Magic show at Folk Arts Theater. Tickets from a scalper. M/V Filipina Princess. Plates of pineapple slices. A deep gash from the sharp exposed edge of the iron roof. No crying out of pain. Bags full of fresh fish and vegetables during weekends. The infamous pork stew recipe. Endless cups of coffee during the day - no table sugar, just a tablet of artificial sweetener. The small red car. Early Sunday masses. Immaculate and crisply ironed clothes.
To Uncle Gary. Or Kong as we - his nieces and nephews - affectionately call him, we will miss you.
And I'm sorry I don't know how to write a eulogy.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Friday, December 03, 2004
Walking Home
I found myself yesterday night, getting off the jeepney, still a full block away from the apartment. I had to drop by the small grocery store to buy some stuff - in this case, canned corned beef and tuna, a couple of eggs, a bag of corn chips, and a bottle of liniment. My brother left for Manila early that morning and I had to prepare dinner on my own. Of course, my mom always reminds me that canned goods are "unhealthy". But what the heck.
While walking home, there was this kid who was ahead of me. About two or three years old. One can tell that the skill of walking is still new to him and I kept on worrying whether he'd trip any time because of his quick but uncoordinated feet movement. His mom was walking alongside him, not really paying much attention to her son.
That was one of those rare moments when you're already tired, your defenses are down, it's almost half past nine pm, and the walk home was something you didn't have to concentrate on. Suddenly, probably realizing that there was somebody behind him, the kid turned his head to look at me, while his puppet-like feet movement still staggered on. I smiled at him, gave him a little wave, and mouthed "Hello."
He looked back at me with unchanging expression. He raised his hand to his mother's and walked on. A few meters away, they turned to the corner. I, on the other hand, walked farther on. I climbed the three floors of our building, reached my door, opened it with my key. I switched on the television.
At last, a different voice in the silence.
While walking home, there was this kid who was ahead of me. About two or three years old. One can tell that the skill of walking is still new to him and I kept on worrying whether he'd trip any time because of his quick but uncoordinated feet movement. His mom was walking alongside him, not really paying much attention to her son.
That was one of those rare moments when you're already tired, your defenses are down, it's almost half past nine pm, and the walk home was something you didn't have to concentrate on. Suddenly, probably realizing that there was somebody behind him, the kid turned his head to look at me, while his puppet-like feet movement still staggered on. I smiled at him, gave him a little wave, and mouthed "Hello."
He looked back at me with unchanging expression. He raised his hand to his mother's and walked on. A few meters away, they turned to the corner. I, on the other hand, walked farther on. I climbed the three floors of our building, reached my door, opened it with my key. I switched on the television.
At last, a different voice in the silence.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Oh, brother...
For the past three weeks, our apartment has been at the mercy of our - my brother's and mine - housekeeping skills or lack thereof. We've been asked to take charge of everything until my parents and sister get back.
Now, my Kuya and I get along pretty well. Even back in high school, I'd prefer to watch tv in his room than in Mae's because she gets upset if I crease her bedspread or get crumbs on the floor. In my Kuya's case - well, anything goes.
Without our Mom there to remind us to keep things as immaculately clean as possible, we tend to forget about doing chores like sweeping and mopping the floor, doing and folding laundry, or keeping the kitchen utensils in order.
An advantage of getting along with your siblings is that you agree about what to do, what not to do, what to put off for later, and what not to let our parents know. I bet my mom would have disapproved if she saw us throwing Fuji apples back and forth just to see who's the better catcher. We also get to watch basketball games on tv without switching channels (we're the only family members who want to watch them from start to end).
It also helps that we have similar interests. We analyze my plates for my computer-aided design class and both solve for trigo functions at one am in the morning. We take turns reading the Bible (It's a good thing that the Bible has two markers because I read the Old Testament, and he reads the New). We also take turns with my guitar - he practices while I'm still learning to play.
I am not sure from where we got this, but I notice that we each have our own odd behavior. Once, while watching tv, out of the blue, my Kuya dared me to do at least two clean push-ups and sixteen sit-ups (and boy, how my muscles ached the next morning). He experimented cooking rice toppings and it turned out to be sooo bad that we had to throw everything and had to fry hotdogs instead for lunch. And aside from her borderline neat-freak tendencies, I bet if my sister was left behind with us, she'd also have her share of eccentricities. She has been known to do impromptu interpretative dances while singing off key.
They're coming home in a few days. We already planned to make the place squeaky clean by the time they get back. I just hope that my mom doesn't do another one of her last minute decisions wherein nobody's aware when she's arriving. She's notorious for her indecisions. The long-standing joke is that if she says she'll be at the pier in the morning, fetch her from the airport at night.
I guess I do know where we get the quirks from, after all.
Now, my Kuya and I get along pretty well. Even back in high school, I'd prefer to watch tv in his room than in Mae's because she gets upset if I crease her bedspread or get crumbs on the floor. In my Kuya's case - well, anything goes.
Without our Mom there to remind us to keep things as immaculately clean as possible, we tend to forget about doing chores like sweeping and mopping the floor, doing and folding laundry, or keeping the kitchen utensils in order.
An advantage of getting along with your siblings is that you agree about what to do, what not to do, what to put off for later, and what not to let our parents know. I bet my mom would have disapproved if she saw us throwing Fuji apples back and forth just to see who's the better catcher. We also get to watch basketball games on tv without switching channels (we're the only family members who want to watch them from start to end).
It also helps that we have similar interests. We analyze my plates for my computer-aided design class and both solve for trigo functions at one am in the morning. We take turns reading the Bible (It's a good thing that the Bible has two markers because I read the Old Testament, and he reads the New). We also take turns with my guitar - he practices while I'm still learning to play.
I am not sure from where we got this, but I notice that we each have our own odd behavior. Once, while watching tv, out of the blue, my Kuya dared me to do at least two clean push-ups and sixteen sit-ups (and boy, how my muscles ached the next morning). He experimented cooking rice toppings and it turned out to be sooo bad that we had to throw everything and had to fry hotdogs instead for lunch. And aside from her borderline neat-freak tendencies, I bet if my sister was left behind with us, she'd also have her share of eccentricities. She has been known to do impromptu interpretative dances while singing off key.
They're coming home in a few days. We already planned to make the place squeaky clean by the time they get back. I just hope that my mom doesn't do another one of her last minute decisions wherein nobody's aware when she's arriving. She's notorious for her indecisions. The long-standing joke is that if she says she'll be at the pier in the morning, fetch her from the airport at night.
I guess I do know where we get the quirks from, after all.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Remember your polygons?
I don't know what's up with my section in Computer Graphics class. I have been ceaselessly teased about knowing my polygons.
Our instructor was enumerating the names of the polygons in the order of increasing number of sides. Triangle, square, pentagon, hexagon, heptagon... you know. And when he got to the polygon with eleven sides, he got stumped and was really trying hard to rake over his memory. I could empathize with that situation since I get so bothered when I forget something. I can't sleep until I text everyone I know if they remember the name of the other guy who hosted Digital Tour, for example. (It was Chunchi Soler, by the way).
Anyway, I spoke up and told him that it was the "undecagon". So everyone turned to look at me and gave me high fives, pats in the back, and hollers. Major classroom disturbance to the nth level.
I'm now known as the "Undecagon girl". Geez.
Our instructor was enumerating the names of the polygons in the order of increasing number of sides. Triangle, square, pentagon, hexagon, heptagon... you know. And when he got to the polygon with eleven sides, he got stumped and was really trying hard to rake over his memory. I could empathize with that situation since I get so bothered when I forget something. I can't sleep until I text everyone I know if they remember the name of the other guy who hosted Digital Tour, for example. (It was Chunchi Soler, by the way).
