad in a society of rotten beef and stinking fish. For while Filipino may be the language of identity, it is the language of the streets. It might have the capacity to be the language of learning, but it is not the language of the learned.

It is neither the language of the classroom and the laboratory, nor the language of the boardroom, the court room, or the operating room. It is not the language of privilege. I may be disconnected from my being Filipino, but with a tongue of privilege I will always have my connections.

So I have my education to thank for making English my mother language.

Life on a Tight Rope

The cigarette butt is burning my index and middle fingers, and as I inhale the last of its smoke, I saw a brief picture of my life in a minute, capping it off with my present state of mind.

It would be easier to just let things be and wallow in misery, because after all I have tried hard enough and the harder I try the more illusive dreams can be.

Sulking becomes a natural reflex cushioned only by the tears shed inside.

Incessantly I continue to run away unbridled by what is constant if only to keep me sane.

I count countless herds of sheep before I sleep at night and yet I still cannot seem to rest my mind, and sleep has become an enemy.

I am reminded of one of my trips to the islands in my province in Tawi-Tawi, Southern Philippines, sailing on a small motorized boat fit only for at least three persons. We entrusted our journey to our “bankero” who, without a compass used only the clouds' patterns and the wind direction as his guide and as always, we arrive at our destination without being eaten by sharks or being held hostage by pirates.

If only I could just pray to the sea for signs of my fate, I would journey through life with only the night stars as my guide.

I would not mind.

But life is not about wishful thinking and what if’s and what could-have-been's.

Life’s surprises do not come in pretty wrappings with colorful ribbons. They come in unanticipated fashion that can bring out the best and worst in you.

Life is about taking calculated steps on a tight rope balancing on thin air, and there is no looking back.

Whether I reach the other end or not solely depend on me.

Damn if I do and damn if I don’t.

Cupcake

Why are you afraid of me? Is it because I have sharp edges? Is it because I am too much to handle? or is it because you cannot picture me in colors and I am unpredictable, tameless and unbridled?

Or maybe you think I am tough enough that I cannot be pleased with the tiniest of things and the simplest of joys.

It is rather sad that you only see me in all of the facade and the bruises I try hard to keep, and when things get too comfortable or uncomfortable it is easier to say you've had enough because I am just too much to handle.

Funny how you have managed to lay your expectations and decide that it is my fault when they are not met.

You think you fall short not simply because you just do but because I am too much to handle.

You saw me in all of my frailties and vulnerabilities and still find me hard, cold as a rock.

You cannot picture me sweet because you already have a version of me in your mind and in your heart you would rather have me that way because that is how you have come to know me and it is easier that way.

I will not defend myself nor will I explain how or why I have come to be.

One thing is for sure, if I cease to be then I cease to be me.

A cupcake may look as sweet but that is not always the truth.

Top 10 Reasons Why There Couldn’t Be a Filipino-American US President By David Letterman

I found this article and thought there's humour to it. Thought I might share it...



Top 10 Reasons Why There Couldn’t Be a Filipino-American US President

By David Letterman



10. The White House is not big enough for in-laws and extended relatives.



9. There are not enough parking spaces at the White House for 2 Honda Civics,

2 Toyota Land Cruisers, 3 Toyota Corollas, a Mercedes Benz, a BMW , and

an MPV (My Pinoy Van).



8. Dignitaries generally are intimidated by eating with their fingers at State dinners.



7. There are too many dining rooms in the White House – where will they put

the picture of the Last Supper?



6. The White House walls are not big enough to hold a pair of giant wooden

spoon and fork.



5. Secret Service staff won’t respond to “psst… psst” or “hoy.hoyhoy!”



4. Secret Service staff will not be comfortable driving the presidential car with a Holy Rosary hanging on the rear view mirror, or the statue of the Santo Nino on the dashboard.



3. No budget allocation to purchase a Karaoke music-machine for every room in the White House.



2. State dinners do not allow “Take Home”.



AND THE NUMBER 1 REASON WHY THERE COULDN’T BE A FILIPINO-AMERICAN U.S. PRESIDENT IS…



1. Air Force One does not allow overweight Balikbayan boxes!

Virtual Friend

I can still remember vividly how the ice cream felt in my mouth, tasteless but numbing. You brought it to me if only to make me feel I was not alone that night. I took offense. Was I desperate? I choked on my own reply because I was. It was the 31st floor where I used to live and looking down it seemed so easy if only to ease the pain, but thanks to you and those who pulled me through I have found my strength.

