Dear ---,
i pushed the cart once more, filled it with flakes and fruit loops, cartons of milk and boxes of juice. i'm no longer surviving on red bull alone. i don't drink it any longer, you'll be happy. though i still can't do without hotdogs and burgers, i'm devouring 'real' meat and veggies now. i've grown up. see, even my taste buds have matured. you'll be proud.
you predicted this several years back. while buying your needs in a wet market, i knew you've conjured my image pushing the cart in some grocery store. you must have known that it would be therapeutic for me, as much as you've known that sleeping was my number one therapy then.
you may have been playing psychic when you lightly pulled me to that basement. with mischievous eyes you asked if we were to see the clown. i was surprised for you never really knew the clown. but you persisted and when we came face to face with the clown, you hurriedly left us.
how could you have known that the clown will make me laugh several years after you've been gone? how could you have known that the clown will feed me tremendously, in hopes that chewing food may shut me up, in hopes that only parcels of food will fall from my mouth, in hopes that together with a lot of food, i'll be able to swallow your name?
yours is the name that wheels the cart in the grocery store, the memory that pushes the present to a future you once wished for over lighted birthday candles. that even if it was overflowing with boxes and cartons, the cart moves easily on the well polished floor. you've always been pushing for my survival, feeding me with all kinds of food to help me grow up, feeding me with all the things i needed in order for my sensibilities to be as far reaching as the wind, with an understanding which can dive and survive the depths of an ocean.
the clown will be feeding me soon once more, with the fulfillment of a promise i never even expected to materialize. i will laugh again. you will be happy for me. but after that, i'll push the cart once more, for survival is not about laughter or food, survival is all about being fed by you.  | Dear -- | Feb 26, '12 12:22 AM
for everyone |
tonight i’ll be meeting a couple. tonight i’ll take out their faces and paste yours and your lover over their shoulders. you two could have been like them, should have been like them. i believe there was a time when both of you were; but though it’s futile to render vivid the things the past owns, that movie still plays in my mind. when the v.o. says that, i just felt something for the queen. in that one moment, she was humanized to me. and of course the ending, when she was about to kneel as she asks for an apology over not being able to be the friend the dying one deserves to have. the dying one asks her to not kneel, until the end, the dying one tries to take her for what her position dictates. now i know why i can’t let go of that movie. i can’t fulfill such demands. i can’t look beyond the here and now, way pass what is seen and what is tangible. a smile, a nod, an expression, those things are still tangible. but what lies behind them, beyond them, what is demanded by a position, a situation, i still am blinded about them. later, i’ll see you through the couple, i’ll see what you should have been, could have been. i’ll see what i want to see. i’ll see you. | Dear -- | Feb 26, '12 12:21 AM
for everyone |
it was a successful visit to the dentist. you were with me all throughout the whole journey of landing in the dental chair. i saw that more than a decade ago gap between my two front teeth once more. i thought it was a madonna kinda thing. but i sensed that you’ve noticed it, and swallowed your disliking for it. you’ve never met the one who filled in that gap. j was accommodating early on. i was with little l when i first saw his clinic. i was accompanying little l to secure her graduation. we saw his clinic. i thought of the gap. when j first saw me, he looked as if he was seeing a ghost. the disbelief on his face was undeniable. he was asking things beyond dental concerns. little l was laughing the whole time. j was prolonging the interaction. and repeatedly, he asked for a second visit. i let him bridge the gap with light cure and a lot of jelly stuff. he said he stormed all the things he learned from dentistry on that one little gap. he did more than what was needed, and he had me pay far less than what was done. over soft drink and that story about his mother being slapped with a fish, the gap never showed up again, until this morning, when i was getting ready to meet another dentist. while my teeth were being drilled, you came to me in the form of uncontrollable nostalgia. once more, just the thought of you was enough to tide me over whatever form of pain. i visualized the gap that was being bridged a while ago. the dentist did a wonderful job. unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to fill in that gap. it will always be there. i thought j was able to cover it. but like all the rest, he will never be enough. you see, you were that gap, you still are. no dental paste or cement can fill in the gap. the gap will always be there. everything that had to do with you, everything enclosed in that period when our worlds collided, everything about you will always be there. my teeth ached terribly for a reason: to once more ache for you, to once more remember you…=) | Test | Feb 4, '12 6:44 AM
for everyone |
whenever you're unsure of someone or something, you device a test that is supposed to give you certainty. that when a guy tells you to move your 'date' on a another day, your previous ambivalence is raised to red alert. suppressed suspicions arise as every word, every gesture, every expression, everything said and unsaid starts to have a different spin. everything seems to lead you towards the land of the stupid.
and so, the test you devised is plain and simple: but i wanna see you on that day.
you wait for a response. every second without a response becomes a termite eating your inner confidence away. then every termite slowly grows into a colony. you give up. you fumigate the termites by accepting that your suppressed suspicions have always been right all along.
and the supposed day comes. the response arrives. he'll go to where you are supposed to meet. he tells you he'll wait for you. you promise to see him. but you do not fulfill your promise.
you already gave him a test. you believed he failed the test. but deep inside you knew, he dropped everything just because you wanted to see him. deep inside you knew, you failed to trust, you failed the test. many ways to cut ties: anything violent including murder of course, diarrhea of words, a lot of tears, a lot of blood, a lot of tears mixed with blood, etc. or it can be with no words, no explanation, no apology, nothing at all, as swiftly as a pair of scissors snaps at a thread. no ritual whatsoever, no momentary pause, no drama. just that. goodbye.
whatever form of goodbye is painful only to those who do not want it.
you remember the good days, the things that made once made you truly happy. you remember the bad things too, most likely, the things that once made you miserable. at one point, you wish to remember everything. then at one point, you wish to obliterate everything.
the memories will eventually fade, you know that very well. no matter how you cling on them, no matter how you hammer them in your mind, how you manipulate them so as to justify their value, they will fade.
no matter how tight, or how thick, ties will eventually be broken, cut in a flash. ties are not forever. heaven and hell, even the bible says, satan's bondage, only for a thousand years.
cut the ties. the ends may or may not knot again. either way, it will never be forever. goodbye. | dream | Nov 2, '11 11:16 AM
for everyone |
there's this house, built in someone else's dream. one story, with a little garden in front, a laundry area at the back. there's a woman doing the laundry, washing clothes with her hands then inserting those clothes in a washing machine. the woman has such sad eyes, the droopy kind with a lot of lashes. but when she smiles, those eyes sparkle, as if glimmering with joy with every hopeful moment. she has nothing to call her own, only the clothes she washes in somebody else's dream. not even the house is hers, for it transforms itself as the dream continues. but the clothes, she knows they are hers, the dreamer misses the clothes in the wakeful world.
she hangs the clothes on golden clotheslines. she does this all the time, or it's the only thing she does in the dream. then the dreamer arrives. the woman looks at her with her pair of sad eyes. slowly, she allows a smile. the dreamer approaches her: tell me who you are? tell me what this is all about?
the woman keeps on allowing the smile conquer her lovely face. she is lovely, she may not know about it. dreams are not too self conscious. the dreamer knows this: you have such a lovely face. the woman frowns. no words part her lips. she looks at the dreamer. and the dreamer supplies the words: what am i doing here.
the woman shrugs. she goes to her huge basin, starts washing clothes with her hands once more. the dreamer presses on: please tell me, tell me who you are? what is this?
the woman looks at the dreamer with much kindness. the woman says: when you wake up, these things may be washed away, you may wash me and everything here away, as you've always washed away the things that may have hurt you once. i don't know who i am or what is this all about. you tell me. i am just your dream. you own me.
the dreamer wakes up, the dream getting fainter with each passing moment. the dreamer frowns, why is it that there's a line echoing from some faraway, faint memory: it is the dream who owns the dreamer.
he tried to lock the door but his mind reduced his therapist's litany to one sentence: "stop imprisoning the self, let it go, let it fly." so he chose to escape. he started picking his things up, just the important ones, the brief case with all the things relevant to his work -- laptop, and other gadgets, reports on the environment, and the classcards -- and the ones important to him -- his wallet and his diary, the one obvious manifestation of his romantic self. perhaps it was a habit he formed when he was still in high school, his english teacher forcing them to keep a diary, some sort of ode to pelps, or just plain daily assignment that will give her an excuse to grade them all even if she was not a believer of the grading system: "just numbers, why reduce you all to numbers?" then it became: "letters and numbers, all the same, grades can be manipulated, i don't want to manipulate you, i want you all to be free, unlock those minds of yours, soar high and conquer the universe." everything rushed to doc's mind, memory darts with no clear targets, just speeding to his mind at that very moment. and so he paused for a moment. there's another dart rushing towards him. that's the kind of memory dart, in flesh and bones at that, which he wanted to escape from. but it was too late. the door opened. there, the memory stood, smiling. it wasn't an evil smile, or was it? doc wanted to think it was a courageous smile. here, his memory was about to confront him, the demon he knew he became to this memory's belief. his memory was brave enough to even find him, face him, squeeze all the hatred and pain that very moment may yield. the memory was willing to face everything, him. doc wore his facial mask of despise. he braced himself, waited. the boy started taking baby steps. baby steps from someone who still acts like a baby. he's still a baby, doc's mind is telling him. and the baby uttered with glee: "whazup doc?" oh that language, quite strange to him. it was that kind of language which fed him ambivalence. "why befriend someone who can't even come up with a decent sentence in english?" doc's mind was castigating him: "why would you even reply to someone who uses 'prolly' and 'f'rinstance' in a sentence?" it was that language, the one that this baby's been using that insulted doc: "WTF? you don't know what WTF means? it's What The Fuck you motherfucker!" and there were other ammunitions from this strange vocabulary: "fuck 'n roll, dick and a half, octogenarian butt gulf." doc couldn't stand this baby's words anymore that he chose to dismiss him, in such a way that he's been dismissing people and things. "i heard you've been promoted, congratz," the baby continued. doc's promotion as vice chancellor was but a political dole out. he was qualified, he knew it, everyone knew it. but when it came to university politics, qualifications do take a back seat sometimes, the new chancellor is his fraternity brother. doc's been campaigning hard for him, sleazing through the knots and threads balling up the political web. he did not ask for any favor in return for his hard work, but he liked the sound of it: vice chancellor. that's a big leap from being an ordinary professor. deep inside, he knew he can handle the job with much aplomb. deep inside, he knew that people wouldn't be surprised. he did serve as college secretary once, had his PhD abroad, and built a rather respectable name in his field. but deep inside, he knew that mouths won't just stop. there'd be talks, he actually felt there already were, of his closeness to the chancellor which must prolly be the major reason for his appointment. and this baby in front of him, smiling cutely, this baby knew that. doc started to move towards the door: "thank you for congratulating me. i have to go now." in an attempt to stop doc, the baby touched doc's arm: "Doc --" doc felt the electricity, that darn electricity rushing in his veins whenever this baby would touch him. it started casually, brushing arms while going over a report on the environment together. he got this baby for a research assistant after he was recommended by the dean herself: "brilliant young mind, got a one in my class." that was a mistake, doc realized after a couple of months, to listen to the dean who has a pattern of playing mother to nice young lads. the joy he had for the first few months was intoxicating. the baby introduced him to the wonderful joys of the internet doc found trivial before. facebook, the baby said, you get to use apps, get to connect with your friends. doc was hesitant: i can always text my friends, or email them. this is different, the baby said, you'll get a good kick from the number of likes and the number of comments. the baby tutored him more: try to use youtube, you can just watch or download that thai tear jerker you've been salivating over, no need for the dvd pirates, drop those contacts of yours, youtube is fun. and it went on. as doc tutored the baby about coming up with credible reports on the environment, the baby tutored him on fliptop and torrent; every holiday, may it be thanksgiving, doc