Anyway, I spoke up and told him that it was the "undecagon". So everyone turned to look at me and gave me high fives, pats in the back, and hollers. Major classroom disturbance to the nth level.
I'm now known as the "Undecagon girl". Geez.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
Heroism
"Why is there a Rizal subject in every course?"
I was standing alone in the hallway when I heard the professor inside the adjacent classroom asked the question in a loud voice. None of his students spoke up, probably stumped.
"Because it's required by the freaking law," I muttered lowly to myself.
The professor broke his classroom's silence inside. "Because in the 1960's, Senator Laurel principally authored a bill stating that all college students have to finish a 3-unit Rizal course as a requirement for graduation."
Damn, I'm good.
"Who among you here are willing to die for your country? Raise your right hand."
I grinned at the question. I was alone and was not feeling self-conscious in reacting to what I was hearing. This could be interesting, I thought.
Silence again from the students. No one was stirring, I could sense.
"No one? No one at all?" There was amusement in the way the professor asked his class. "I would've exempted from the finals those who raised their hands. You know why? Because you don't need to attend my class if you're ready to die for your country. You don't need to learn about Rizal's life. Because you have already imbibed Rizal's values."
Interesting. I spent the rest of the time wating for my next class thinking about what the Rizal professor said.
Would I be willing to die for my country? I don't know. Maybe I would be, but then again, maybe not. I just don't know.
Even if I knew that I would get finals exemption if I raised my hand, I still probably wouldn't have. It feels wrong to pretend to be sure when you doubt yourself.
I was standing alone in the hallway when I heard the professor inside the adjacent classroom asked the question in a loud voice. None of his students spoke up, probably stumped.
"Because it's required by the freaking law," I muttered lowly to myself.
The professor broke his classroom's silence inside. "Because in the 1960's, Senator Laurel principally authored a bill stating that all college students have to finish a 3-unit Rizal course as a requirement for graduation."
Damn, I'm good.
"Who among you here are willing to die for your country? Raise your right hand."
I grinned at the question. I was alone and was not feeling self-conscious in reacting to what I was hearing. This could be interesting, I thought.
Silence again from the students. No one was stirring, I could sense.
"No one? No one at all?" There was amusement in the way the professor asked his class. "I would've exempted from the finals those who raised their hands. You know why? Because you don't need to attend my class if you're ready to die for your country. You don't need to learn about Rizal's life. Because you have already imbibed Rizal's values."
Interesting. I spent the rest of the time wating for my next class thinking about what the Rizal professor said.
Would I be willing to die for my country? I don't know. Maybe I would be, but then again, maybe not. I just don't know.
Even if I knew that I would get finals exemption if I raised my hand, I still probably wouldn't have. It feels wrong to pretend to be sure when you doubt yourself.
Monday, November 08, 2004
Readings
After a very long reprieve, at last, I've had the chance to read during the semester break. I didn't have time to read when there was classes. Well, that's not entirely true. I did have idle hours when I could have read something. (When I refer to the term "reading", I mean leisure reading. Not textbooks or any other compulsory school materials. It's inevitable that I read those.) I didn't read during the sem because I feel guilty knowing that I should be spending my hours studying.
Anyway, I finally finished 1984 by George Orwell. I started it about a year-and-a-half ago, but the whole idea of negative utopia got me all depressed and the book took a low priority in my list. Now that I've finished it, I find it very interesting. It still got me depressed, but in a good way - if such a thing is possible. At least, it got me thinking about certaing things. There are a lot of underlying concepts in the story, but the idea of living without privacy was the one that affected me most. Other people like to have an audience or like to always have someone beside them. But for a person like me who sometimes (most of the time) prefer to be alone, I couldn't imagine living in a world where telescreens monitor my every movement. That would be sheer nightmare.
Let me digress. I used to think that preference of solitude was something abnormal. Blame it on all those years when my mother would constantly egg me to "mingle" with the other kids ("What's wrong with you? Don't you want to have more friends? Get out of your shell!"). But after reading the essay of Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas ("Searess and Voyager: Some Notes on the Art of Writing"), I view solitude differently now. I now take pride that I am capable of being with myself. Torrevillas said that if one cannot be alone with one's thoughts, one shouldn't be a writer. I console myself that even if I'm lightyears away from becoming the writer that I want to be, at least, I have that one thing right. To those of you (fellow "wannabe warriors of writing") who are interested to read the whole essay, drop me a message and I'll email the whole thing to you.
After 1984 (corny Lia wants to insert "...is 1985". Ha. ha. ha.), I tackled the thick sheaf of short story printouts that Ryan lent me two years ago. They're mostly short stories in English written by Filipino authors but there were also two about Holden Caulfield written by J.D. Salinger whom Rye and I both admire ("We're not worthy! We're not worthy!"). It was a varied collection of stories. Some are about Filipino life in the US; some about coming of age; and some about young love. My favorite one is "Dead Stars" by Paz Benitez Marquez which, according to the footnote below it, was the short story that gave birth to modern Philippine writing in English. It was amazingly elegant. Poignant. Damn, I wish I could write like that.
I'm also reading the Bible again. I started to read it a couple years back. I wish I could say that I'm reading the Bible because I'm religious. That wouldn't be entirely truthful. Well, I'm a reader. I think that justifies it. I'm more drawn to the Old Testament, though. Don't get me wrong, I like the stories of Jesus in the New Testament gospels, too, but I get hooked on the saga of the Israelites. It has tremendous drama, deceitful ploys, personal betrayals, struggle for power, and God's immense love towards His wayward children. I like the stories of King David and his descendants. I also think the prophet Elijah is really cool. I like the way the Bible mentions the smallest details and how it mentions each person's name and whose child he was and which tribe he belonged in. The Bible is one thorough book. I also found out that one of my nephews was named after the father of King Saul, Kish, and one of the tribal heads of Israel, Jerahmeel. (For a long time, I thought that the kid's name was Kish Jerahmel. It's the Visayan accent. But that's a different story.)
A part of me feels that I'm reading the Bible the "wrong" way. I mean, would it be sacrilege if I say that I read it as I would read any other prose? I sometimes feel that I should be taking it more seriously; that I should be more reflective; or light candles or something. I heard some people even pray before reading the Word of God. Hmm, maybe I am reading it the wrong way.
I just hope there wouldn't be any lightning bolts or dreaded skin diseases involved in the whole repercussion of my actions.
Anyway, I finally finished 1984 by George Orwell. I started it about a year-and-a-half ago, but the whole idea of negative utopia got me all depressed and the book took a low priority in my list. Now that I've finished it, I find it very interesting. It still got me depressed, but in a good way - if such a thing is possible. At least, it got me thinking about certaing things. There are a lot of underlying concepts in the story, but the idea of living without privacy was the one that affected me most. Other people like to have an audience or like to always have someone beside them. But for a person like me who sometimes (most of the time) prefer to be alone, I couldn't imagine living in a world where telescreens monitor my every movement. That would be sheer nightmare.
Let me digress. I used to think that preference of solitude was something abnormal. Blame it on all those years when my mother would constantly egg me to "mingle" with the other kids ("What's wrong with you? Don't you want to have more friends? Get out of your shell!"). But after reading the essay of Rowena Tiempo Torrevillas ("Searess and Voyager: Some Notes on the Art of Writing"), I view solitude differently now. I now take pride that I am capable of being with myself. Torrevillas said that if one cannot be alone with one's thoughts, one shouldn't be a writer. I console myself that even if I'm lightyears away from becoming the writer that I want to be, at least, I have that one thing right. To those of you (fellow "wannabe warriors of writing") who are interested to read the whole essay, drop me a message and I'll email the whole thing to you.