You were with me everyday in India. Even if I had to sit in front of my computer for hours till the wee hours, being physically present became immaterial because what mattered was the presence no matter what.

The little things did not go unnoticed.

You may think that I do not consider you for real, but to me you are.

I remember everything including the DVDs you brought to my dorm during those painstaking nights of waiting for the bar exams.

Some people think I am difficult but you never saw me that way and for that I am grateful unto infinity.

No, you are not slow at comprehending my metaphors and similes, you get it perfectly fine. You get me even if I don't.

Forgive me if I do not share to those around me what I have with you, it is just something I am keeping for myself because you too are just as important and just as priceless.

Forgive me if I wasn't able to return the kind of love you showed me, I was too broken.

You are loved.

for MLB

As Is

There is a story she is dying to tell but couldn't for reasons beyond her, a story that would absolutely depict the kind of person that she wishes to be but for reasons beyond her, she just couldn't.

This is an attempt to tell her story.

Maybe if someone else would, she wouldn't have to hesitate, she wouldn't have to choke in her own words, as someone else would attempt the absurd, hoping to get the message across, if only to make her understand the very essence of her story.

She went to this place she described as strangely mystical and there she was able to smell the proverbial flower. She never dreamed of visiting such mystical place but somehow fate brought her there if only to find that peace she longed to have. She felt the desperation to be somewhere else and the place simply beckoned her.

She fell in love instantly with the place and the people she met in that strange mystical place.

There she met a stranger who dared her to try things differently, to attempt the absurd even if it meant going half crazy, to chance upon the rapids that was going to be her story.

You see, she is the kind of girl who makes plans, who organizes things in numeric and alphabetical orders, she makes calculated steps and taking chances are just not her thing.

This was precisely why she has gone off to that strange place because of the disorder she was threading. She almost lost her grip but she held on if only to find a new or perhaps a different perspective.

Meeting the stranger for the first time did not have that much impression on her as she knew and understood he, just like her, was a passer-by.

The stranger stopped at nothing to make her think twice about things that mattered and for those things that didn't. Perhaps for him she was just another conquest, but for her, the little gestures, the little acts of kindness, the tiny ways of showing he cared, made much of a difference and then surprisingly she smiled again.

She knew what she was getting herself into was dangerous for her own frailties but she found herself wanting.

On Christmas eve she has chosen to chance the rapids and dared to dance the tide. She told herself all she needed to do was close her eyes.

The stranger held her, swift but caring, and then she was taken to a distant place she never dared to reach before.

He brought her to places she's never been before and instead of being scared, she smiled and laughed and giggled. She was truly happy.

Then it was time to leave, to move on, and to say goodbye. She smiled and planted a kiss on his lips and said goodbye. She left with a smile knowing she had a really good time in that strange mystical place and she was happy.

Back in her own world she started making plans again, organizing things and setting time table. Amidst all that, the stranger came to visit her, but instead of being happy about it she was surprised to feel strangely sad, because things didn't make sense for her anymore and having to say goodbye twice is just anticlimactic. But she welcomed him just the same despite not understanding why or how, despite of and regardless. She slipped. She knew she was slipping back.

The stranger came and gone.

She is left with a thought, a feeling, questions after questions, leaving her distracted, disturbed. He took with him her smile when he left without telling why he came.

She is at a crossroad, left with a choice, her only option, if only she could just close her eyes and let things happen like she did that one Christmas eve. If only she could she would.

You see the stranger was a strange man, his job is to make people happy. He makes everyone around him smile. She was one of those he probably sensed could use some smiles. She, on the other hand, is a thinker. A wanderlust who does not know what she wants or where she wants to be.

He would if he could.

She would if she could.

But strangely enough if they would when they could, they'd cease to be themselves.

The story ends where it should be.

As is.

Her

She took the bus back to her crib and I am back at mine. The resonant silence beckons me to hear that deafening noise from within me and solitude succumbs me once again with its cold cold embrace. But then I keep hearing another voice, that of hers.