would receive a funny message or two sent by the baby, there were times when doc wanted to prolong the cyber interaction, he'd reply with his usual "thank you for the greeting, happy ____ too to you and your family," he'd wait for the baby's rebound, there'd always be one, and doc may find himself trapped in the exchange, trapped, the word would always be trapped, for doc would want to think that it was the baby who's been prolonging their interaction, though deep inside, he knew, he had wanted such for a long time now. when did it start? this wanting for a prolonged interaction? three or four years perhaps? or maybe even farther back. it must have been with larry. that driver of his who had the nerve to ask him why was he too friendly with him. he dismissed the question, and tried to keep his distance from larry. employer-employee, he maintained such relationship. then larry left him, for a better employer he said, for someone who was willing to be more than an employer to him. doc was devastated, but he's been used to swallowing devastations before. larry wasn't the one to make him puke a devastation out. doc continued with his routine, drowned himself in a lot of work, earned two or so awards in the process, until slowly, he forgot about larry, or not larry really, but the devastation larry left him with, he digested it, and eventually he felt that he was already able to excrete it out of his system. then allan came along. good looking and mysterious allan. one of his students, large class and allan proved to be striking. oh he was brilliant, doc even treated him to coffee for a number of times just to discuss allan's excellent academic papers. allan was his first choice for the research assistant position, but allan did not reply to doc's text. he emailed him, still, there was no reply. doc never liked being dismissed. he prided himself for being dismissive. he should be the one doing the dismissal. and so he took the baby under his wings. two months with the baby and allan emailed him, apologized for having missed out on his email, would gladly accept the research assistant post. but doc already had the baby, he would have wanted to scream at allan: i got someone better. doc ignored allan for the longest time, when the baby was giving him a lot of reasons to wake up in the morning and embrace life. though when things were not going well with the baby, doc went back to allan: you still want to be research assistant? when allan said yes, doc thought he was able to move on from the baby's ghost, he welcomed allan's return to his life, went back to his routine, thought of gaining two or more awards, but the baby came back, and the baby is touching his arm. "it wasn't just my fault," the baby furthered. "i'm late for a meeting." how can the baby say that? doc felt wronged. as research assistant, the baby does not have the right to have his name land on the by line. doc explained that to him early on. but when the report was published, the one the baby gave his assistance for, this ingrate had the nerve to write to the dean and demand his name's inclusion next to doc's. it was humiliating for doc, his colleagues started spreading rumors about him. of course he's not gay! even if he is, he's been very careful not to let it surface. he's been trying to act professionally on the strictest sense, but some baby was able to open the pandora's box of homosexuality. his colleagues are talking behind his back, laughing at him, mocking him for punishing the baby just because the baby resigned as his research assistant before the report was published. "some other day, when i'm no longer busy," doc said. the baby's touch became a grip: "that's the problem with you, doc. you don't confront a problem. you're a coward. you run away from any problem at all." what right does this baby have to even express how he thinks of doc? for crying out loud, this baby hasn't even graduated from college, hasn't received all the awards doc received. doc's been known in his field, been invited to speak here and abroad, been awarded prizes his colleagues could only dream about. doc looked at the baby. he saw his smile. there was something in the baby's eyes that made doc uncomfortable. there was the immediate past, their immediate past peering through the baby's eyes. three or even four years back, doc swore that he'd focus the remaining years of his life to his work, he'll work for the environment, make its preservation his advocacy. he did earn other people's respect, even told them that being given the position, the clout to work for the preservation and thus improvement of the environment had always been his dream. there still remained unfulfilled personal dreams of course, but those things were irrelevant compared to his passion for the betterment of the environment. those personal dreams were simple: to just have someone to share a meal or two with, to explore places with a companion in tow, to talk about a lot of things with someone who can be funny and serious in one sitting, to be assured that all the help he needs can be rendered by just one person, to reminisce about his life to someone who'll really care about it. he thought it was the baby, but the baby left him to accept a job offered by the motherly dean. to teach him a lesson, doc deliberately excluded him from the report. the baby, instead of crawling back to doc, apologizing for having abandoned him, fought him with tooth and nail, and that verbal abuse doc was not used to. doc already had allan now, plus a number of minions afforded him by the office of the vice chancellor. he tried to focus on them, tried to be happy with them. he showered allan with all the perks his network and his new found power gave him, and that too, he tried to give his new found minions. that will really teach the baby a lesson. that will really make the baby regret having abandoned and fought him. but one word from the baby, one mention of his name, one chance encounter with him and even without a touch, doc could feel the electricity. it must be hatred for an ingrate, doc thought before. he tried to assess his thoughts, what power did that baby have to make such hatred boil and rise inside him? and then he remembered, all those things he wanted to suppress: the baby did not just introduce him to the side of the internet he ignored for so long, the baby was able to make him remember, every encounter with him, doc would feel the memory darts, piercing hard, rendering vivid those he would have wanted to come back. it was the baby who asked him about his childhood, his growing up years, his teen age phase, that dynamic college life, his stint abroad, everything. doc had always been known to talk about the past to anyone who would listen, with the baby, he knew he wasn't just talking about the past, he knew he was re-living it, the baby was thirsty for doc's past, he was thirsty for anything at all concerning doc. and doc knew, he hasn't met anyone who was willing to take him in as he undresses the self, flesh and soul, down to his very core. doc broke free from the grip. he patted the baby's arm twice. "i have to go. good luck." he gave him a forced smile. he turned his back at him, started to head to his new office as vice chancellor. he knew the baby will not give up, he will still pester him. he slowed down a little, he tried to sense if the baby was following him. he didn't hear any footsteps behind him. he wanted to turn around, but he stopped himself. he walked more hurriedly. he's been used to routines, to advocacies, to armors shielding the self from hurt, and to acceptance that his personal dreams will not inch their way to reality. he's used to those things. the environment will survive, he's sure about that. and he will survive too, alone and lonely, he will survive. what kind of survival? doc reached his new office, the minions are all smiles, with balloons and some food, doc greeted them gleefully. he will survive. | ComArts | Sep 24, '11 11:24 PM
for everyone |
it's funny how several years back, i was part of that passionate attempt to assert that though admittedly, numbers may scare the hell out in most comarts majors, the majors were certainly good in things that number hugging students could only dream of successfully attempting. it's funny for just the other night, i found out that with all the general put downs hurled at the cerebral or scholarly abilities of comarts majors who triumphantly survived and are still trying to emerge victorious in a science oriented community, the majors themselves were not only encouraging more put downs, but accepting, though perhaps unwittingly, that even in an area, or a 'job' identified as one of their strengths, they'd rather have a non-comarts major slap them not only with a substandard output but even with the disgusting fact that they surrendered their pride, that pride over being better at something, to a non-comarts major. art and soul, i think it was dubbed. the event at java ave featuring acoustic performances, songs from the 90s i think, and a lot more. it was a contest with some dramatic performances serving as intermission numbers. i was outside, just hearing the contestants intermittently jolting the night with their voices and their musical instruments. java's facade was covered with this gigantic white cloth/tarp/whatever it can be called. everything was fine, it was an event by the 'official organization' for comarts majors. and then it became disturbing that i just couldn't let it slide without comment. i am a proud product of the communication arts program. that huge white thing brags that indeed the comarts soc is the official organization for uplb's comarts majors. no argument against that. that's a fact. but how come the official organization for uplb's comarts majors allowed a non comarts major to host its event? i know deo cajano for a couple of years now, whatever personal misgiving i have about him is not the issue. the issue is plain and simple: granted that he is a member of the official organization for uplb's comarts majors, why was it that with a plethora of arguably smart comarts majors around, he got to host the event? come on, with a background on speech communication, not a single comarts major in the revered (and i mean this seriously) comarts soc can pull off a hosting job? what are we saying here? gone are the days when comarts majors are known for being bibo and biba? when was that turning point when comarts majors started shying away from speaking in front of people? are all comarts majors into writing now? only writing that not a single major can stand in front of people and host an event? can't writers stand up in front of people and handle a 'program?' puhleeeeaze! granted that he is a member of the organization and as such must be given exposure, training, and all the things that the organization provides its members, in having chosen him -- a non comarts major -- to host an event curtained with a huge white thingy repeatedly burping that the event is organized by the official organization for uplb's comarts majors, there was already admission that only he could handle the job. i will not admit to that. is he prolly the best that the comarts soc has to offer when it comes to hosting? really now. it underscores that comarts majors are inferior to his hosting abilities. a lotta crap. comarts majors are supposed to be eloquent, definitely more eloquent than a code switching host who equated witticism with yelping insignificant thoughts and events from his life. granted that perhaps he is lording it over the organization, that perhaps his fellow members, in their naivete or lack of exposure worship whatever talent they find in him, point is, before there was an organization, there existed first a degree program. and this degree program, arguably perceived as the merciful basin for uplb's intellectual lightweights was not designed to cater to the mediocre or the coward, but was shaped to train those who have an aptitude for communication. i believe that every comarts major has that aptitude. crowd drawing power, over enthusiasm, internal politics, personal agenda and a lot more perhaps entered the picture. but they are certainly far from the issue. why easily hand someone superiority over our turf amidst an armada of comarts majors? i don't believe that the comarts soc ever lacked talent. i believe that every comarts major is a volcano of potentials waiting to erupt. this not just about a fabulous fight for significance under the 'agricultural sun.' every comarts major is already significant in the intellectual order of things inside or outside uplb. this is not about humility for this is not about accepting that someone is better than you are, more experienced, more exposed, even if he belongs to another course. why accept that immediately when you deny yourself the chance to gain a similar experience, a similar exposure? no. this is about territoriality, this is about our turf. no one is stopping a non comarts major to try his hands in hosting an event. and no one is stopping a comarts major to balance the most complicated equation. but then again, a comarts major honorary member of an organization for math majors will never get fielded to a math quiz bee unless he's been able to beat all the other members, all the other math majors in whatever screening decided upon by the organization. did deo cajano beat everyone in a similar screening? doubtful.territoriality, seems like we can't even survey the vastness of our own territory. the fault certainly does not lie with deo cajano. heck, spotlight addicted individuals are not blamed if the spotlight gets busted. the fault lies with those who 'control' the spotlight, those who decide who deserves the spotlight. no comarts major deserves such? bullshit. i'm unaware as to how honorary membership works in the comarts soc. all i know is that we comarts majors agree that the comarts soc is the official organization for uplb comarts majors, and that we comarts majors have our turf. there's a field we are trained to excel in. and no repetitive display of a singular tiresome acting technique in several productions should make us forget about our turf, forget about what we're supposed to be experts of. this is not even about whether he is good or bad, as a host, as an actor, or as whatever it was that afforded him the prestige to become a member of the official organization for uplb comarts majors even if he certainly is not a comarts major. this is not about him. this is about pride. when did comarts majors swallow their pride? according to her, her mama once said, "ginagawa n'yang side keyk (sic) ang anak ko." together with bunso, she laughed at her mama's mispronunciation. i told her, "maybe that's the problem with you, baka nga naman kasi ok lang sa 'yo ang maging side 'keyk' kaya people treat you as one."