After 1984 (corny Lia wants to insert "...is 1985". Ha. ha. ha.), I tackled the thick sheaf of short story printouts that Ryan lent me two years ago. They're mostly short stories in English written by Filipino authors but there were also two about Holden Caulfield written by J.D. Salinger whom Rye and I both admire ("We're not worthy! We're not worthy!"). It was a varied collection of stories. Some are about Filipino life in the US; some about coming of age; and some about young love. My favorite one is "Dead Stars" by Paz Benitez Marquez which, according to the footnote below it, was the short story that gave birth to modern Philippine writing in English. It was amazingly elegant. Poignant. Damn, I wish I could write like that.
I'm also reading the Bible again. I started to read it a couple years back. I wish I could say that I'm reading the Bible because I'm religious. That wouldn't be entirely truthful. Well, I'm a reader. I think that justifies it. I'm more drawn to the Old Testament, though. Don't get me wrong, I like the stories of Jesus in the New Testament gospels, too, but I get hooked on the saga of the Israelites. It has tremendous drama, deceitful ploys, personal betrayals, struggle for power, and God's immense love towards His wayward children. I like the stories of King David and his descendants. I also think the prophet Elijah is really cool. I like the way the Bible mentions the smallest details and how it mentions each person's name and whose child he was and which tribe he belonged in. The Bible is one thorough book. I also found out that one of my nephews was named after the father of King Saul, Kish, and one of the tribal heads of Israel, Jerahmeel. (For a long time, I thought that the kid's name was Kish Jerahmel. It's the Visayan accent. But that's a different story.)
A part of me feels that I'm reading the Bible the "wrong" way. I mean, would it be sacrilege if I say that I read it as I would read any other prose? I sometimes feel that I should be taking it more seriously; that I should be more reflective; or light candles or something. I heard some people even pray before reading the Word of God. Hmm, maybe I am reading it the wrong way.
I just hope there wouldn't be any lightning bolts or dreaded skin diseases involved in the whole repercussion of my actions.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
"Now you see it, now you..."
I think my existence is slowly being erased by some unknown power. One by one, this sinister force is swallowing my things into the vortex of oblivion and I am so certain, that eventually, it will come after me. It's just a matter of time.
I am so not freaking kidding.
You can't blame me for the display of this degree of paranoia. I lost my wristwatch, my WWJD bracelet, the pair of earrings that my mother bought for me last Christmas (I hope she never asks me about them), my notebook journal, and my mobile phone charger - all in a span of one week. Now, I dare you to tell me that I'm overreacting.
I always place the watch, bracelet, and earrings on top of the table after taking them off when I come home. Then, just a few days ago, they were all gone (I could imagine Justin Timberlake crooning, "Gooone... Gooone!"). I ransacked the whole room but couldn't find them. They're very inexpensive things. I'm not so sure about the earrings, though (I have no plans of asking my mother their exact worth. I enjoy being alive, thank you very much.). Besides, it's not the cost that matters. I need that brandless watch of mine because my obsessive compulsive disorder requires me to check the time every three minutes on my way to school; I also feel naked without that WWJD bracelet since I've had it for sooo long; and lastly, my mother will kill me if she finds out I lost something she gave me as a present. Again, it's not the cost that matters. My life matters a whole lot more.
My journal is probably my ninth or tenth since I started college. I always, always, always keep my present journal under my bed mattress. I wanted to write something yesterday (some plot draft for a potential short story) and so I tried to reach for it, but it wasn't there anymore. It wasn't anywhere in the room. I even tried to look for it in the box where we keep old textbooks, notebooks, photocopied materials, class cards, exam papers, old demons, and other resilient memories. Not there.
I was already bothered by these disappearances but imagine my utter disbelief earlier this evening when I found out that my cellphone charger was missing, too. It was beside my brother's and my sister's chargers. Theirs are still quietly sitting on the shelf and mine's the only one which has gone AWOL. It's beyond weird. It's mega-weird.
No, I don't think it was a burglar. Who would want my stuff? Why not take something valuable? My computer and all our mobile phones were just sitting there. Or if that was too cumbersome for the culprit, why not my sister's accessories, for crying out loud. She sure as hell spends way more on trinkets than I do. And what kind of pervert would want to take my journal? You see, folks, my journals are like rough sketches, if you will. There are outlines of ideas, but no definite form. More bluntly (and less dramatically), I think I'm the only one who can understand my penmanship in my journal. And my stupid charger is faulty that's why I usually use my sister's. So I don't know what's up with that.
The first time it happened, I was willing to dismiss it as another one of my absentmindedness. The next time, I was going to consider that a playful entity was doing tricks on me. But now, it's something bigger. A dark force, methodically wiping me out from the face of the universe. But It has not considered one thing: I am now aware of It's plan. I have the edge, my friends. The advantage. The upper hand.
Any good suggestions for a hiding place for my favorite books?
I am so not freaking kidding.
You can't blame me for the display of this degree of paranoia. I lost my wristwatch, my WWJD bracelet, the pair of earrings that my mother bought for me last Christmas (I hope she never asks me about them), my notebook journal, and my mobile phone charger - all in a span of one week. Now, I dare you to tell me that I'm overreacting.
I always place the watch, bracelet, and earrings on top of the table after taking them off when I come home. Then, just a few days ago, they were all gone (I could imagine Justin Timberlake crooning, "Gooone... Gooone!"). I ransacked the whole room but couldn't find them. They're very inexpensive things. I'm not so sure about the earrings, though (I have no plans of asking my mother their exact worth. I enjoy being alive, thank you very much.). Besides, it's not the cost that matters. I need that brandless watch of mine because my obsessive compulsive disorder requires me to check the time every three minutes on my way to school; I also feel naked without that WWJD bracelet since I've had it for sooo long; and lastly, my mother will kill me if she finds out I lost something she gave me as a present. Again, it's not the cost that matters. My life matters a whole lot more.
My journal is probably my ninth or tenth since I started college. I always, always, always keep my present journal under my bed mattress. I wanted to write something yesterday (some plot draft for a potential short story) and so I tried to reach for it, but it wasn't there anymore. It wasn't anywhere in the room. I even tried to look for it in the box where we keep old textbooks, notebooks, photocopied materials, class cards, exam papers, old demons, and other resilient memories. Not there.
I was already bothered by these disappearances but imagine my utter disbelief earlier this evening when I found out that my cellphone charger was missing, too. It was beside my brother's and my sister's chargers. Theirs are still quietly sitting on the shelf and mine's the only one which has gone AWOL. It's beyond weird. It's mega-weird.
No, I don't think it was a burglar. Who would want my stuff? Why not take something valuable? My computer and all our mobile phones were just sitting there. Or if that was too cumbersome for the culprit, why not my sister's accessories, for crying out loud. She sure as hell spends way more on trinkets than I do. And what kind of pervert would want to take my journal? You see, folks, my journals are like rough sketches, if you will. There are outlines of ideas, but no definite form. More bluntly (and less dramatically), I think I'm the only one who can understand my penmanship in my journal. And my stupid charger is faulty that's why I usually use my sister's. So I don't know what's up with that.
The first time it happened, I was willing to dismiss it as another one of my absentmindedness. The next time, I was going to consider that a playful entity was doing tricks on me. But now, it's something bigger. A dark force, methodically wiping me out from the face of the universe. But It has not considered one thing: I am now aware of It's plan. I have the edge, my friends. The advantage. The upper hand.
Any good suggestions for a hiding place for my favorite books?
Monday, August 30, 2004
Guitar
My fingertips are sore. Each time I touch anything, I feel a tinge of pain. It's as if the skin in the tips of my fingers have been hypersensitized to pick up every minute texture it encounters.