Her limitless capacity to see the things I cannot. Her relentless endurance to understand my erratic mind state. Her unending explanation of things I am incapable of grasping. Her own uncertainties becalming my unbridled heart. Her own frustrations capturing the very essence of my tireless quest for filling the void.

Her warmth somehow keeps that wind that blows my wings.

Her friendship unquestioning despite of, and regardless.

Her big heart is my threshold for all that I am not and for everything I cannot.

My sister from a different set of parents but I love her just the same as I would from the one that would have come from my own mother's loins.

Thank you Minnette.

DIYANG

bang ku tumtumun

in subay na lupahun

jantung dih sumuhun

sumagawa subay da pikilun

landuh in pagsusun

sangsah urulun

pagdayaw sin susungun



in jantung hiyapus na

in mata kyakaruh na

in bayah uway na guna

taptap tangisan na sadja

panumtuman pagkasilasa

taimaun na sadja

in ikaw lasa wairuun na.


For Radiyah thank you for sharing your story that was my inspiration for this Tarasul (Poetry in Bahasa Tausug, Southern Mindanao, Philippines)

Whirlwind

Chinese dinner, Bridesmaids and Wilson Phillips were three good reasons to cap off the last three whirlwind weeks. There are indeed some days when one goes through some highs and lows and sometimes one cannot help but succumb to the lows because it is easier. It is easier to be angry, to be sad and to be lonely. Having it easy can be a perfect excuse for not breaking the shackles, but as the Wilson Phillips song would say, things can change, things can go your way if you hold on for one more day.

I cannot dare say that things have changed and that things are certainly going my way now, but I would like to be open to that possibility.

My friend David had teased me that I have been in this whirlwind because of too much tv and that I have actually viewed my life as a punchline. We laughed. It is not just about the movie or the song or too much television, it is just that sometimes I just need to hear it from someone else what I already know in the back of my mind, or the tip of my tongue or in my heart of hearts.

That's what I love about my friends. They are just there despite the distance or the differences. One text, one phone call, a cup of coffee next, movies, unlimited popcorn, laughter and a nudge, and everything seems to be alright.

I have done tv marathon with another friend Minnette over Skype and it was really sweet.

Before Jayne had her baby we were still playing Garden of Time on Facebook and she still managed to send me text messages after her baby was born.

She is now ready to nurture and be a great mom and I am still growing up but she doesn't care.

I guess that's what friends are for. No more questions ask. Love is just given without questions ask unconditionally.

My eccentricities and my erratic state of mind and the drama make up for the person that I am and yet they are still there. I am too much to handle and regretfully some have decided I am simply that. I don't carry a torch and I respect that. I am simply glad that I am blessed with a few good friends.

So I am holding on for one more day so I get to thank my friends for not letting go of me despite my rough edges and the rough times.

"Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. "Pooh?" he whispered.

"Yes, Piglet?"

"Nothing," said Piglet, taking Pooh's hand. "I just wanted to be sure of you."

I Blame the Pen

Who would want to run around in circles with their hearts on their sleeves?

Rushing to finish a job to meet a deadline I struggled miserably because after this, nothingness will be a constant companion and when there is nothing left to do my mind wanders around and I hate when that happens.

I was just about to write down some notes for the job I am working on but I could not find the pen that I was just playing around with my left fingers. I have literally turned this room upside down and still couldn't find it. I have searched the whole apartment which is just a box really. I broke down all of a sudden. The damn pen made me check each corner of my place and wherever I look, I see him.

It has been one hell of a week when I should have seen stars and rainbows in the sky.

I was afraid to come back here because I knew I was going to smell the scent he left here, and that I was going to see him in every corner.

I am never good at talking, much less, speaking my heart out. So I have managed to have blown my chances profoundly and miserably. I blame the pen. I blame the pen for making me look all over the place, to stop and pause, to search and find that which I did not wish to have found. I blame the pen for my being better at it on paper than opening my mouth and letting the voice out when the timing was right. I blame the pen for not being there when I needed it the most. I blame the pen for making me find that one person I never expected to have met when I went away to find myself again.

He was there and he was here. He was there and here for me. I was blindsided by my own vicious capacity of not knowing how to let my guards down. So I pretended not to see him. I pretended not to see through the bigger picture.

I allowed my fears to prevent me from submitting to a passion that one can only indulge for a moment. I blew it unwittingly and profoundly.