she said that perhaps she really looked up to her friends, that perhaps to her, sue and aimee were really gorgeous (to the highest level), that ayce and ap were darn good writers, that ali was a creative genius, that all her friends were demigods while she was just a mere mortal, a provincial lass whose bragging rights only came from having been proclaimed jologs queen in the soc's jologs quiz contest ("at kasama ka pa du'n, manay. so hindi lang ako 'yung queen")
flash forward and i shared with her that time when i received a sort of verbal lashing after having screwed up in an important event. i was told, "the problem with you is that you are too helpful."
she fell silent. after a few beats, she said, "manay, siguro 'yun din ang problem ko."
she started recounting all those times when she ran into trouble even if she had the purest intention: to render help. she wanted to help someone who was in between jobs, and in so doing, her very own job was beleaguered. she wanted to help someone survive a grave prevarication and she ended up being maligned, cursed, and herself accused of prevarication. she wanted to help someone suffering from low esteem that in trying to fatten that someone's ego, she deliberately played second fiddle, dumbed herself down, and eventually was treated as a dumb dora by that someone whose ego was finally inflated.
she wasn't blaming other people. she wasn't blaming how they treated her. she was blaming herself for not being clear with how she valued herself, with how she wanted to be treated, with how she wanted to be seen. she blamed herself for being happy with just being someone's side 'keyk,' for settling with the role of the best friend, never the bida, candy pangilinan, never juday or angelu, suzette ranillo, suzanne gonzales, eula valdez, never nora, vilma, or sharon, not even cherie gil or gladys reyes.
i posed what to me was the greatest question of all time: why?
she explained that perhaps it was due to having grown up hero worshiping both her parents. to her, as a child, both her parents were perfect. her mama was caring, funny, and pretty. her daddy was strong, brave, and thoughtful. even her siblings were perfect. kuya was english speaking (with an accent) and bunso was a china doll. she was proud of her parents, proud of her siblings. but she was never proud of herself.
she had her share of what she considered as her achievements. she was a marjorette in high school. she was part of their school's sound of music presentation. she had her first boyfriend when she was in grade 4 (or even younger?). then of course, she said, in college, she was in the company of the prettiest and the brainiest.
i reminded her, there you go again. we're talking about 'you.'
"sabi nga nila mag-maynila na raw ako ... pero walang makakasama si mama ... si kuya saka si bunso s'yempre magmamanila rin sila ... ayoko namang dito lang si bunso, magaling s'ya e di ba? sayang naman kung dito lang s'ya ... si kuya s'yempre, from the bronx! kaya dapat du'n s'ya sa parang tate, sa sosyal! ... ako, gusto kong maging provincial lass ... bibilhan ko ng bahay si mama ... kasi di ba matanda na s'ya? so di na s'ya makakawork para magkaroon ng sariling bahay ... ako na lang ..."
"e ikaw? pa'no ka? 'yung gusto mo naman para sa 'yo, 'yung gusto mo talaga, hindi 'yung para sa iba."
"siguro si elo ... pero ayaw naman n'ya sa akin ... pero ngayon hindi ko na s'ya masyadong naiisip, so baka hindi ko naman talaga s'ya masyadong gusto ... saka may iba na s'yang gusto, naglo-law daw sa ateneo, siempre ano namang laban ko ro'n? du'n na nga lang s'ya para masaya s'ya ... ay gusto kong magmasters para naman me gawin ako para sa sarili ko ... mag-theater kaya ako para pwede na akong umarte sa mga play mo sa maynila?"
"e hindi na naman para sa 'yo!"
"ay oo nga ... wala talaga manay e ... siguro 'yan ang kailangan kong pag-isipan ... ano nga ba ang gusto ko? ... 'yung para sa akin ... 'yung akin lang talaga di ba? ... 'yung ako lang ang makikinabang, tama ba? ... 'yung ako lang ang masaya, gano'n ba 'yon? ..."
for someone who's been acting for several years, someone who's used to the spotlight at the dl umali audi, someone who brought the house down may it be in cagayan or bay view, she was always willing, too willing perhaps to not be seen, to not embrace the spotlight.
that it was natural for her to step back and allow someone else to shine, to act inferior just to feed someone else's ego, to lose the self in an ocean of her perceived great people, great loved ones, great guys and gals who deserve all the happiness in the world, all the greatness that the universe has to offer.
one text from jacquelina and she'd stay put in either java or boston just to accompany her in going home to san pablo ("manay, gigimik ang jacquelina, baka gumewang-gewang pauwi"). one text from whoever and she'll run as fast as she could so she may offer whatever kind of help: a listening ear, comforting words, pep talk ala oprah ("'pag sa kaibigan, drop everything di ba?")
she had a remarkable memory when it came to what people were interested in. a person, an object, the littlest detail, she'd go out of her way to 'give' whatever or whoever it was that one of those she loved desired.
numerous times, she mentioned that "naging issue nga ang kadaldalan ko." she never hid or abhorred the fact that she was talkative. i remember hearing once aimee jokingly stating, "'pag si diana, buong usapan kanya na, konti na lang sa 'yo."
i agree and disagree at the same time. i do agree that she had a tendency to lord it over in any conversation, that usually, no one could beat her when it came to the number of words spewed. but it wasn't really always about herself. even during the time that she was drowning in her unrequited love for elo, it wasn't really about her. come to think of it, it was about elo.
she wanted to talk not about her self, but about other people; usually about people she actually cared for. she talked a lot about her mama ("si 'chibs' me patawa na namang sinabi"), about bunso ("kawawa nga si bunso, naiwan n'ya ang cellphone n'ya tapos nagwoworry s'ya kasi baka marami nang texts tapos di n'ya nasasagot, tapos pagkita n'ya sa cellphone n'ya, wala namang text, ang sad tuloy n'ya"), about kuya ("piinagmamalaki ni kuya 'yung novelette ko, proud pala s'ya!"), about her father ("baka kaya hindi naalala ang birthday ko, kasi di ba ninang sabi mo, mahirap ang buhay sa ibang bansa, malayo sa pamilya, baka nahihirapan na rin s'ya"), about her friends ("manay, nagtext si mujay!...'yung friend kong si laarnie ... 'yung friend kong si day ... si yeye, manay ... si ate chai ... si mareng jave ... si padeys ...), about celebrities ("si ate shawie, nang-away na naman! ... sabihin mo kay ma'am, si marian ...), and even about her dog ("binihisan ko si jandhi! ang cute-cute, tapos parang ayaw n'ya, siguro naiisip n'ya ginagawa s'yang baklang ewan wahahaha").
she wanted to talk about people she cared for, about people who mattered to her, i believe perhaps because her love for other people was so overwhelming that it forced her consciousness to embrace them all, every single wakeful moment. for aren't we all guilty of not controlling our tongue when it comes to those who actually mattered? those who wronged us or inspired us, those who planted a grudge in our hearts or those who drowned us in a consuming mystery, they reside in our consciousness, seemingly favorite tenants or irritating squatters we just couldn't evict.
when i was told by laarnie and day that i was a mainstay in dee's stories, i did not feel uncomfortable. usually, i'd accuse whoever of rumor mongering, of not enjoying a fulfilling life that s/he has to live life vicariously through weaving stories about me. but with dee, it was different. it was a privilege. i knew, if she talked about me, i was a mainstay in her consciousness. i knew, she cared for me. i knew, it was her uncontrollable way of showing her love.
and so before she died, she was asking about padey's unrequited love. she was asking if oscar was to graduate cum laude, if chok was to graduate this sem, if foxy had finally learn to stop 'insulting' tito elmer. she was even asking about jacquelina's class' performance. "okrayan talaga! si junel naman pala at sina padeys ang judge e!"
"manay, i can't die. maraming tao ang kailangan pa ako ... manay, talagang mabubuhay pa ako kasi kailangan ko pang magpasalamat sa mga friends ko, sa mga superheroes ko! ... "
but eventually, "siguro nga katapusan ko na ... nahihiya na ako, alam kong nagiging abala na ako sa inyo ... ang dami na ring nahihirapan dahil sa akin ..."
for someone who survived a bone marrow aspiration while she was conscious, who called me up wailing in pain, screaming "magkwento ka! magkwento ka!" and who forgot about the pain when we started talking about the latest showbiz chika and about our common friends, for someone who eventually said, "manay, h'wag masyadong nakakatawa kasi napapagalaw ako, nagagalit ang mga nurse, 'yung konting funny lang," it wasn't surprising that she may have kept a lot of pain to herself.
"niloloko na ba ako, manay? lugi na ba ako? ... masama na ba s'ya sa akin?"
each time someone wronged her, she just could not accept it. "manay, masama na ba ako kasi naiisip kong baka niloloko na ako?"
that i guess, each time her body felt pain, she tried to hide it. "ok lang ako, manay ... kaya pa ng mga muscles ko, kawawa naman kasi s'ya e di ba? eto na nga lang ang pwede kong tulong..."
never seen, never in the front line, never the center of anything, she was fine with that. her happiness, i guess, was always dependent on other people's happiness. no, i don't think she was suffering from having a hero complex. she wasn't expecting gratitude. she wasn't expecting acknowledgment. she just wanted to see that those she actually cared for were drowning in bliss. why? i guess perhaps one of her doctors summed it all up, "nakapag-greenhills ka pa? bilib naman ako sa 'yo. kung nahuli-huli ka, baka bumigay na ang puso mo."
curiously, among her heart never failed her. her lungs did, so as her liver, and her kidneys. but her heart did not fail her. or so i wanted to believe.
her heart's capacity to love was obviously enormous. she loved us all, family, relatives, friends, even celebrities, friends of friends, and a dog, far more than she loved and could ever have loved herself. if only for that, we better start loving our respective lives, our respective selves. someone was always willing to play second fiddle to us. someone was always willing to dumb herself down for us. someone was always willing to drop everything for us. someone reduced herself to a mere worshiper just so we could savor how it was to be worshiped. someone looked down at herself just so she could look up to us. someone died with our welfare in mind.
"manay, i can't die, hindi pa ako nagiging masaya."
she never was happy for those she cared for were still not clutching happiness.
or she never was happy for perhaps it was only nearing death that she realized, in life, though we believe that we have companions, in death, true enough, all of us are alone. we may face life with our loved ones, with our chosen companion/s, that soul mate we've been praying for. but we face death on our own. we do face death alone.
alone in that space between life and death, she finally saw herself, on her own, alone. she finally thought of her own happiness. she finally thought of herself.
no, i don't think it was too late for her. with dee, it wasn't the length of time thinking about the self that mattered, with her, far more important was the fact that finally, she thought of herself, of her own happiness.
life wasn't able to lead her towards the self. though with much sadness (grief really), i am glad that death was able to lead her to the self, even for a moment, even for the shortest of time, i am glad, she was able to finally prioritize herself.
we will miss her dearly, of course. but i guess, we should not let her love for us go to waste. no matter how painful, we have to prove that true enough, we are worthy of the most willing and the most loyal side 'keyk' we will ever meet in this life time.
only though that will she no longer be a side 'keyk' anymore. only through that can we push her towards the spotlight. it's our turn now to step back. it's our turn now to talk about her. it's our turn now to let her inspire us.
and an inspiration, regardless of background or state, will never be just a side "keyk."
early christmas morning and the onslaught of noche buena treats is challenging my bladder less digestion, that i'm still wide awake contemplating on what to eat next and what to think about while eating (yet again) ...