And I like it.
I like the thought that I am suffering in pain for arts' sake. Whatever the hell that means. You see, my dear ladies and gentlemen, I've decided to embark on the journey of learning how to play the guitar.
Let me be the first to admit to you that - although my mother named me after the patron saint of music, St. Cecilia, in the hopes that I grow up to be a musical prodigy - I have never displayed any significant musical inclination whatsoever.
When I was little, my mother made me take piano lessons during one summer, but I only attended a few weeks and then stopped because I wanted to go with my parents to their vacation trip. I never picked up where I left off.
But music is not an alien thing to me. In fact, being such a universal concept, I don't think it can be alien to anybody at all. In my maternal side of the family, there are those who can sing or play instruments. My grandfather, who died long before I was born, was a musician. According to older relatives, he played a wide variety of instruments, but was most known for his saxophone solos.
Now, I'm wondering why I didn't get some of those genetic traits. Lolo didn't have any formal musical education, he just knew how to make music instantly - like magic. It seems so unfair that I have to refer to a book on how a 'C' sound is made. Or how many upwards and downwards strums I should make to have the correct rhythm. Or which strings to pluck.
I sometimes feel like an impostor trying to learn something that ought to be natural. Just sometimes. The other times, I just feel so damn good that I'm finally doing something I've always wanted to try out. I've had soooo many to-do list or want-to-do-list that were buried in forgetfulness.
Buying my first guitar this week was awkward, to say the least. My sister Mae and I originally wanted to go to Opon or Lapu-lapu because these parts of Cebu is practically synonymous to well-made guitars. But we ended up just mall-hopping since we were both chicken about riding the wrong jeepney or bus and getting lost in these areas which are unfamiliar to us. And since we have no expertise in the matter, we were asking the wrong questions ("Does this one come in any other color except green?", "Don't you have one with that one's body color, but this one's pick guard?") One would think we were buying shoes and not a guitar.
The guitar I got is dark brown/maroon. Its weight is lighter than most of the other ones I checked out. I peeled off the repulsively-designed pick guard that it had. It looks pretty sleeker now.
Enough of that.
So now, my fingertips are sore and my roommates are getting deaf with my practice.
Life's good.
And I like it.
I like the thought that I am suffering in pain for arts' sake. Whatever the hell that means. You see, my dear ladies and gentlemen, I've decided to embark on the journey of learning how to play the guitar.
Let me be the first to admit to you that - although my mother named me after the patron saint of music, St. Cecilia, in the hopes that I grow up to be a musical prodigy - I have never displayed any significant musical inclination whatsoever.
When I was little, my mother made me take piano lessons during one summer, but I only attended a few weeks and then stopped because I wanted to go with my parents to their vacation trip. I never picked up where I left off.
But music is not an alien thing to me. In fact, being such a universal concept, I don't think it can be alien to anybody at all. In my maternal side of the family, there are those who can sing or play instruments. My grandfather, who died long before I was born, was a musician. According to older relatives, he played a wide variety of instruments, but was most known for his saxophone solos.
Now, I'm wondering why I didn't get some of those genetic traits. Lolo didn't have any formal musical education, he just knew how to make music instantly - like magic. It seems so unfair that I have to refer to a book on how a 'C' sound is made. Or how many upwards and downwards strums I should make to have the correct rhythm. Or which strings to pluck.
I sometimes feel like an impostor trying to learn something that ought to be natural. Just sometimes. The other times, I just feel so damn good that I'm finally doing something I've always wanted to try out. I've had soooo many to-do list or want-to-do-list that were buried in forgetfulness.
Buying my first guitar this week was awkward, to say the least. My sister Mae and I originally wanted to go to Opon or Lapu-lapu because these parts of Cebu is practically synonymous to well-made guitars. But we ended up just mall-hopping since we were both chicken about riding the wrong jeepney or bus and getting lost in these areas which are unfamiliar to us. And since we have no expertise in the matter, we were asking the wrong questions ("Does this one come in any other color except green?", "Don't you have one with that one's body color, but this one's pick guard?") One would think we were buying shoes and not a guitar.
The guitar I got is dark brown/maroon. Its weight is lighter than most of the other ones I checked out. I peeled off the repulsively-designed pick guard that it had. It looks pretty sleeker now.
Enough of that.
So now, my fingertips are sore and my roommates are getting deaf with my practice.
Life's good.
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
Playing Hooky
I never wanted to go in the first place. I would just like to put that on record. But you know how these things go. First, you have a firm refusal. Then, you think about just staying for an hour or two. And the next thing you know, you've spent the night and missed one seatwork, one oral recitation, one report discussion, and two chapter quizzes.
Such is life, my friends.
Of course, there are people to blame (and just to be consistent on the washing-my-hands-off-guilt, I'm not including myself in this list). I blame Jansen for inviting us to use his free overnight stay at the Waterfront Hotel. I blame my sister Mae for convincing me that I could just bring my notes and study there. I also partially blame my friends Ryan and Abad because they agreed to meet Mae at the hotel and I wanted to see them, too, because it's been a while since we last talked.
So I went. I rationalized that I could bring my notes and a change of clothes. The next day was, after all, a wash day in school and I didn't have to wear my uniform (my college uniform deserves a separate blog entry just for itself. I'm potentially entitling it with: "May I take your order, Sir?". Intriguing? Hardly. More like repulsive.)
Anyway, so we checked in at the hotel around four or five o'clock. It was a nice and spacious room and it had a nice view of the city from the seventh floor. The minute we got there, Mae started inspecting the food in the mini-bar while Ryan immediately ran a hot bath in the tub. Me? I zoned in on one thing and one thing alone - the cable TV.
After months of putting up with local television in the boarding house, I, at last, have more than 60 channels right at the tip of my fingertips. HBO. Cinemax. Discovery. Nickelodeon. Cartoon Network. Disney Channel! And loads more! It's almost too much for my heart to handle. Almost. ;)
Ryan had a training exam that night and was studying his four-inch thick black binder. I call it "The Book of Shadows" because Mae has one exactly like it. She has already passed her exam a few weeks back and was helping Ryan review. Both of them are under the same account of the call center company they work for (they're tech support engineers). The exam is very crucial as failing it could mean dismissal.
While they were talking about DSL modems, DNS servers, POP, and other TLA's (Three Letter Acronyms), I was occupying myself with an episode of The Simpsons. It's the one where Lisa pretends to be a college student. Notice how the atmosphere of studying around me did not encourage me to open my own SAD notes.
"Ano pala ang klase mo bukas na kailangang mong pag-aralan?"
"SAD ako bukas."
"You're sad? Why?"
"Huh?"
"Bakit ka naman sad?"
"Ngyek. Systems Analysis and Design ang exam ko bukas."
Abad came over around eight o'clock that evening. She brought us McDonald's cheeseburger meals with upsized Sprite and fries. Food + friends + a private room = nonstop chatting and laughter. It was kind of a bummer than Ryan had to leave for his exam by nine. We all wished him good luck before he left. The tricky part about wishing Ryan well is that I have to remind myself not to say, "God bless" which is what I usually say to somebody in this kind of situation. Since he has issues on that, we all do the "Good luck", "Break a leg", "You can do it" routine with him.
Anyway, when Ryan left, Abad and I watched a rerun of Men In Black II. Mae was already sleeping. After the movie, we watched the premiere episode of the farewell season of Sex and the City. I like comedy series. But I like cartoons better. My mother always reminds me of my age whenever I watch animation. I don't get why. Abad doesn't get that same "You're too old for cartoons" shtick. Her parents are not around and her grandma pretty much lets her do what she wants. Abad's favorite cartoon is the skunk. You know, the French romantic skunk who once chased a painted cat all over. That skunk. She wishes that there was a video compilation of all the skunk's looney tunes episodes. Are my friends something or what?