One week was all I had and I still managed to be the person that I am that I wish I am not in those times when I just want to live for the moment.

What I could have done differently was make every single moment like there was no tomorrow because indeed what we had was that.

Now all I have is the damn pen, to write what I needed to say but was not able to when I had my chances. It can be read but won't be heard, it won't be felt. It is never the same.

So there goes my pen and the man and what could have been.

This is My Obsession

Somebody described me as obsessive today. I cannot blame him. You are who you are to some people because of how you project yourself to be. It is not a judgment of character. It is a mere statement of how they perceive you to be.

I cannot fight it anymore. I rest my case even before I get the chance to present it.

Albert Einstein defines insanity as doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. I must be mad then for doing the same thing over and over and still hopes to achieve a different result.

Fact is, I obsess about the things I have not done and for the things I have done. I obsess about the things that might have been and for the things that could have been. I obsess about things that I could have done differently and wonder obsessively about how I have managed to miss my chances and let time go by. I obsess about the little things that go unnoticed.

Most of the time, I end up speaking my heart metaphorically and leave my mind's relentless obsessions literally spoken. Most often than not, I find it hard to get the message across and it bothers me but there is only so much that I can do.

I feel the twinge every time, almost believing what people think of me, that I am just obsessing about things and that I should just learn to let go. Easier said than done, and although it is a sound advice I still cannot help but be the person that I am whom almost everyone do not know about.

I must admit, I seem to be stuck and glued to the ground where I was and used to be. It prevents me from moving forward, from moving on because I have not mustered the courage to beat the person that I wish I am not.

George Eliot said that “it is never too late who you might have been”, I cannot say the same for me. It seems to me, no matter where I go or what I would do, I still come back to think the same and feel the same. Inasmuch as I would like to say that I have come full circle after a short period of being gone, I have not really left. I was neither there nor here and it hurts. It pains me even more to realize that as a matter of fact. I must be mad and I am obsessing about it.



May 14, 2011
11:55AM

"Lenga" (A Bridal Dress)

She wore an elegant lenga, a bridal dress that is similar to a saree but it is less complicated . She looked stunningly beautiful in her Lenga, but there was something in her eyes, amidst the smile. It was not just about the Lenga for her, it was more about the responsibilities and duties of wearing the gorgeous dress. She smiled dutifully and carried the dress so elegantly but her smile troubled me.

She whispered to me, "look at my lipstick, I didn't even get to choose the color." She was being dolled up by her sisters in law earlier today for a belated reception of their December civil wedding.

She is a new acquaintance in Bhubaneswar, and because she was alone in this county for what is supposed to be the biggest event of her life, she phoned me and practically begged me to be with her, being a fellow Filipina, just so she can have a representative of her family and friends who are not able to make it here for this event.

She felt alone and lonely.

I did not have to ask why.

A wedding in my culture (or at least from the experiences of my friends) is all about the bride. From the wedding motif, font used for the invitations, down to the tiny bit of sequin used on the wedding dress, the bride gets to decide.

Not today though.

It was all about him. It was about presenting the bride to the groom's friends and family.

She carried her duties without complains, but I can feel the pain of loneliness whenever she puts on a smile. It was hard enough to speak in a foreign language. All she could do was smile.

Who am I to make my judgments. I was just witnessing a cultural fusion but I could not see a bit of Filipino in that reception today. I could not even see a bit of her individuality in that fabulous wedding reception. She did not even pick her own lipstick color.

She then told me in her own native tongue that she did fall in love with her groom but she never thought marriage entailed marrying an entire culture, and giving up hers along the way.

I felt like giving her a hug as I would to a younger sister, but in reality I do not have a sister and it was wrong for me to feel pity on her, because the last thing she needed was a fellow Filipina patronizing her.

I am not making any judgments. I just could not help myself but think about her smile and how painful her smile was.

In as much as I feel like opening up to a whole new idea of widening my horizons to open myself up to the whole idea of wanting to be a "new" me, I just could not imagine myself being in her position.

Falling in love is a beautiful thing I suppose, but marriage is simply not just about that.

I would like to think that I can change for the man I would choose to spend the rest of my life with, but I just could not bring myself to imagine giving up even my own individuality and losing myself somewhere between the thin line of falling in love and sealing it off.

How far can one go for a commitment?

What am I willing to give up for the sake of loving?