in between surges of sinful gluttony, i decided to enumerate the things this outgoing year has taught me ... lest i forget a lesson or two, memory lane's zoning's been based on each passing month...here goes:
january:
-- if someone's spewing verbal bullets at you, you need not dock or exchange fire, you just need to laugh, the bullets will hit you, but they won't hurt, laughing at someone at the height of his/her anger is more painful than any malicious bullet
-- it really pays to be patient; even if a repetitive act reduces you to a moron, someone else's patience appeals to the conscience; betting on someone's ownership of a conscience may be a big gamble, though, but what the heck? just have to gamble once in a while; if you're patient enough, the gods may take pity on you, and one's icy heart may just melt for you
-- gods are certainly chosen, don't choose those who just demand your unwavering worship over the phone; if one does this, then s/he should not be worshiped...it cheapens you, actually ... the demand for worship should be done face to face, with lotsa bribes, lotsa ex deals, lotsa special treatment for you ...every god should take care of his/her worshipers, if s/he doesn't, then knock him/her off your mental pedestal...your 'worship' certainly deserves some sorta 'pampering'
-- when thrown into a lions' den, subtly insult the lions, even if they verbally devour you mercilessly, their pride won't endure your insult, tell them that they were chosen for "di na nga raw 'yung mga taga-X kasi magagaling na raw 'yon, kaya kayo na lang daw" ... witness their pride bleed as they mentally scamper for quick wit...alas, if it takes them more than 3 seconds to reply, even if they attack you with all their malicious fangs, you'd know, your pain is (very) short lived (nothing that a good meal or a jovial text from someone who matters won't cure), while the pain you inflicted on the lions will still be present until the end of the year (or until whatevs concerning the basis of your insulting remark conclude)
february:
-- there truly is a GOD! who not only answers deeply felt prayers, but who doles out bonuses as well
-- greatness, no matter how hard morons try to obliterate, will be vindicated, eventually
-- (an affirmation) it's not the place that matters, it's not even the food, as always, it's the company
-- if an experience is much valued, it should only be shared with someone who's also valued, that will make the experience even more meaningful
-- when a request from the arrogant sails to you, don't push it away, it only comes once
-- there are things that you have to do to enable you to do the things that you want to do
-- you just don't give up a fight
-- if you turn out to be un-label-able, chances are, you're inching your way towards being endeared
-- not everyone can be a spoiled brat, it depends if there's anyone who'll allow you to be one
march:
-- sometimes, those who play cupid are those who desire the arrow's target
-- birthdays are truly important, only those who know yours really value you enormously
april:
-- everyone lives on borrowed time
-- the thin thread between two persons truly breaks at a certain point, only to be knotted, or replaced if the connection is to be pursued, but sometimes, to pick the smaller part of the broken thread up and place it between becomes more thrilling, as the gap becomes shorter, the connection becomes sturdier (until it breaks again and off to two separated worlds you go)
may:
-- don't start anything, anything at all with malicious intentions
-- there's such a thing as automatic rapport establishment which tells us that those who like us will certainly mirror our actions
june:
-- using vegetable henna is apt for maintaining your hair's healthy volume
-- the color pink turns blue on vid
-- an experience may have two halves: the part you wanna forget, and the part you'll certainly embrace even in your grave
-- eating eggs can induce a gallstone attack
july:
-- some surgeons have a morbid sense of humor
-- if your intention is to simply have fun, don't write
-- eccentric is not really a bad word
august:
-- gall stones are truly precious stones
-- let the youth have angst so they'll have stories to tell come old age
-- obsession destroys its object; jealousy destroys anyone as fire destroys wood
-- the signs of an impending disappointment are always clear, every disappointment does not come as a surprise, just that your stubborn desires blur the signs
september:
-- no dismissive god can command an armada of the faithful
-- a different strict routine can erase those which once polluted your mind
-- liars should not be trusted, they should not be given second chances, they should be wiped off the face of your world, literally and figuratively
october:
-- insincere people should burn in hell
-- sometimes, having a good memory is something to regret about
-- when it comes to joy, just like in getting hurt, only people who are deemed to be important can bring such to someone
-- someone who farts empty promises does not deserve any compassion
-- pain has several levels, usually from 1 to 10, and to be familiar with every level will save you thinking time once a battalion of nurses demand that you rank your pain in a scale of 1 to 10
-- why care for the uncaring? only saints do that, sainthood is not for everybody
-- genuine grief renders one immobile
-- be sure who you're supposed to give tribute to; if you have a template and just treats names as replaceable variables, then you're a shit spraying ass hole whose nonsensical fesces are metered and rhymed to camouflage both your utter lack of substance and respect; (when you ass hole die, may your name be misspelled on wreaths, on shinny ribbons, on the necro program, and on your lapida mortuoria, and may your bones be ignored)
november:
-- kundera is right, there are those who'd want to amputate your life, wanting to attach your hand to your elbow; your arm, the one representing what happened to you while you're living your life away from those people is ignored, for they weren't part of it, and you ignore those people eventually, for what rests on that arm is the one thing you truly cherish in your life
-- it's the height of stupidity when you believe a congenital liar
-- not all loneliness should be pitied
december:
-- you will (and can) outgrow anything and anyone at all
impending censorship na ba ito? ... sa UPLB, dala (RAW) ng reklamo ng mga (RAW) estudyante, isang administrador ang kumukuwestiyon sa ComArts Soc kung bakit ipinalabas pa raw ang Doc Resureccion: Gagamutin ang Bayan gayong bulgar daw ang lengguwahe nito at mayroon daw mga patutsadang sekswal ... hello censorship na ba 'to? first met her when i was toying with the idea of having spiders grow amidst one's pubic hair, not mine but some character's. dean legaspi suggested that i go interview dr. barrion. obedient and curious, i went to biosci and searched for the face to match the name. found the face, dropped the name of dean legaspi, and dr. barrion smiled.
she was very accommodating. she told me that she was being labeled as spider woman and that her husband was spider man. turned out, they did some joint studies on spiders, thus were called as such. i told her that i won't be able to call her spider woman. to erase the inquiring look that started emerging from underneath the epidermis of her face, i volunteered, "kayo po college sec nu'ng nag-aaral po ako e. i can't call my favorite college sec spider woman. can't bend my respect."
i told her of how as a freshman, i together with some of my bloc mates went to her office in order to demand that we be relieved of spanish 2 which was listed on our forms even if we haven't even heard of spanish 1. she advised us to inquire first at the department. we narrated to her how we already spoke to some faculty who just shrugged at us while telling us that it's not really their problem.
if dr. barrion's face was a lump of cumulus clouds, that moment was the sudden transition of a white cotton candy sky into some frothy black concoction. she reached for the phone and dialed the department's number.
"si dr. barrion 'to. sino'ng pwedeng makausap d'yan? ano naman 'yung nilagyan ng spanish 2 ang mga bata n'yo, e mga freshman, wala pa palang spanish 1. (silence) aba, gawan n'yo ng paraan. e di magbukas kayo ng spanish 1 para sa kanila. (silence) papahirapan n'yo pang humanap ng ibang subject. freshman pa nga lang ang mga 'to. blocked section nga. papacancel ko 'yung spanish 2 nila tapos mag-open kayo ng spanish 1 para du'n na silang lahat. (silence) ayusin n'yo kasi."
she placed the receiver back to its place, looked at us and smiled. "ayan mga babies, icacancel na lang natin ang spanish 2 tapos naghihintay na sa inyo ang spanish 1. ipalit lang natin sa spanish 2."
we thanked her. and as freshies, we realized that oh boy are we powerful! if we have the college sec backing us up, the whole pilahan-sa-registration-patayan-sa-slots-sa-mga-subjects process was one freakin' bliss!
eventually, as we coursed through several enrollment horror stories, we started learning about submitting a plan of study, writing to the college secretary whenever we wanted to change a subject in our plan of study, and providing her with whatever reason we had for such a change.
i lost count as to how many subjects i've replaced, returned, then replaced again in my plan of study. my reasons ranged from obvious lies like financial difficulties (really now, what on earth does one's economic state got to do with replacing spcm 102 with eng 104?) and utter disinterest in a subject (total truth: i just hated the teacher who was assigned to teach the course).
all my requests were approved. the evolution of my plan of study could parallel that of the whole humankind.
i had three advisers. the reason i gave for replacing the first one, if memory serves me right, was that i became a student of this prof., and i so liked to be her advisee, so goodbye to the first adviser. then second adviser decided to establish a college elsewhere that i have to get adviser three.
point is, everything was going smoothly for me as far as all my requests from the office of the college secretary. every request i made, with or without valid reasons was approved. but dr. barrion was replaced eventually. without her as college sec, i had to use everything i learned from that required book in eng 104 in order to defend my every request. it was tough. i started missing dr. barrion.
after having verbally chronicled my brushes with the office of the college sec, dr. barrion touched my arm, smiled, and said, "ako kasi, maka-estudyante talaga e. kung ano ang makakapagpagaang sa pag-aaral ng mga bata, kung pwede kong ibigay, binibigay ko."
i did not see her for quite some time after that. next thing i knew was that i was watching her gracefully sway around the dl umali stage for the faculty follies. she really seemed to enjoy dancing, that her enjoyment rubbed on the audience. in short, the audience had an enjoyable time watching her dance.
flash forward and i was the one writing for the college's entry to the faculty follies. i don't really give a shit about casting since i've already witnessed so many terror teachers hanging their stern image by the dl umali glass doors once they step on its stage and start to give the audience something to laugh about for a couple of seconds. but devil wears prada was a total hit at that time, and i wanted a female devil who can dance and deliver lines effectively, a female devil who can out rival meryl streep's take on the role of the boss from hell, who can give her a run for her money, who can join the 'elite' group of actresses who was able to snatch oscar trophies from right under her nose, someone who's really an actress and not just some blabbering faculty who prides herself for having acted in some lousy skit in high school, someone who can raise the bar for the faculty follies' type of acting, from awkward impersonations to the level of capturing the heart and soul of the three dimensional characters the greeks peppered the world with for the longest time. all right, i just wanted a female devil who's not maarte.
so after the name of the character, i typed the name of dr. barrion. to ensure that she'll accept the role, i asked dr. legaspi to secure the deal. she did. dr. barrion even quipped, "marunong 'yang mga alaga n'yo ma'am ha? alam kung sino ang hindi ko matatanggihan."
i had several people securing her costume, accessories, and everything that she'd need to essay the role. she was provided an acting coach. and true enough, she wasn't maarte.
we made her wear a headband with blinking horns. she readily agreed, looked at herself in the mirror and smiled. she admitted that she was a headband user.
she did not fail us. during the presentation, we knew she gave it her all. my only regret was that i forgot how she enjoyed dancing. she never had a dance spot. but while being the background for the featured dancers, she followed their movements, showing everyone that she was enjoying the whole performance.
flash forward again. ondoy hit my neighborhood. it was sooooo tedious to hire a bangkero and his bangka to ferry me from my house to the nearest dry land. i decided to relocate. it was a bad time to search for another hub as dorms were already crowded, and houses taken that those with vacancies had the word pathetic written all over their walls and deplorable comfort rooms.
a friend of mine suggested dr. barrion's 'building.' we went there, found the units nice and dignified. we talked to her, told her about my flooded neighborhood and asked if i can rent one of her units while waiting for laguna de bay to finally embrace all the flood covering my road to civilization. she took pity on me, gave me a huge discount and allowed me to stay in one of the units.
as la duena, she was really compassionate, concerned regarding her tenant's comfort,and totally fair in the whole duena-tenant relationship.
when i told her that i'd be moving out since my neighborhood was no longer in the water-water-everywhere state, she was just supportive.
i never saw her again after that. i thought i'd be seeing her in the faculty follies, but we were told that she was on leave. i learned afterward that she was willing to perform even if she was hibernating. but of course, no one bothered to contact her.
and then she died.
i remembered the headband with blinking horns which resided beneath my television. i threw that away eons ago.
i remembered the headband with blinking horns nesting on her head, holding her hair in place, crowning her face. in her deathbed, surrounded by her loved ones, i was told, she asked for a headband.
i remembered having downloaded the song maliliit na gagamba. if spiders could cry, ondoy's flood would definitely just be a puddle, the spiders knew, they were losing the spider woman.
i remembered the old look of the college sec office, when as a student i'd pass by hum's backdoor and walk in between two rows of offices. i remembered myself as a college freshman, being accompanied to men's dorm by my father until i could take a bus from alabang to los banos on my own. i remembered how it was to be young and frightened. i remembered how it was to have a caring college sec pacifying a freshman's fear of surviving in a big university even if it was just to change a subject in one's form stupidly listed by whoever who should be tied to a tree and be raped by thousands of ant colonies for inducing confusion to the already confused still parent-dependent college freshman.
i remembered how it was to be young, to just enjoy dancing to whatever music was being played even if you're just in the background.
i remembered how it was to be young, when being maarte was unheard of, when the sheer chance of wearing a headband could make your reflection smile back at you.
i remembered a lot of things as i remember ma'am barrion.
i remembered what happiness was ... zjnebdejc.wordpress.com is not so cheerful these days ... so here's what i say to what he says ...
minahal kita, oo.