Abad left at around midnight. I dozed off with the television on. I woke up at around 6.30 am. Mae, Jansen, and his wife, Mariechu were already sitting on the table and making plans for breakfast. At that point, I was still debating with myself whether I could afford not to go to school. Let's see. What are the things that I will be missing if I don't show up? Ten points in Flowcharting, thirty in SAD, fifteen in Komunikasyon, twenty in File Org, thirty in ISO - makes roughly over a hundred points.
The hell with it.
Spontaneity, people, is not worrying about the outcome of your spur-of-the-moment decisions. It is the essence of being alive snatched up from the controls of everyday responsibility. It is the child inside each one of us, struggling to break free from the clutches of superficial importance. Nurture that child, people. Let it grow without restrictions. Freely. Peacefully.
So, after the hearty breakfast at the cafe in the hotel lobby, we went to the Duty Free shop and bought a few items. It was kind of weird because everything was price-tagged in dollars but we pay the cashier in pesos. I know I should feel some sort of outrage brought about by a sense of nationalism. I'm just not sure which.
Anyway, I went home late that afternoon. It was oven-hot in our dorm room. And our television reception would only get decently clear when the antenna is 24.4 degrees from the floor, directly pointing to the orbit of Jupiter, and I'm holding it with one hand on the tip of my nose. No more cool airconditioned air and 60+ cable channels.
Welcome back to the real world, kid.
Such is life, my friends.
Of course, there are people to blame (and just to be consistent on the washing-my-hands-off-guilt, I'm not including myself in this list). I blame Jansen for inviting us to use his free overnight stay at the Waterfront Hotel. I blame my sister Mae for convincing me that I could just bring my notes and study there. I also partially blame my friends Ryan and Abad because they agreed to meet Mae at the hotel and I wanted to see them, too, because it's been a while since we last talked.
So I went. I rationalized that I could bring my notes and a change of clothes. The next day was, after all, a wash day in school and I didn't have to wear my uniform (my college uniform deserves a separate blog entry just for itself. I'm potentially entitling it with: "May I take your order, Sir?". Intriguing? Hardly. More like repulsive.)
Anyway, so we checked in at the hotel around four or five o'clock. It was a nice and spacious room and it had a nice view of the city from the seventh floor. The minute we got there, Mae started inspecting the food in the mini-bar while Ryan immediately ran a hot bath in the tub. Me? I zoned in on one thing and one thing alone - the cable TV.
After months of putting up with local television in the boarding house, I, at last, have more than 60 channels right at the tip of my fingertips. HBO. Cinemax. Discovery. Nickelodeon. Cartoon Network. Disney Channel! And loads more! It's almost too much for my heart to handle. Almost. ;)
Ryan had a training exam that night and was studying his four-inch thick black binder. I call it "The Book of Shadows" because Mae has one exactly like it. She has already passed her exam a few weeks back and was helping Ryan review. Both of them are under the same account of the call center company they work for (they're tech support engineers). The exam is very crucial as failing it could mean dismissal.
While they were talking about DSL modems, DNS servers, POP, and other TLA's (Three Letter Acronyms), I was occupying myself with an episode of The Simpsons. It's the one where Lisa pretends to be a college student. Notice how the atmosphere of studying around me did not encourage me to open my own SAD notes.
"Ano pala ang klase mo bukas na kailangang mong pag-aralan?"
"SAD ako bukas."
"You're sad? Why?"
"Huh?"
"Bakit ka naman sad?"
"Ngyek. Systems Analysis and Design ang exam ko bukas."
Abad came over around eight o'clock that evening. She brought us McDonald's cheeseburger meals with upsized Sprite and fries. Food + friends + a private room = nonstop chatting and laughter. It was kind of a bummer than Ryan had to leave for his exam by nine. We all wished him good luck before he left. The tricky part about wishing Ryan well is that I have to remind myself not to say, "God bless" which is what I usually say to somebody in this kind of situation. Since he has issues on that, we all do the "Good luck", "Break a leg", "You can do it" routine with him.
Anyway, when Ryan left, Abad and I watched a rerun of Men In Black II. Mae was already sleeping. After the movie, we watched the premiere episode of the farewell season of Sex and the City. I like comedy series. But I like cartoons better. My mother always reminds me of my age whenever I watch animation. I don't get why. Abad doesn't get that same "You're too old for cartoons" shtick. Her parents are not around and her grandma pretty much lets her do what she wants. Abad's favorite cartoon is the skunk. You know, the French romantic skunk who once chased a painted cat all over. That skunk. She wishes that there was a video compilation of all the skunk's looney tunes episodes. Are my friends something or what?
Abad left at around midnight. I dozed off with the television on. I woke up at around 6.30 am. Mae, Jansen, and his wife, Mariechu were already sitting on the table and making plans for breakfast. At that point, I was still debating with myself whether I could afford not to go to school. Let's see. What are the things that I will be missing if I don't show up? Ten points in Flowcharting, thirty in SAD, fifteen in Komunikasyon, twenty in File Org, thirty in ISO - makes roughly over a hundred points.
The hell with it.
Spontaneity, people, is not worrying about the outcome of your spur-of-the-moment decisions. It is the essence of being alive snatched up from the controls of everyday responsibility. It is the child inside each one of us, struggling to break free from the clutches of superficial importance. Nurture that child, people. Let it grow without restrictions. Freely. Peacefully.
So, after the hearty breakfast at the cafe in the hotel lobby, we went to the Duty Free shop and bought a few items. It was kind of weird because everything was price-tagged in dollars but we pay the cashier in pesos. I know I should feel some sort of outrage brought about by a sense of nationalism. I'm just not sure which.
Anyway, I went home late that afternoon. It was oven-hot in our dorm room. And our television reception would only get decently clear when the antenna is 24.4 degrees from the floor, directly pointing to the orbit of Jupiter, and I'm holding it with one hand on the tip of my nose. No more cool airconditioned air and 60+ cable channels.
Welcome back to the real world, kid.
Tuesday, August 10, 2004
Tutoring
Early last month, my college dean asked me to tutor her niece in Math for the UPCAT (that's University of the Philippines College Admissions Test, for those of you who are unfamiliar with the acronym). Now, this seems like an ordinary circumstance except for the fact that it reeks of irony.
Undeniable, blatant, potent irony.
The former-UP-student-who-failed-Math-N-times is asked to tutor Math for the UP entrance exams. What's wrong with this picture? But the dean (who was also my adviser in UP before she was pirated by the private institute) seemed pretty confident that I could handle high school Math. My Calculus failures didn't seem to matter that much in the situation, so I agreed to tutor.
Besides, I did pass the UPCAT. With scores high enough to admit me to UP Manila for the BS Physical Therapy program and to UP Diliman for the BS Computer Engineering program - both of which are quota courses, if I may not-so-humbly add. (ahem! LOL)
Cyrielle's an amusing kid. Before we started, I thought I'd have a hard time with her because of her private Catholic school upbringing and her privileged life (and all the other implications of those things). I thought that she'd be this stuck-up, bratty, rich kid who was a pain in the neck. But she's not. She's basically just a funny and bubbly girl. Her aunt would constantly remind her to sit properly and not just slump down on the chair. Skirts. Thank heavens I'm not in high school anymore.
Anyway, she seemed pretty eager to learn which made it easier for me. I was afraid that I would have to force myself into someone who had no interest in what I have to share. And she's not slow at all. Just a little careless, especially with integer operations. ("Negative five plus negative three is equal to ... uhm, negative two?" Awright.)