Is love really enough?

I cannot help it though that there are times when I wish I too can wear a "Lenga" or a wedding dress, but when I think of brides with a pained smile, I am certainly back to my own realities.

My friends and my family will just have to wait, hopefully not unto infinity though, when I am able and willing to give up my "running away" from a commitment of even a serious relationship minus the wedding.

Not yet.

Not for a while.

I Do (post valentine repost)

Relationships are about taking a leap of faith. Is that why it is also called jumping off?

Yesterday I had the chance to chat and have sugarless coffee with Uncle and Auntie, my landlord and landlady for the next 6 months of my stay here in India. They are such a lovely couple that I had a wishful thinking to add the kind of relationship they have in my wish list.

They showed me pictures of the places they have been around the world, telling me how they have managed to save up to spend for their retirement to lavish the beauty of the places they wanted to see.

As I browsed through the albums of photos from films which they have taken from their instamatic camera (which by the way they refuse to throw away in exchange for a digital one because they said it still serves its purpose), I have noticed Auntie beautifully photographed that I had to ask who took the photos. It was Uncle who took her beautiful photographs that showed her best assets. He brings out the best in her, even on rolls of films.

I wondered if theirs was a love or an arranged marriage.

I dared not to ask.

I did not have to because as I chatted the afternoon away with them, I knew then that it did not matter how it all started. Whether it was love at first, love marriage, or an arranged marriage, because in the end what matters the most is how they have managed to make the marriage work to still end up being together after all these years.

I left them with a smile in my heart knowing something can still go right.

Later in the evening I have received a facebook message from a dear friend about finally getting a divorce. I was shocked to have found out that this was what she wanted, but who am I to make my judgments. Still, I am glad to know that she is finally happy and free from the problems that almost brought her to rock bottom.

Today, I got the chance to look at photos of two dear friends from law school who finally made it to saying "I do". Exhibit 1 is out and they finally got hitched. The journey was quite dramatic, having canceled the wedding at the last minute the last time they had planned this wedding, but I have never doubted they would still end up together. Now this one is a classic. True love waits.

Now I wonder what does it take to make that commitment when you say "I do"? How far will you go for that commitment?

I guess the answers will just make things even more complicated than it seems. Maybe, just maybe, the key is to just seize the moment, live for the moment, and be happy while it lasts.

Misleading Definition

Someone recently asked me, "what's in a name?" I thought he was just picking my brain by quoting Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet's famous line, but it turns out he was explaining to me the effects of labels with the way we think or feel.

One act of kindness can define friendship, one blink of an eye can define fear, one kiss on the lips can lead to a thousand other meanings.

Why put a label? Why the need to define something as anything, and anything as something?

I guess there are two kinds of people who walk this earth, the one that drives and the one that is being driven. Some people are bound by these labels and definitions so they will know the boundaries, when to cross the line and when not to cross the line. They need things to be defined so they know if they can claim for it or not. Feelings are defined by emotions for how else can one react to something without knowing it for sure?

Then there are those people who are driven, not by the labels and definitions, but by taking moments. Those people who enjoy the freedom of fluidity, unguarded, unbound, and unbridled, taking moments after moments.

The thought of it is quite unnerving.

I could not answer that question with a straight face without feeling all gooey inside, because every time I feel like showing my dimples, I would like to call it a smile, every time I make a goofy face and a crazy person comes out of me I would like to call it laughter, and every time tears roll down my cheeks I would like to say that I am sad. I have gone through "taking moments" too, kissing goodbye to someone while the rain is pouring so that I could hide the tears, a walk by the beach just talking and not minding the time, eating chocolate chip cookies with friends while watching girl flicks, and I can go on and on.

Clearly, if I am to define myself then that is a misleading definition. I am who I am because of what I am.

Would a rose by any other name still be a rose? 

Requiem For A Dream

"...if only to find a reason to wake up everyday...a reason to lose some weight, to put on that red dress, to smile and live another day..."- Requiem For A Dream

What is your reason for a quick fix?

It can be a nicotine fix, sugar fix, caffeine fix, relentless wanting for attention, sexual cravings, even desperation for love.

So as not to feel lonely even for just a while, or to feel good about one's self even for a moment, or maybe in the hope of making it right.

Whatever right means.