* past tense so get over it
minahal kita sa paraang marahil ay ‘di mo na maiintindihan sapagkat sinarhan mo na ang iyong puso. ang puso lamang ang marunong makinig, dahil dun nakikinig ang Diyos.
* whoever's heart ignored you, plain and simple, so get over it ... btw, are you implying that whoever's not being heard by God? whatever happened to being omniscient?
subalit sinarhan mo ang lahat ng lagusan patungo sa himlayang ito ng Espiritu.
* ok, blame free will
Siya sana ang tutulong sa ‘yo na makaunawa. Siya sana ang magbubukas ng iyong mga mata sa katotohanang iisang lupa lamang, iisang alikabok lamang, iisang elemento lamang ang bumubuo sa bawat himaymay ng ating katawan. kung aling hangin ang nilalanghap ko, siya ring hanging dumadaloy sa ‘yo….
* awryt so we're sharing the universe, but that doesn't mean that whoever's gonna consciously inhale the very air your lungs puke ... maybe whoever's into the private space thing, you may be built with the same specks of dust, but there are things like territoriality, borders, boundaries, and all that shit that simply says you can't be together, whoever doesn't want to be with you, so learn to live with that
sinarhan mo ang mga lagusan kung saan maaari sanang magsalita ang Espiritu upang maturuan kang makinig na para bang unang-una pa lang sana na matututunan mo ang pakikinig, dahil makikinig ka gamit ang iyong puso.
*news flash: whoever is officially deaf
pinatigas mo ang mga kandado ng mga lagusan patungo sa kailaliman ng iyong puso, gamit ang iyong mga salita.
* another news flash: whoever is trying to survive, that's all, end of story
bagkus ay hinayaan mong gamitin ng iyong galit ang iyong dila upang dito humulagpos ang mga tila pana at mga espadang sumugat sa aking kaluluwa.
* next time around, do remember that a shield comes in handy ... love is a battlefield, try to listen to that song
parang pinaghalo-halong bato at semento ang mga ideyang hinayaan mong maging mas matimbang, mas higit ang lakas kesa sa mga hiyaw ng aking mga luha.
* it's a matter of choice: ideas vs your tears ... whoever chose those ideas ... why would you wanna drown into someone else's tears? maybe whoever's already sinking in his/her own tears of despair
hindi ka nakinig sa pintig ng aking puso.
* whoever may have listened to that, for all you know ... just that, whatever your heart says is unimportant to whoever
naisip mo… nagwagi ka dahil tinanggap ko ang lahat ng pagkakamali.
* really? then you're pathetic lol! why did you admit those mistakes? to cling on to some perverted hope of being together in the immediate future? puhleeeaze try to get a life ... oh! whoever is your life! lol!
nakita mo ang sarili mong mas naging matayog dahil hinayaan kitang yurakan ang aking pagkatao dahil, sa tingin mo… nakilala mo ako. hinayaan ko ang pagbulwak ng madaming mga salita mula sa kaburakan na tinatawag mong puso. hinayaan kong patahimikin ang aking dila at ang aking diwa ng iyong mga salita. dili nga ba’t eto ang hiningi ng Diyos: ang pananahimik at ang pagtanggap? sa kaibuturan ng aking damdamin, maging uod man ang tingin mo sa akin… wala akong maaalaalang mga salitang nabitawan na marapat kong bawiin. wala akong mga daliring maaalaalang idinuro sa iyong mukha, kasabay ang paglitaw ng mga apoy sa mga mata.
* whoever doesn't like you in such a manner you've wished to be liked ... try to like yourself for a change, and stop using whoever as your gauge for your likeability
minahal kita nang higit sa iyong pag-unawa.
* again, past tense ... so get over it
kung hinayaan mo sana… sana nakita mo na ang nakita mo sa akin ay salamin. sa ganitong banda… nauunawaan kita; subalit nakakaawa ka. ilang salamin ang babasagin mo bago mo mahanap ang tapang na makita ang sarili mo?
* whoever did not break you, you fell for whoever, for someone who obviously did not and will not fall for you, you may have already been broken in the first place, little pieces of the self desiring to find some adhesive to make the self whole or complete ... tough luck, whoever refused to be taken as just some substance bonding things together
minahal kita… nakalipas na….
* that past tense again
ang kasunod ay pamamaalam….
* just leave for crying out loud ... whoever already left you ... you may run after him/ her, but the point is, whoever's gone, you may no longer use him/her as some sorta map for your life or for your world, whoever's no longer your compass, whoever has a world or a life s/he wants to explore...without you
quite ironic having read about the news on gary coleman's death on the day of the greatest dysmenorrhea attack i've ever had ... gary coleman was my childhood hero. i remember having seen episodes of diffr'nt strokes when i was really young. i thought he was a toy, a black, male walking doll. that was the time when every girl i knew of my age dreamt of owning a walking doll. but gary coleman was different, he did not only walk, he could also talk. and hilarious lines would just fall from his lips. i wanted to place him at the foot of my bed so that everytime i'd wake up he'd be there with a hilarious line to jump start my day in a happy mood.
everything about him was cute, his size, his short legs, his fluffy pitch dark hair, those two buchis seemingly thrusting from the insides of his cheeks, the way he talked, rolled his eyeballs, and of course, his numerous variations of his "watchu talkin' 'bout, willis?"
as far as i remember, i only laughed the hardest when watching lucy and watching gary. all those funny things that happened in real life were nothing compared with watching lucy ricardo or arnold jackson. (well maybe except for that moment when i thought i was seeing a real life female sluggo laughing her ass off).
when gary turned into a cartoon angel, i still watched his antics, though i never exactly knew why i was aware that it was only his voice, not him in totality, that i was getting out of the idiot box. my mother once told me that gary coleman was actullay a midget, that he was already old, and that the only reason why he was so good at wise cracking was that he had a body of a child but the mind of an old man.
i never believed her. actually, she never fully believed what she read anyhow. so to me, gary coleman (or arnold jackson) remained a cute kid with funny facial expressions and even funnier thoughts which he lets slide on his tongue.
though i've downloaded those songs from avenue q a coupla years ago, and though i kinda had fun singing along with sucks to be me, it wasn't really that fun having realized that gary coleman may have ended up broke and bitter, supervisor of avenue q.
and after having read about him dragging his parents to court over mismanaging his trust fund, being granted more than a million dollars, then filing for bankcruptcy afterwards, i just knew that whatever's good in life, just like laughter is short lived.
it did not help that the other diff'rent strokes kids ended up with lives no parent would wish for his own kid. though i'm well aware that showbiz kids don't usually end up with enviable lives, it's still saddening to think about that exact moment when all the laughter just died.
we all start out happy, i believe. even if we were crying as babies, still, i'd wanna believe, we were truly happy. everything was new. every moment posed a possibility. unless our bodies gave in to extreme exhaustion, we refused to even wink lest we miss something in the environment we were still discovering and still trying to comprehend.
so when was that exact moment when you stepped into the door of adulthood, when being young became a darn thing of the past, when you started drowning in the hardships of reality and started forgetting about how metaphorical the world can be? when was that exact moment when laughter started to die down?
oh adults can be happy, too, for sure. but it's a different kind of happiness. blissful ignorance, enlightenment, fulfilled desires, etc., they all compose the numerous spectra of happiness. but i'd like to think, that no one is happier than a truly happy child.
for one, a child does not suffer from the slightest attack of shitty dysmenorrhea.
goodbye gary coleman! you never really got any taller, never really grew up physically, but just like most people, i just knew, your heart was never young again.
dunno what's with philosophical isms and quotable passages from great literary masterpieces, but after tongue wagging over them, you have the gall to ask me for a high grade based on the effort you apparently exerted in coming up with a structurally challenged output. not in this life time, kiddo!
the problem with grades is that they are received and thus, given. in our case, obviously you are the receiver and like it or not, i act as the giver. though we may try to be ultra mathematical when it comes to how we evaluate and therefore grade an output, in the end, certain interventions get in the way.
my being human f'nstance. i am not without personal taste or standards. i am not without a sphere of experience which is comprised of everything i've read thoroughly, browsed, and glanced over. tough luck that my personal taste and standards do not coincide with yours. in my book, effort is ignorable, it is the work that should stand on its own.
i may be a sucker for sob stories, for unbeknownst to many, my nasolacrimal ducts (scientific eh?) always suffer from an excess overflow of tears each time something close to heart wrenching attack my senses. even horror movies make me sob, and those dolphy movies of decades ago made me wail.
but when it comes to the grade, my eyes are dry. if you wanna die for the grade, fine. just don't expect me to give the grade you desire just so i'm mourning over your shortened life.
if offering courses in large class mode is a sign of our deteriorating education, then what do you call lobbying for a high grade based on effort exerted? quality education?
you want a respectable grade? come up with a respectable output. or to be more accurate, come up with an output i may respect.
ego masturbating on the snow job you already reaped from worshipping mouths does not and will never work on me. you want their blandishments? get your grade from them. have i given a grade of flat one? of course! unfortunately for you, your output doesn't deserve it.
though efforts are admirable, it's really the output that will matter in the end. if that's not the case, then we all should be patronizing every product which rendered their manufacturers blind, amputated them in some way, or gave them tuberculosis. obviously, though a background story may increase the value of an output, it does not solely influence the kind of appreciation we may bestow on it.
we may cry over how a film's been made but that does not mean we'll cry over the film itself. we may be influenced to buy a book because it's being pimped as a based-on-a-true-story narrative, but still, we may toss it after having been bored with its first ten pages.
yep, one's exerted effort may help in adding some flavor (sometimes the only flavor) to an otherwise average output, but it should not meddle with one's giving of grades. if it will be allowed to happen, then inventing stories to enrich an output becomes very tempting. and i don't buy the idea of fabricating lies towards personal gains as the kind of quality education we'd want for this generation.
you go home to your parents, proud to bring them class cards where the grade of 1 is encircled. your parents treat you like some demigod, the answer to their nightly fervent prayers. they think they were able to sire a genius, or a gene-carrier with a capable mind they can both be proud of. i dunno how proud will they be if they'd know that all they sired is a lobbyist, someone who weaves sob stories in order to camouflage a lousy output; a manipulator of emotions who can only appeal to pity but never to the intellect.