Cy calls me "Ate Cecil", out of respect. I am, after all, a good couple of years her senior. What I like most about tutoring her is having a sense of responsibility. I'm the youngest in the family and didn't have that many chances to be the one to give advice on something I have previous experience in. So this was a change of role for me. When we're done solving algebra and trigo problems, Cy would ask me about UP and other things that might be useful to her. I share with her practical things that can't be learned through academics.
Don't spend too much time on a single item. Skip the long ones and just come back to them if you have time left. If you are absolutely clueless on a question, don't answer it at all; the UPCAT is a right-minus-wrong exam. Pace yourself; estimate the longest possible time you can spend on one number. Get enough rest the night before. Eat chocolates. Bring your favorite small object -- like a brightly-colored eraser or a shiny paperweight; the exam is five hours long, it would be relaxing to look at something cheerful and familiar every once in a while instead of black and white paper all throughout the whole duration.
The last advice was actually given to me by a distant cousin back when I was about to take the Pisay exams. He's an alumnus of the prestigious high school and eventually finished two courses in college with honors. Come to think of it, he became a little crazy for a while because of his mental exertions so I'm not so sure that I should've given his advice to someone else. Hmm.
One of the things I've learned through this tutoring experience is that teaching is not a joke. I took it seriously. I always prepared my materials whenever we have a session. I read and studied everything in advance, although it's like I was just reviewing my high school Math. I made sure I had alternate solutions so I can pick one which can be understood more easily. I didn't take it lightly because I knew that whatever I say will be accepted as truth and that anything that I'm unsure of will be confusing more to whoever listens to me. If I was not able to show up for a session, I text Cy in advance so she won't wait for me and I tell her my reason and apologize if it was any inconvenience for her. And I'm never late. Never.
If only some of my own instructors have the same ethics. Some of them just, frankly speaking, suck.
It's a tough responsibility, but also one that is fulfilling. After a long and bloody solution that leads to a simple and correct answer, Cy would grin widely and say, "That's so amazing!" And I find that so cool, because I feel that I'm somehow instrumental in her appreciation of the subject.
On the day of her UPCAT exam, we met for an hour, but we didn't discuss about Math. We just talked about her plans, and her state of nerves. She was so relaxed that morning while I was the one who was filled with tension. I couldn't stop worrying about her the whole afternoon while she took the exam and wondered how she was doing. Later that night, she texted me. "Ate Cecil, thanks for all the help. Most probably I'm going to pass and it's because of you, really. Take care and God bless. Thanks for your prayers. =)"
I was so touched that she thought about thanking me when the real work's actually on her end. I was just so relieved that her exam went well and I really wish that she indeed passed it. I sure as hell didn't have that same confidence after I took the UPCAT. I never really expected that I would pass it. And to think that I have the co-ed advantage.
Oh, I forgot to tell you about the co-ed advantage. One of the things that Cy asked me was if the examinees were arranged by school. I told her no; that they would be arranged by the examination slip numbers.
"So there will be boys in the same room taking the exam?"
"Huh?" I didn't get the question. Of course, there will be boys taking the exam, too.
"I mean, students from other schools will be taking the exam with us. Some of them will be boys, right?"
Omigod. I forgot she has always been an exclusive all-girls Catholic school student.
"Yeah, Cy, there'll be boys around. I know you're not used to that, but just don't get distracted."
There'll be plenty of time for that when you're in college. Loads of time. Even loads more of distractions.
Undeniable, blatant, potent irony.
The former-UP-student-who-failed-Math-N-times is asked to tutor Math for the UP entrance exams. What's wrong with this picture? But the dean (who was also my adviser in UP before she was pirated by the private institute) seemed pretty confident that I could handle high school Math. My Calculus failures didn't seem to matter that much in the situation, so I agreed to tutor.
Besides, I did pass the UPCAT. With scores high enough to admit me to UP Manila for the BS Physical Therapy program and to UP Diliman for the BS Computer Engineering program - both of which are quota courses, if I may not-so-humbly add. (ahem! LOL)
Cyrielle's an amusing kid. Before we started, I thought I'd have a hard time with her because of her private Catholic school upbringing and her privileged life (and all the other implications of those things). I thought that she'd be this stuck-up, bratty, rich kid who was a pain in the neck. But she's not. She's basically just a funny and bubbly girl. Her aunt would constantly remind her to sit properly and not just slump down on the chair. Skirts. Thank heavens I'm not in high school anymore.
Anyway, she seemed pretty eager to learn which made it easier for me. I was afraid that I would have to force myself into someone who had no interest in what I have to share. And she's not slow at all. Just a little careless, especially with integer operations. ("Negative five plus negative three is equal to ... uhm, negative two?" Awright.)
Cy calls me "Ate Cecil", out of respect. I am, after all, a good couple of years her senior. What I like most about tutoring her is having a sense of responsibility. I'm the youngest in the family and didn't have that many chances to be the one to give advice on something I have previous experience in. So this was a change of role for me. When we're done solving algebra and trigo problems, Cy would ask me about UP and other things that might be useful to her. I share with her practical things that can't be learned through academics.
Don't spend too much time on a single item. Skip the long ones and just come back to them if you have time left. If you are absolutely clueless on a question, don't answer it at all; the UPCAT is a right-minus-wrong exam. Pace yourself; estimate the longest possible time you can spend on one number. Get enough rest the night before. Eat chocolates. Bring your favorite small object -- like a brightly-colored eraser or a shiny paperweight; the exam is five hours long, it would be relaxing to look at something cheerful and familiar every once in a while instead of black and white paper all throughout the whole duration.
The last advice was actually given to me by a distant cousin back when I was about to take the Pisay exams. He's an alumnus of the prestigious high school and eventually finished two courses in college with honors. Come to think of it, he became a little crazy for a while because of his mental exertions so I'm not so sure that I should've given his advice to someone else. Hmm.
One of the things I've learned through this tutoring experience is that teaching is not a joke. I took it seriously. I always prepared my materials whenever we have a session. I read and studied everything in advance, although it's like I was just reviewing my high school Math. I made sure I had alternate solutions so I can pick one which can be understood more easily. I didn't take it lightly because I knew that whatever I say will be accepted as truth and that anything that I'm unsure of will be confusing more to whoever listens to me. If I was not able to show up for a session, I text Cy in advance so she won't wait for me and I tell her my reason and apologize if it was any inconvenience for her. And I'm never late. Never.
If only some of my own instructors have the same ethics. Some of them just, frankly speaking, suck.
It's a tough responsibility, but also one that is fulfilling. After a long and bloody solution that leads to a simple and correct answer, Cy would grin widely and say, "That's so amazing!" And I find that so cool, because I feel that I'm somehow instrumental in her appreciation of the subject.
On the day of her UPCAT exam, we met for an hour, but we didn't discuss about Math. We just talked about her plans, and her state of nerves. She was so relaxed that morning while I was the one who was filled with tension. I couldn't stop worrying about her the whole afternoon while she took the exam and wondered how she was doing. Later that night, she texted me. "Ate Cecil, thanks for all the help. Most probably I'm going to pass and it's because of you, really. Take care and God bless. Thanks for your prayers. =)"
I was so touched that she thought about thanking me when the real work's actually on her end. I was just so relieved that her exam went well and I really wish that she indeed passed it. I sure as hell didn't have that same confidence after I took the UPCAT. I never really expected that I would pass it. And to think that I have the co-ed advantage.
Oh, I forgot to tell you about the co-ed advantage. One of the things that Cy asked me was if the examinees were arranged by school. I told her no; that they would be arranged by the examination slip numbers.
"So there will be boys in the same room taking the exam?"