Clinical depression is not even considered a disability, it is not even considered terminal, and some people (well for some who do not understand) think that it is just something that one creates, the mind thinks and it is manifested by the body.

What drives you?

What drives you to be on the edge?

I know one thing for sure though, falling does feel like flying oftentimes, and beneath all aspects and all accidents there is the naked will.

Freedom makes you do things others would think as plain insanity.

Others who do not know any difference.

A junkie? maybe, but who isn't?

When you have your quick fix, be it a doughnut, a bar of chocolate, a glass of wine, a bottle of beer, a sleeping pill, a cigarette, or someone you love but you cannot have, how does it make you feel for that one fleeting moment?

Now tell me, are you any different from a junkie?

Most illegal substance have been known as the best anti-depressant in the history of medicine.

It has become illegal because of the abuse.

I wonder why we cannot do the same for refined sugar. It is addictive and it is known to cause diseases like diabetes which has also caused someone dear to me his life, and eventually my dreams.

I have no legal or medical basis for this. I am just a nobody, but I do know one thing for sure, I know what it's like to have a quick fix.

The only difference is that I can admit it to myself, and you don't.

What is your "Requiem For A Dream" story?

"I Do"

Relationships are about taking a leap of faith. Is that why it is also called jumping off?

Yesterday I had the chance to chat and have sugarless coffee with Uncle and Auntie, my landlord and landlady for the next 6 months of my stay here in India. They are such a lovely couple that I had a wishful thinking to add the kind of relationship they have in my wish list.

They showed me pictures of the places they have been around the world, telling me how they have managed to save up to spend for their retirement to lavish the beauty of the places they wanted to see.

As I browsed through the albums of photos from films which they have taken from their instamatic camera (which by the way they refuse to throw away in exchange for a digital one because they said it still serves its purpose), I have noticed Auntie beautifully photographed that I had to ask who took the photos. It was Uncle who took her beautiful photographs that showed her best assets. He brings out the best in her, even on rolls of films.

I wondered if theirs was a love or an arranged marriage.

I dared not to ask.

I did not have to because as I chatted the afternoon away with them, I knew then that it did not matter how it all started. Whether it was love at first, love marriage, or an arranged marriage, because in the end what matters the most is how they have managed to make the marriage work to still end up being together after all these years.

I left them with a smile in my heart knowing something can still go right.

Later in the evening I have received a facebook message from a dear friend about finally getting a divorce. I was shocked to have found out that this what she wanted, but who am I to make my judgments. Still, I am glad to know that she is finally happy and free from the problems that almost brought her to rock bottom.

Today, I got the chance to look at photos of two dear friends from law school who finally made it to saying "I do". Exhibit 1 is out and they finally got hitched. The journey was quite dramatic, having canceled the wedding at the last minute the last time they had planned this wedding, but I have never doubted they would still end up together. Now this one is a classic. True love waits.

Now I wonder what does it take to make that commitment when you say "I do"? How far will you go for that commitment?

I guess the answers will just make things even more complicated than it seems. Maybe, just maybe, the key is to just seize the moment, live for the moment, and be happy while it lasts.

Ice Cold Delhi

December 31, 2010

It has been 5 days since my arrival in Delhi for the Christmas holidays and my icy cold fingers seem to feel numb from the constancy of the winter weather.
What is seemingly constant too is my apathetic coldness.
I think and I feel that the most honest compliment I have given myself in recent days is that I am as cold as Delhi.

I have played the scene over and over in my mind but nothing can ever prepare me more than being actually in the moment and living it.

Delhi has proven without a doubt one single painful truth about myself and there is no denying it. I have earned it and up to a certain extent, I deserve it.

As I stared into that moment rewinding my role in my mind, I still fail miserably. It is like my heart has been frozen in time and nothing seems to be able to knock that anvil that locked it away, not even a single forceful warmth of another heart beating next to mine.

A sweep of my hair away from my eyes, a single kiss on my forehead, a feel of my mouth parted in awe, a welcoming embrace, and a kind word. I allowed them to pass uncaringly, recklessly, and regretably painful. No explanation. No particular reason. Just a moment of sheer nothingness and apathy. Cold. Colder than Delhi's winter.

Now I sit quivering in the cold. Numb. Blank. Zeroing down on an empty space in my heart. Ironically though, it feels damn good.