lobbying for a grade based on effort exerted is insulting to the teacher, for it implies abandoning standards. just think of it this way, if we were a math class, would you really lobby for a passing grade just because you had three sleepless nights preparing for an exam you miserably failed in?
if the answer is yes, then may God save the Philippines from future sleazy leaders like you.
you were supposed to ride one, but you despised wheelchairs so much that you chose to drag your right foot, laboriously wiping the dirt of the past accident you stubbornly refused to be chained with.
you used to make me laugh with your recollections of that accident. you and your fellow deans were on your way home, resting your tired neurons after making them work overtime for a national convention. you sat at the farthest end of the van, blanketing boredom with harmless gossips and profound debates.
nothing prepared you for the van's egg roll. it just happened. you found your body aching under someone's body. all the other deans were unconscious. you crept your way towards the window, grabbing anything at all, pulling your upper body as your feet pushed on anything solid. when you reached the window, it was locked. with one or two lumps of flesh blocking it, your hands could not find the latch.
you contorted your little frame so that your feet may hit the window. it took your feet several hits before they were able to make a crack. that got you excited that you commanded your feet to hit the window for several more times with each kick harder and stronger than the previous one. finally, the crack grew and you were able to squeeze your little frame out.
it was the highway on an ordinary very late evening when vehicles were few and good samaritans were even fewer. you walked as far as you could, unmindful of the dangers lingering in a dark highway and the creepy sounds of flying insects penetrating your ears. hope besieged your heart when you saw light meeting your path.
the light was coming from a tricycle. the driver halted as he saw you running towards him. you told him about the accident. his concern turned to panic when he pointed to your leg, "may tama rin po kayo."
that was the first time you recognized unbearable pain. you saw your leg, bloodied, dirty, and scarred. the driver aided you as you took him to the van. what happened next, to your memory, was foggy and thus, visually incorrigible.
your narrative jumped to a hospital room. you were in crutches, wheelchairs were out of the question. you were prepared to let physical therapy save you from being wheelchair bound. your belief was simple, if you were able to finish your anti-imperialist movement dissertation for cornell which was able to impress your adviser immensely that he recommended your inclusion to the international who’s who of intellectuals, you may have the cerebral capacity to command your foot to heal on its own. wheelchairs were for the weak.
the one occupying the hospital room was a bald, male dean, a jolly person who just survived a brain operation and who was on a miraculous extension of his life after winning over his 50/50 chances of living. he shared with you what he said was his doctor’s concern. “when we operated on you,” he said in quoting his doctor, “we found a foot print on your head.”
the bald, male dean looked at your right foot. “and that’s the exact size,” he emphasized. you tried to recall your struggle in inching your way towards the van’s window. “did I step on your head?” you wondered out loud. the bald, male dean chuckled, “if not for my head, all of us could have died. glad to lend my head to your foot.”
that became the on going joke as through physical therapy, you willed your feet to walk in harmony. it was tough at first, clogs were making a big hit, for a shoe lover like you, not being able to wear fashionable shoes was akin to the self pity accompanying a free feast of your favorite dishes while you’re suffering from diarrhea.
the strongest pill you digested was that of will power. regarding the chance of you being able to walk again, several doctors already shook their head. but to hell with those bloody doctors, you told yourself, one of your sons topped the med board, surely, those darn doctors were not the best.
little by little, your foot got stronger as your other foot automatically learned to balance your weight. you went back to work, dignified as ever albeit the sad realization that you would never be able to wear clogs and high heeled fashionable shoes. to those enemies of yours torn between their hatred of your administrative decisions and the guilt of having wished you ill at some point, you only said that there was nothing wrong with you, it was just a limp. as always, you were ready to lock horns with devilish hypocrites.
flash forward to divisoria and we saw an old lady being wheeled by her nurse. i kidded you about putting you on a wheelchair so that we may also enjoy the obligatory help and niceties afforded to wheelchair bound individuals. you said that wheelchairs are for the weak, you’ve always been strong.
we would roam around divisoria, haggling with vendors and scrutinizing clothes and shoes for hours. to you, rest was not an option, to sit down was not a prerogative. we were always in a trance, walking furtively like rejuvenated robots. shopping was the one fuel to charge our feet. It was the sole successful spring pushing us female bipeds heavily influenced by consumerism.
when we were in Cagayan, our steps marked the lay out of the night market for a number of times. the elevator in our first hotel was faulty that we had to take the stairs and still, you were able to argue about who was to win as american idol and correctly answer all questions in jeopardy and double jeopardy except for that one about dolly parton (that one was mine). you were even able to literally hang rand in the closet with a snapshot proving your strength. and you were able to apply all those olay ointments to your face while i tried to persuade you regarding the cheap effectiveness of eskinol and avon. you laughed at my sticky moisturizer and i laughed at your pink rollers that you started cursing the gay beautician who failed to curl your hair appropriately.
i thought we had more years of tireless shopping, arguing about who’d win in american idol, battling it out in jeopardy (with you always silencing me with the correct answers), and applying creams and ointments on our face while you teach me how to achieve even curls with pink rollers.
that when your foot simply turned jell-o-ish as you grabbed dee’s arm, we blamed the heat and the tiring atmosphere in divisoria. that when you grabbed my arm while slowly falling in the old chem steps, (with elmer and glen ignoring my wails for more than ten seconds), we immediately blamed the steps (even tito obet joined us in blaming the narrow steps). that when your recollections did not jibe with our own, we blamed ourselves for having undependable memories.
the problem with signs is that most of the time, it’s easy to just ignore them. the conflict between truth and desire usually ends up with blinding the self with what is acceptable instead of facing what is true.
i could hear your uneven breathing, the loud whiff of air being thrust out between your nostrils and your parted lips and i just assumed that you were suffering from a slight cold or some benign sinusitis. my arm could feel the full weight of your body channeled through your grip and I just assumed that you gained some weight after devouring all those junk food i shared with you. there were memory lapses which i immediately charged to my own inadequacy to commit to the past. there were repetitions, remarks and stories, the intermittent déjà vus in a prolonged conversation which could have irked some and could have alerted the concerned. i ignored them all, i wasn’t prepared to face the truth.
when we were in the airport, the singaporean attendants insisted that you be put in a wheelchair. you were about to refuse but they were dead serious. you were holding on to the arms of the wheelchair tightly, a frightened child in her first roller coaster ride, that to assuage your fear, or whatever that was that your face manifested, i told you to just scream with me, “weeeeeeeeeeee!”
i pushed the wheelchair, and you were silent at first. you bowed your head, humiliation was evident. you were in a wheelchair. you were weak. and then i heard you, it started out as a whisper, slowly it crept into a crescendo, and i smiled, “weeeeeeee!”
several days after, you admitted, you enjoyed the ride. several days after, you maintained, you’d want to experience it again. several days after, you confided, you were getting tired. and several days after, you tripped, had surgery, and the last time i saw you, you were in a wheelchair.
raimund tried provoking you with memories of your enemies. but you did not move. you were comfortablein your wheelchair. he told you to get up and hurl your rhetorically sound verbal onslaught at your enemies, you told him that you knew that your adopted kids were only enduring the department because you were still part of it. you told us that it’s time to explore the world.
the one who labeled me as your adopted healthy baby has long been dead. you loved the label that you started calling gene as your adopted, too. and you extended the label to those who frequented your office. you were always excited to unlock the door to your office, you knew your adopted were waiting for you. you were even excited to find bong in the afternoons, sleeping on the floor with a streamer for a blanket. and what excited you most were the meriendas we shared, so jovial were they that you immediately labeled them as daily parties.
mang roger asked me again this afternoon, when are you coming back. i could not give a date. he told me to tell you that if climbing the stairs is the only thing hindering your return, he’d gladly wait for you at the foot of the stairs, he’d carry you to your office, carry you to your classes.
mang obet jokingly offered to defy administrative regulations on building architecture by having a wheelchair ramp built next to the stairs. he was laughing when he said that, but his eyes were sad. unlike mang roger, he could not verbalize the sadness which comes with missing your presence.
tita ina was more blunt, “nakaka-miss si ma’am.” she recalled those times when you were still dean and her daughter riza was just starting out in school. riza would wait for you, then proudly recite what she learned from her class.
i could not tell them of how weak and disoriented you appeared to me when i visited you. i could not tell them of the tears gene and elmer cried for you.
your weakness pains us all. we thought that the laughter you shared with us had already been replaced with tear inducing hurtful sadness.
but dr. peralta offered a different angle. she asked about you when we chanced upon each other in the dean’s office. i told her that you just had an operation. she told me, more so to herself, that you’re toughness is unquestionable. i told her that you were being offered a cane in NUS, and i suggested that you decline the offer. i told you to hold on to my arm, chin up, we’ll walk with dignity. she told me she’s done that for you for a couple of times. tita ina recalled that there was a time when you slipped and you refused her help in lifting you up. dr. peralta proudly proclaimed, you are one independent woman.
for a while, I was tempted to embrace her notion. i knew then as i know now that independence had never been alien to you. you’ve always valued your dignity, your reputation, the pride that goes with having a remarkable intellect and having founded a college.
but time may no longer allow you to go through life without a wheelchair. let me push that darn wheelchair. chin up, with fire in your eyes, scream once more, “weeeeeeee!”
and as i wheel you to your office, to your home, to your classes, to every landmark that can trigger a memory or two, let’s talk about marian rivera and kris aquino, let’s talk about hillary clinton and obama’s speeches, let’s talk about the future where elmer becomes wealthy and gene becomes straight, let’s talk about the past when you were strong and your sharpness was legendary, let’s talk about francis and all your grandchildren, let’s talk about my mother and her bingo playmates, let’s talk about engel and his latest culinary success, let’s talk about the stories you want me to write, let’s talk about your convictions i turn into insights, let’s talk about the things that truly matter to us, divisoria, facial creams and ointments, food and the two hepburns, funny family members, the past and the future, the truth and our desires. let us remember as we shape our hopes for a future that may not even come.
we will wait for you, hands ready to squeeze on the cold handles of your wheelchair. nothing to be ashamed of. your pride is still intact. our veneration is still in place. regardless of pain, we will face the truth. that is our strength. that is the one wheelchair to aid us in cruising through the present and in unison,“weeeeeeee!” we all scream.
so kris said that it's more masaya to be in their show than in another show. and that caused ruffa to shiver a little while trying to either fight back or squeeze some tears from her, what seemed to me, fully made up eyes.
then annabelle rama declared third world war against kris via the rival show showbiz central, frothing predictions on how kris will make api all artistas if noynoy wins the presidency. she then appealed to people not to vote for noynoy. she complained about kris making bara at ruffa every sunday; insinuating that kris is prolly envious of ruffa. she furthered that kris is mayabang, akala mo s'ya ang may-ari ng showbiz. she identified motherhood as the motivation for her rage, that seeing her daughter cry because of kris' pambabara propelled her to warla mode. she did not forget to remind all viewers that her daughter is transfering to another station, wherein she categorically stated she'd find peace of mind as there'll be no one (presumably like kris aquino) who'd be envious of her.
in true annabelle rama fashion, the perpetually present bisayan accent was obvious, there was no attempt to hide her anger, and as usual, she used motherhood as a shield for both her and her child -- doesn't matter if she's branded as oa or irrational, a mother fights with all her might in order to defend her maligned child.
and that got me thinking: so when should a child start fighting her own battle?