"Huh?" I didn't get the question. Of course, there will be boys taking the exam, too.
"I mean, students from other schools will be taking the exam with us. Some of them will be boys, right?"
Omigod. I forgot she has always been an exclusive all-girls Catholic school student.
"Yeah, Cy, there'll be boys around. I know you're not used to that, but just don't get distracted."
There'll be plenty of time for that when you're in college. Loads of time. Even loads more of distractions.
Monday, August 09, 2004
Growing up, getting down
When I was younger -- pre-school, I think -- there were a lot of times when my mother would be away for periods of time on business. She ran her own small scale supplies trade and had a lot of things to attend to. Most of the time, she was in the city transacting deals.
Like most kids, I hated being away from my mother. I would wail and yell whenever she travels. She'd bring us treats every time she came back and it would make me forgive her for leaving us at home. But I never forgot how bad I felt when she went away. It's an empty feeling.
Back then, I thought of giving her one end of a thread when she has to go somewhere far and then I'd hold the other end. Somehow, in my child's head, it was important to me that I have something to hold on to that was connected to my mother. It felt like she's just with me and the thread was evidence that I was not left alone.
I'm trying to remember at which point in my life I graduated from that phase. But I can't. I wish I could remember the exact moment when I realized: that the thread idea was stupid; that I didn't mind being left behind anymore; that I don't get everything I want; that life works in a certain way and that I don't have control over it some of the time, most of the time, all of the time.
I want to find out when I grew up. And if it was worth it.
Maybe there comes a time in a person's life when growing up seems like a downer. Maybe the person is in a depressingly contemplative stage. Maybe the person thinks if the transition point from childhood to adulthood is defined, one can find closure and move on to a better future.
Maybe I'm just wishful thinking.
Being a child is the time when a spool of thread is endless. Being a grown-up is the time when a spool of thread is just something stored in the bottom drawer.
Like most kids, I hated being away from my mother. I would wail and yell whenever she travels. She'd bring us treats every time she came back and it would make me forgive her for leaving us at home. But I never forgot how bad I felt when she went away. It's an empty feeling.
Back then, I thought of giving her one end of a thread when she has to go somewhere far and then I'd hold the other end. Somehow, in my child's head, it was important to me that I have something to hold on to that was connected to my mother. It felt like she's just with me and the thread was evidence that I was not left alone.
I'm trying to remember at which point in my life I graduated from that phase. But I can't. I wish I could remember the exact moment when I realized: that the thread idea was stupid; that I didn't mind being left behind anymore; that I don't get everything I want; that life works in a certain way and that I don't have control over it some of the time, most of the time, all of the time.
I want to find out when I grew up. And if it was worth it.
Maybe there comes a time in a person's life when growing up seems like a downer. Maybe the person is in a depressingly contemplative stage. Maybe the person thinks if the transition point from childhood to adulthood is defined, one can find closure and move on to a better future.
Maybe I'm just wishful thinking.
Being a child is the time when a spool of thread is endless. Being a grown-up is the time when a spool of thread is just something stored in the bottom drawer.
Sunday, August 08, 2004
Curbside Reflections
I take a twenty-minute jeepney ride every day on my way to school. There's an old abandoned house that I pass by which I always notice. Its walls are spray-painted with graffiti and its windows are boarded up with planks of wood. Apart from the dilapidated appearance of the house, what catches my notice about is the old man whom I usually see sitting on the floor of the front porch.
The old man is a scavenger. He has long, unruly hair and his skin is covered with dirt and grease. His clothes are tattered and his feet are bare. He could've been any other homeless person on the street except for one thing. I always see him -- sitting on that porch with sheets of paper on his knees and a pile of pens on his side -- writing.
He chooses to write. I bet a lot of people would disapprove of a tramp who spends his whole day writing and not doing anything constructive. But what if writing is all he wants to do? Shouldn't he be given credit for just going after what makes him happy and complete?
Maybe in his realm of reality, nothing is as important as being able to put his thoughts into paper. Nothing else. Not food, not shelter, not clothes. Absolutely nothing else. How many of us sane people display that intense passion? Maybe sanity is just a scapegoat for cowardice. That convention is not normalcy but just the politically correct label for taking the easy way out.
Because if you love something, there should be no question in your heart nor your mind. You just take the leap. You just sit right down with your pen and paper, unmindful of your personal state and the rush of people passing by and judging you.
I envy him as hell.
The old man is a scavenger. He has long, unruly hair and his skin is covered with dirt and grease. His clothes are tattered and his feet are bare. He could've been any other homeless person on the street except for one thing. I always see him -- sitting on that porch with sheets of paper on his knees and a pile of pens on his side -- writing.
He chooses to write. I bet a lot of people would disapprove of a tramp who spends his whole day writing and not doing anything constructive. But what if writing is all he wants to do? Shouldn't he be given credit for just going after what makes him happy and complete?
Maybe in his realm of reality, nothing is as important as being able to put his thoughts into paper. Nothing else. Not food, not shelter, not clothes. Absolutely nothing else. How many of us sane people display that intense passion? Maybe sanity is just a scapegoat for cowardice. That convention is not normalcy but just the politically correct label for taking the easy way out.
Because if you love something, there should be no question in your heart nor your mind. You just take the leap. You just sit right down with your pen and paper, unmindful of your personal state and the rush of people passing by and judging you.
I envy him as hell.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Monday Blues
There's something wrong with her, I thought to myself.
She has been talking nonstop to me for the past twenty minutes. I have been staring blankly back at her and I was beginning to wonder whether there was anything in my expression that was egging her to go on with her twaddle.
I hoped that our instructor would arrive shortly so I would be spared from the verbal relay of my seatmate's lifestory to me. She paused for a while and caught her breath. She told me that she was really talkative by nature (no kidding?!) and asked me whether her chitchat was starting to get on my nerves. Of course not, I said.
Aaargh. Damn my courtesy and political correctness.
And so she went right back to it. She started to tell me about how she met a cute guy in a disco club last summer and how the guy asked her to be his girlfriend that same night and without letting a moment pass, she acceded. That's the reason why even if she lives two rides away, she opted to go to enrol at the school because the guy was an engineering major there. Now, here's the clincher. They haven't seen each other again since the night they met. She all said this matter-of-factly.
There's something terribly wrong with her, I thought to myself.
I tuned her out for a while. This was my first week at my new school and I am amazed on how much there is to adjust to. This is probably a good thing so I can practice my flexibility. It pays to be a well-adjusted person. I just hope it pays well in cash. Hehe. =)
Anyway, back to my seatmate. She was saying something about how she was so embarrassed during her class earlier that day because when asked about her own definition of psychology, she couldn't think of anything to say. I nodded and smiled at her sympathetically. She was really friendly and I wanted to be nice to her in return.
When it was clear that our instructor was a no-show, I started to put away my things. Miss Talkative abruptly asked me out of nowhere, "Kinsa'y uyab nimo?"
I literally choked and coughed out loud. How weird of her to ask such a personal question when I barely know her. Besides, the question was unexpected. I told her that I wasn't in a relationship because I am preoccupied with a lot of things and have no time to look for headaches.
Something about the way she gawked at me told me that she didn't get my answer and the intended humor went over her head.
Sigh.
Man, I hope my M-W-F's will not always start out like this.
She has been talking nonstop to me for the past twenty minutes. I have been staring blankly back at her and I was beginning to wonder whether there was anything in my expression that was egging her to go on with her twaddle.
I hoped that our instructor would arrive shortly so I would be spared from the verbal relay of my seatmate's lifestory to me. She paused for a while and caught her breath. She told me that she was really talkative by nature (no kidding?!) and asked me whether her chitchat was starting to get on my nerves. Of course not, I said.