it's always comforting to know that there'd be someone fighting for you, someone shielding you from all the cruelties the world may heap on you. it's heart warming to hear someone sing or say implicitly those words in the 'if i could' song. yeah, protect me from the sadness in my eyes, give me courage from the world of compromise ... while at it, shield my innocence from time ... help me make it through the hungry years ... and though you know you could never cry my tears, you would if only you could ... fortunately, the song also says something about watching me grow in order to let me go ...
children grow up wanting two things: for the parent to shield them from everything and for the parent to leave them alone ... the contradiction is quite obvious, but that's how a child may mix up needs and desires depending on what situation she may find herself in.
and the parent? definitely, there's no fool proof template on perfect parenting. ms. rama's brand of parenting may put a lionness in shame with the way she fights for her children's welfare, oblivious of the fact that her children's welfare may be trumpling on some other children's welfare.
in defending her daughter and casting kris as evil personified, she clearly represents all those mothers who believe that their children could do no wrong and that whoever reduces their children to tears is the most vicious, and despicable creature in the history of the universe. for who could make api the innocent and the helpless but the vicious and the despicable?
well, since motherhood is alien to me, i may not fully understand what ms. rama is going through. all i know is that, ordinarily, daughters outlive their mothers, and that the whole business of motherhood is really in preparation for the child's independence; for in the end, the child takes the driver's seat like it or not, a mother may point out directions and remind the child about fastening the seat belt, but she'll have to let her drive, write the story of her life on her own.
though it's always tempting to hold on to someone else's hand and ask, "drive me around in this scary road called life," there are times when being left alone to fight my own battle and to discover the bumps on the road on my own make me feel trusted and thus, respected.
there is fulfillment in stumbling over a mistake, without a hand to lift me from the dust of pain or humiliation, as i try to pull myself together and stand on my feet once more, i'd rather not see a running mother ready to curse the dust or blame the wind for my fall; i'd rather see a smile whispering, 'go on, stand up, i taught you how to win.'
instead of being treated as an extension of one's self, a chance to rectify past mistakes and an opportunity to experience a sense of fulfillment, i'd rather be treated like a human being, with an intellect capable of discerning right from wrong and with the capacity to live life to the fullest.
yeah, guidance is needed, but there's a whole world of difference between providing guidance and living vicariously.
and yet again, i may not really know a thing about this. so froth some more ms. rama, until your daughter is ready to puke her own venom.
three years ago i had an encounter with ma'am asuncion which i thought summed up all those years we were sharing office space ... so i blogged about it and with her death, i'm reposting it ... i may be wrong with how i saw her, but to me, i'd like to believe, she offered morsels of her sadness ... here goes:
Everyone was busy preparing to leave the office. There was a surge of electricity as the hands of the clock prepare to hit the end of a working day: it was just a few minutes before five o'clock. You were jumpy yourself as you couldn't wait to go home, it was your turn to cook (menudo, the one dish you've mastered) and tell your house mates afterwards, "grabe, napakasarap, napakasarap talaga!"
You were already out of the office, only several steps away to the usual meeting place between you and your house mates when you were greeted by your former office mate. You've already blurted out the customary "hi, ma'am" but she grabbed your wrist. You recognized the impending small talk, you just didn't know how long would the small talk be stretched this time.
You could have just excused your self, invent excuses, or simply leave her. But she had a soft spot in your heart, not just for having formerly shared an office with you. You've pitied her, time and again, and you still pity her until now.
You would see her in that office you've shared before, sitting by the window. You were irked by her before, as she used her age, double your own age, in order to get the best spot at the office. You would catch her staring outside the window, staring at nothing in particular as she would eat her packed lunch.
Once in a while, she would acknowledge your presence, would ask you if you already had your lunch. You'd say, "Katatapos lang po," and she would say, "Ako, ngayon pa lang."
She would try to hide whatever she was eating from your sight. You thought she just didn't want to share it with you. "Big deal," you would say to your self, "as if I like those Ilocano concoctions."
But then again, there were times when she would make you laugh. She would go under her table whenever a student would ask her for the whereabouts of his/her teacher. She would call on the teacher's name, as if looking for her not just under the table but also underneath piles of papers. She would then look at the student, "Wala e."
You couldn't help but smile when she got into a verbal fight with your boss. "I respect the chair, but I don't respect the one occupying the chair," she said pointblank as your boss could only muster a blank expression.
There were times when you've actually admired her. She would be carrying two huge bags of submitted papers together with other piles of folders. "Mahirap pala ang maraming pinarerequire," she'd tell you if you would notice all those papers she had to carry home, "mahirap din maging terror." She would laugh a little and you knew that she would check all those papers, laboriously, one by one, not missing a word, a detail in the format, or a thought. She was quite popular not just for demanding too many requirements from her students but also for checking all those requirements. You've wondered, not just for a couple of times, how was she able to go over all those papers.
She was quite fond of animals. She had lots of dogs, too many perhaps, a dozen or so. She was proud of her dogs as according to her, they never attack her cats, around a dozen too. She also had chickens. She was quite fond of one chicken in particular for she taught that chicken "human values." She had taken pictures of her animals and she showed some to you, the same way that mothers love to show pictures of their children.
You never had the temerity to ask her about children of her own, human children that is. She never mentioned anything anyway. You knew she was no spinster as she was proud of her father's surname which she no longer used. One time, in a rather boring afternoon, she started talking about her husband. "First cousins," she said, "so our relatives were trying to keep us apart." Your mind was asking if you've heard her right,"incest!" and you wouldn't make her repeat what she said, "incest!" Maybe you were wrong, "incest!" maybe they were second cousins or very very distant cousins, "incest!"
You've dismissed that conversation as just another one with a misheard detail due to either a hearing impairment or unfocused listening. She never said anything about it anymore. She invited you to her house. There was only one bedroom. She had a library filled with books, of course. There was her typewriter, the one companion she had during the nights when she writes, quite regularly, stories after stories of her childhood and her culture. She showed you her pets, noisy but obedient to their master. Her house smelled of dogs and cats, chickens and old papers. She was living alone, almost, saved for semi-regular visitations of some of her distant relatives.
The mystery of how she manages to check all those overwhelmingly numerous papers was solved: she had all the time in the world. There was nothing else to do, aside from occasionally writing stories or socializing with her animals, there simply was nothing else to kill time with.
It was the killing of time, the irony of it all that made pity bloom in your heart. One's life is truly too short compared to the life of the universe. At the end of each person's life, there's always this secret or not so secret desire to have more time, to undo mistakes, savor other chances, or simply have another shot at happiness and love. But in her case, you thought, she was just killing time.
When she grabbed your wrist, she said, "Gustong-gusto ko nang umuwi," and so you replied, "Ako rin po." "Hindi pa ako kumakain," she continued, "sumasakit na ngang tiyan ko." You did not have to force concern, "Naku ma'am, kumain na kayo, baka magkasakit kayo." She looked at you, as if surprised that you've said something stupid. "Mahirap kumaing mag-isa."
Before parting ways, you had to listen to her stories about her pets, about her writing, about her busy days, and her empty nights. At home, you started mixing pork and liver, vegetables and sauce in your attempt to create the "grabe, napakasarap, napakasarap talaga!" menudo.
As your hungry house mates devoured your menudo (they had no choice!), seasoning it with the latest showbiz gossips and other personal stories, you thought of your former office mate. She would be eating her dinner, with presumably animals for company, and she would move the plate away from her, look at her animals and most likely, as if in a nightly routine, would bow her head and release a long boiling wail. Or maybe you were wrong.
Maybe eating alone, no matter how difficult it is, as she said, is a matter of choice. Maybe eating alone is a statement to the world. Maybe eating alone springs from courage, the courage to turn your back at desperation. Maybe eating alone is her choice over eating with people who just happened to be available.
In the end, everyone is alone. Company, support group, family, lover, they all don't matter. You die alone, not one from among those who love you would vouch for your soul. Eternal damnation is too steep a price even for love, that in the end, truly, you're on your own. Maybe she knew that, and for whatever it's worth, pity should not be given to her. Pity is not for the brave. Pity is for the truly desperate, those who could not eat alone.
And the menudo from "napakasarap," became "napakasaklap." request ni kit, isama ang tarugo ;)
88."sa ‘yo lang ako magpapahuli, magpapakulong, hawla ko ang iyong puso, bawat tibok nito ang aking hininga. Pagkat ako ay ibong naghahanap ng pugad, at ikaw ang punong nais maging kaulayaw.
89. Kaya lumuluha muli ako, walang-patid, habang nagmumumog.
90. . Pero di bale, di baleng 300 pesos a month na lang ang load ko at nang-aagaw na ako ng mga celfones ng mga kakilala ko para lang maitext s’ya, di baleng sa ukay-ukay na lang ako bumibili ng mga damit, di baleng naliligo na ng kiwi ang sapatos ko dahil nagiging mestizo na sila’t kailangan ko silang panatilihing baluga, di baleng naputulan na ako ng internet, telepono, tubig, kuryente at buhok dahil di ko na rin maafford ang shampoo and conditioner. Basta’t kasama ko lang si Joe.
91. Hindi mo alam, buo ang katawan ko, hindi lang ako pwet, hindi lang ako bunganga.
92. para sa bente pesos, para na rin akong sirkera.
93. Hindi man ako sumama sa iyong libingan, kasama ka sa aking bawat paghinga.
94. From 09198148889. Minsan ang pagkakaibigan parang hawak na buhangin, di mo napapansin nauubos din pala. Sa dami nga naman ng buhangin sa paligid mo, mapapansin mo kaya kung mawawala ako sa pagkakahawak mo?
95. Diana: Itanim mo na lang sa paso.
Semi: Magpupumilit kumawala sa paso ang mga ugat ng Doña Luz .
Diana: Hindi s’ya makakawala.
Semi: Babasagin n’ya ang paso.
Diana: Hindi mababasag ang paso.
Semi: Kaya n’yang basagin ang paso.
Diana: At ‘pag gumapang na s’ya?
Semi: Babantayan ko, aalagaan, aalalayan. Mamahalin.
96. Hindi ako bakla. Lalake akong umiibig sa ‘yo.
97. Inumpog ko ng inumpog ang ulo n'ya sa kubeta. di na n'ya mamulat ang mga mata n'ya. "masaya ka na ba?" tanong n'ya. "hindi pa rin." at muli ko s'yang inumpog.
98. Nakita ni Mang Mar ang pagtataka sa aking mata. Bakit hindi man lang nagkakagulo ang mga tao? “Galit kasi sila sa kanya, e” sabi ni Mang Mar. Naawa ako sa kanya. Noon ko s’ya unang minahal.
99. Sinundan ko s’ya. Narinig ko ang sabi ng mga doktor. Kailangan n’ya raw ng bone marrow transplant upang mabuhay. Diyosa lang ako. Wala akong buto. Wala akong maitulong.
100. Bakit may katawang nakakaadik?
101. Sa gabi, kukumutan n’ya s'ya at papaypayan hanggang sa makatulog ito. Tatabihan n’ya ito at yayakapin. “Kung hindi mo man ako magawang mahalin kung gising tayo, siguro kahit man lang sa panaginip, mahalin mo ako,” ang ibubulong n'ya bago makatulog.
102. “Multo na ako,” sabi n'ya. “Sayang,” patuloy n’ya, “namatay na ako’t lahat, hindi mo pa rin ako nagawang mahalin.”
103. Magkadaiti ang mga labing sinalubong nila ang bukang-liwayway. Siguro, ang pag-ibig, kahit di hanapin, kahit di asamin, kusang dumarating, kusang sumisilay, tulad ng bukang-liwayway, kahit pa mahaba ang iyong tutsang.
104. Ang pipiliin mo’y hindi ang nais mong bigyan ng lahat-lahat, ang pipiliin mo’y ang magagawang ibigay sa ‘yo ang lahat-lahat, tulad ng isang utusan para sa kanyang hari.
105. Ilang tao ang nagkakaroon ng bagong pag-asa dahil sa akin.
106. Gusto mo lang bilangin ang mga buhok n’ya sa katawan, bawat balahibo, bawat kulot at tuwid, wala kang palalampasin. Hindi na mahalaga sa ‘yo kung mahalin ka man n’ya. Hindi na mahalaga sa ‘yo kung pansinin ka n’ya. Walang mahalaga sa ‘yo kundi ang bawat malalaman mong detalye sa kanyang katawan, ang bawat malalaman mong detalye sa kanyang buhay. Ganyan ako magmahal.
107. tinig pa lang n'ya napapayapa na ang puso mo
108. Dahil sa kanya pinalayas ka ng mga magulang mo. Dahil sa kanya hindi ka na nakagraduate. Dahil sa kanya kinailangan mong magtrabaho sa call center. Dahil sa kanya nangayayat ka, nagdusa, naghirap, nasaktan. Hindi mo s’ya magawang masisi. Dahil sa kanya, lumigaya ka, kahit saglit.
109. Walang gabing hindi ka n’ya binubugbog. Walang araw na wala kang pasa. Walang bahagi ng katawan mong walang latay galing sa kanyang sinturon. Mata mo na lang ang hindi dumurugo. Pero hindi ka pa rin bumibitiw sa kanya. Handa kang magtiis. Sa hirap at ginhawa. Sa sakit at kalusugan. Hanggang sa kamatayan.
110. Nakikita ko kayo kahit hindi n’yo ako nakikita. Pinagmamasdan ko ang bawat galaw n’yo, alam ko ang bawat ikilos n’yo. Nagmamasid ako kahit hindi n’yo ako pinagmamasdan. Nakaantabay, nakaalalay, tama na sa akin ang makita ko kayo kahit matagal n’yo na akong kinalimutan. Hindi ba, ako ang tunay na pag-ibig?
111. Humihingi nga ng kiss, ‘yun ba ang galit?
112. Ang dami kong kasinungalingan. Parang napakamakasarili ko na. Nakakakonsensya rin. Pero mas mahalaga ka sa konsensya ko.
113. Mahirap mahalin ang walang nagmamahal.
114. Kesa naman sa naging sigurista nga s’ya, habang-buhay naman s’yang hindi liligaya kasi wala na s’yang gagawin kundi magplano at maghanda.
115. Bago rin lang ako sa ganitong klase ng relasyon pero ang alam ko, ang hindi hinahawakan, hinahagkan o niyayakap . . . pinandidirihan.
116. s'ya nga pala, may ibibigay ako sa 'yo. ang puso ko.
117. Wala akong dinedehado lalo na sa pag-ibig
118. Look, I’m rich, I’m intelligent and I’m beautiful. Obviously I’m perfect. Ang gusto ko lang naman ay ang makapantay ka sa akin. So if you can’t handle perfection, get lost!
119. ) Paulit-ulit kong sinasabing mahal kita. Gusto ko sana, ‘yun ang huling marinig mo. Gusto ko sana tinig ko ang dumuyan sa ‘yo patungong langit.
120. hindi ko kayang sabihing hindi na kita mahal. kung dumating man ang sandaling 'yon, tatahimik lang ako.
121. bakit ba kailangang magmukhang pathetic ka kakahabol sa kanya? bakit ba kailangang ipagduldulan mo ang sarili mo sa kanya? nandito ako. ako ang talagang nagmamahal sa 'yo.
122. i am magic personified.
123. habang lumalapit ako, lumalayo ka naman.
124. pinakiusapan nila akong h'wag ka na raw gambalain. hindi ako makakapayag. hindi napapakiusapan ang pag-ibig.
125. nangangailangang maramdaman ang init ng pagmamahal upang mapawi ang lamig ng mga gabing alaala lamang ang kayakap.
126. ibalibag mo sa kanya ang kahayupan mo.
127. Naiimagine ko na kung ano kayang pakiramdam ng mga labi mo sa balat ko.
128. I broke up with my girlfriend for I can’t get another girl out of my mind. I found another girl. I found you
129. Malay ko bang di lang hymen ko ang babasagin mo? Pati puso ko pala, di ko na tuloy mabuo ang mga bubog
130. Sa sobrang ‘pag shine ng armor mo, nasilaw ako’t di ko na nakitang balak mo pala akong gawing prinsesang gusgusin.
131. Wala naman palang laman ang dibdib mo. Parang ulo mo, walang laman
132. Humindig s’ya sa aking dibdib. Sa posteng dati’y nadaraanan ko lamang sa aking pag-uwi sa boarding house, niyakap ko ang babaeng hindi ko maintindihan, habang naririnig n’ya ang tibok ng aking puso
133. Dalhan mo naman ako ng bulaklak. ‘Yung puting-puti, ‘yung parang ang linis-linis. Para sa kabila ng mga kababuyan ko sa buhay, baka-sakali, sa kamatayan, luminis din ako. 43. i think that i shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree, and the turtle said snap, snap, not yet rizal, not yet, london bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down, jack en jill went up the hill, falling down, falling down, alagang-alaga namin si puti, bakang mataba, bakang maputi, bigyan mo ng tubig, inom, inom, inom, bigyan mo ng damo, nguya, nguya, nguya, the road less traveled by 'ronald prost'
44. "hindi nagtatapos ang pag-ibig sa kamatayan, tulad ng kaluluwa, patuloy itong mabubuhay, lumilipad dahil hindi nakukulong sa katawan"
45. "wala sa mga tinginan ang pag-ibig, wala sa mga luha, wala sa mga pantasya. ang pag-ibig ay nasa hawakan ng kamay, haplusan ng balat, halikan ng labi"
46. "pinagtitiisan kong makinig sa mga kwento mo tungkol sa sorority n'yo at sa pagpapacute mo kay Boy C dahil gusto kong inaamoy ang hininga mo" (lekat, pathetic! wahaha)
47. Gene: 'Yan ba ang gusto mo Mackie?
Mackie: 'Yan ang gusto ko sa isang babae.
Gene: E sa isang bakla, ano ang gusto mo?
Mackie: Hindi ako bakla.
Gene: Don't you want to try?
48. "i know love. i know how to love. i will love!"
49. "babalik at babalik din ako sa 'yo"
50. why don't we make it a lifetime?
why don't we make it forever? (ahaha mushy kung mushy!)
51. mahilig ka talaga sa malamig.
bakit ikaw, hindi ka ba mahilig sa malamig?
mahilig din, pero mas mahilig ako sa mainit,lalo na 'yung mainit na lumalamig dahil napapabayaan
52. "magkikita pa tayo, paulit-ulit mo man akong tanggihan, paulit-ulit mo man akong iwan, sa huli, mahal pa rin kita"
53. hindi dahil makabayan ka, magiging manhid ka na.
hindi dahil nagbirthday ka, magiging sentimental ka na. (koneksyon?! wahaha)
54. hahabulin mo pa rin ba s'ya hanggang sa bundok?
hihintayin ko na lang s'ya rito, nakakapagod din ang humabol.
napapagod na rin ako.
55. "wala na akong mahalungkat sa unit, wala ka nang ibang gamit. di ko malaman kung saan pa ako maghahanap ng pag-ibig"
56. "hindi pa ako nag-be-breakfast, lunch at dinner kakasunod sa 'yo. pag-ibig man, nagugutom din." (natawa talaga ako rito)
57. "ito ang tunay na pag-ibig, gumagapang sa balat, tumatagos sa laman"
58. "wala lang. gusto lang kitang makita. hindi kita nakita last week ,e. pero natanggap ko 'yung a la mode. the best a la mode in this side of paradise. ang tamis-tamis. ang sarap-sarap. galing sa 'yo."
59. "mahirap magasgas ang kaha ng ref., mahirap magkalamat. parang sa tao, 'pag nagasgasan ang puso, nagkakalamat ang damdamin, sisingaw ang galit, mapapawi ang pag-ibig"
60. "hayaan mong ako na lang ang magkasala. ganyan kita kamahal."
61. "in your case, i'd rather die than rot with you"
62. "ngayon, ang alam ko lang, handa na akong hamakin ang mga bituin"
63. "h'wag ka nang magpasalamat sa tatlong diskette.napasaya mo na rin naman ako. patas na tayo."
64. "dahil sa 'yo, marami akong nakilalang emosyon"
65. "ibaba mo naman ang ulo mo, lumingon ka naman sa kanan mo, baka sakali, makita mo ako at ang pag-ibig ko"
66. "lahat ng bago pinatos ko, pero bumabalik ang isipan ko sa luma, bumabalik sa 'yo"
67. "kung ang mabigat na banga di ko kayang bitawan, ang pag-ibig pa kaya?"
68. "rapist ka ba?"
69. "Lalake: Naiisip mo ba ang naiisip ko?
Babae: Di na maibabalik ang mga panahong nagdaan.
Lalake: At ang panahon pang natitira?
70. Babae: Handa ka na ba?
Lalake: Nakatayo o nakahiga?
Babae: Nakatayo. Nakatingin sa isa’t isa.
Lalake: Para sa buong panahong hindi natin tiningnan ang isa’t isa.
71. "sige, gawin mo akong tanglaw, tulad ng mga gabing ikaw ang tala sa aking kalangitan"
72. Junel: Sana pala hindi na tayo umorder.
Diana: Nagmamadali ka?
Junel: Sayang ang panahon.
Diana: Lagi ka na lang nagmamadali.
Junel: Lagi akong nahuhuli.
Diana: Ako ang late. Nag-make up class pa kasi ako.
Junel: Lagi akong nahuhuli.
Diana: Ako nga ang –
Junel: Pagdating sa ‘yo.
73. Kiko: Sana hindi ka mabulag sa liit ng mga letra at kapal ng nobelang ito.
Rand: Ano ba ako sa ‘yo.
Kiko: Ang nobelang gusto ko nang sarhan.
74. "alam mo ba kung bakit ayoko sa kapeng walang asukal? ayoko sa mapait, parang alaala"
75. "mas malapit tayo sa isa't isa nu'ng magkalayo tayo"
76. "pwede ka uling magsign-in sa buhay ko"
77. "food lang ang nagcocomfort sa akin"
78. umibig ka na ba?
madalas
and?
wala na silang lahat
79. "'pag pinaubaya mo sa iba ang kaligayahan mo, sa tingin mo ba mababawi mo agad 'yon?"
80. ano ba'ng sikerto ng happiness?
h'wag mong ipahawak sa iba
81. "gaya ng pag-inom ko ng kapeng sumisira sa puso ko, h’wag mong bawasan o tigilan ang pagmamahal mo sa kanya, sirain man n’ya ang puso mo.”
82. "ako ba ang may dala ng bagyo sa buhay mo?"
83. "maging ang bisig ay napapagod din sa pagyakap"
84. “tingnan mo ang mga piraso ng paso, buuin mo man, may lamat na. ‘Yan ang ginawa mo sa akin.”
85. "minahal. Tandaan mo sana. Minahal. Tapos na ‘yon.”
86. "ang naiintindihan ko lang, gusto kong lumigaya ka.”
87. "nakabantay ako sa 'yo, hinihintay na makalimot ka"
if may naulit, sowee ;) | |