Aaargh. Damn my courtesy and political correctness.
And so she went right back to it. She started to tell me about how she met a cute guy in a disco club last summer and how the guy asked her to be his girlfriend that same night and without letting a moment pass, she acceded. That's the reason why even if she lives two rides away, she opted to go to enrol at the school because the guy was an engineering major there. Now, here's the clincher. They haven't seen each other again since the night they met. She all said this matter-of-factly.
There's something terribly wrong with her, I thought to myself.
I tuned her out for a while. This was my first week at my new school and I am amazed on how much there is to adjust to. This is probably a good thing so I can practice my flexibility. It pays to be a well-adjusted person. I just hope it pays well in cash. Hehe. =)
Anyway, back to my seatmate. She was saying something about how she was so embarrassed during her class earlier that day because when asked about her own definition of psychology, she couldn't think of anything to say. I nodded and smiled at her sympathetically. She was really friendly and I wanted to be nice to her in return.
When it was clear that our instructor was a no-show, I started to put away my things. Miss Talkative abruptly asked me out of nowhere, "Kinsa'y uyab nimo?"
I literally choked and coughed out loud. How weird of her to ask such a personal question when I barely know her. Besides, the question was unexpected. I told her that I wasn't in a relationship because I am preoccupied with a lot of things and have no time to look for headaches.
Something about the way she gawked at me told me that she didn't get my answer and the intended humor went over her head.
Sigh.
Man, I hope my M-W-F's will not always start out like this.
Saturday, June 19, 2004
FIRE!
You wouldn't believe what happened to me last Thursday night. A fire broke out two buildings away from where I live. Some of you might have heard about it. It was also in the national evening news. The church of the Seventh Day Adventists in front of the Capitol building was burned down to the ground.
It was around 10.30 in the evening and I was reading when I noticed that the occupants of the other rooms in my floor were running down the stairs. When I opened my door, the suffocating smell of smoke assailed my nostrils. There was a fire nearby, they said, and that we should all get out. I came back inside my room and put on a second shirt over the one I was already wearing. I desperately looked around to find out what I should bring along. I thought about unplugging my system unit, but thought it was too heavy.
Here comes a natural calamity and all I could think of is my computer and my files in the hard drive. Give me a break. That's years worth of file accumulation.
Anyway, all I ended up bringing was my mobile phone. When we all got to the ground floor, we crowded ourselves together. I noticed that most of the other tenants were in their sleepwear and all carrying their own phones. We were right outside our building's parkway where we saw the blazing fire eating up the old wooden house across the street. A giant bonfire. It was chaotic. Firetrucks, firefighters, police, ambulance, media coverage. A woman even fainted from shock.
A freshman kid named Marga clung to me. She tightly held my forearm and kept telling me how scared she was. I just found out that we have been floormates for a couple of weeks now. That night was the first time I saw her. She heard me praying under my breath and prayed along with me. My prayer was repetitive and uncohesive. Somewhere along the Our Father's, Hail Mary's, and Glory Be's, I think I might have also recited Grace before Meals. No freaking kidding.
I really didn't know what to do. I felt all alone and I couldn't think of anyone to ask help from. I finally texted my brother and sister about my situation. Which is really stupid because my brother's in Cagayan and my sister's in Manila. I am in Cebu, for crying out loud. Panic has taken over my logic.
My sister called me up and told me to stay where I was because she contacted Jansen and asked him to come over my building and help me out. He arrived a few minutes later and told Marga and I to distance ourselves from the area because it was dangerous to stand so close to the fire where electric posts might fall over. He led us a few meters away and stayed with us until the chaos subsided. Jansen asked me why I didn't call him up directly and my sister from Manila had to be the one to tell him about the fire. Well, I forgot about him. I couldn't think straight at the time. Of all the things I could've brought, all I managed to bring was my phone. No wallet, no valuables, no documents, nothing. How stupid is that?!
Anyway, we were finally allowed to get back into our own rooms at around midnight. Before he left, Jansen told me to text him if anything else happens. We're already like family, he said. Very true.
I didn't get to sleep right away that night. Not only because the electricity was turned off due to the fire, but because I couldn't stop thinking about what happened. What could have happened. How life sometimes gives you these little jolts of reality checks. How blessed I am to be safe. Before I went to bed, with a warily-guarded candlelight, I wrote to God.
Someone asked me whether my entries in this blog actually happen or just made up. They're all true. I guess you could call these entries as candid snapshots of my everyday life. My own personal scrapbook of mundane experiences. I don't know how to explain it, but it validates my existence somehow.
It was around 10.30 in the evening and I was reading when I noticed that the occupants of the other rooms in my floor were running down the stairs. When I opened my door, the suffocating smell of smoke assailed my nostrils. There was a fire nearby, they said, and that we should all get out. I came back inside my room and put on a second shirt over the one I was already wearing. I desperately looked around to find out what I should bring along. I thought about unplugging my system unit, but thought it was too heavy.
Here comes a natural calamity and all I could think of is my computer and my files in the hard drive. Give me a break. That's years worth of file accumulation.
Anyway, all I ended up bringing was my mobile phone. When we all got to the ground floor, we crowded ourselves together. I noticed that most of the other tenants were in their sleepwear and all carrying their own phones. We were right outside our building's parkway where we saw the blazing fire eating up the old wooden house across the street. A giant bonfire. It was chaotic. Firetrucks, firefighters, police, ambulance, media coverage. A woman even fainted from shock.
A freshman kid named Marga clung to me. She tightly held my forearm and kept telling me how scared she was. I just found out that we have been floormates for a couple of weeks now. That night was the first time I saw her. She heard me praying under my breath and prayed along with me. My prayer was repetitive and uncohesive. Somewhere along the Our Father's, Hail Mary's, and Glory Be's, I think I might have also recited Grace before Meals. No freaking kidding.
I really didn't know what to do. I felt all alone and I couldn't think of anyone to ask help from. I finally texted my brother and sister about my situation. Which is really stupid because my brother's in Cagayan and my sister's in Manila. I am in Cebu, for crying out loud. Panic has taken over my logic.
My sister called me up and told me to stay where I was because she contacted Jansen and asked him to come over my building and help me out. He arrived a few minutes later and told Marga and I to distance ourselves from the area because it was dangerous to stand so close to the fire where electric posts might fall over. He led us a few meters away and stayed with us until the chaos subsided. Jansen asked me why I didn't call him up directly and my sister from Manila had to be the one to tell him about the fire. Well, I forgot about him. I couldn't think straight at the time. Of all the things I could've brought, all I managed to bring was my phone. No wallet, no valuables, no documents, nothing. How stupid is that?!
Anyway, we were finally allowed to get back into our own rooms at around midnight. Before he left, Jansen told me to text him if anything else happens. We're already like family, he said. Very true.
I didn't get to sleep right away that night. Not only because the electricity was turned off due to the fire, but because I couldn't stop thinking about what happened. What could have happened. How life sometimes gives you these little jolts of reality checks. How blessed I am to be safe. Before I went to bed, with a warily-guarded candlelight, I wrote to God.
Someone asked me whether my entries in this blog actually happen or just made up. They're all true. I guess you could call these entries as candid snapshots of my everyday life. My own personal scrapbook of mundane experiences. I don't know how to explain it, but it validates my existence somehow.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
Is there a plumber in the house?
It happened so fast that I'm not really sure how it happened exactly. Maybe it has something to do with my sleep deprivation and fatigue. Maybe. But that theory wouldn't really explain how I managed to knock down my bathroom sink and faucet.
Yes, my dear ladies and gentlemen, I am (dis)pleased to announce that my carelessness has reached monumental levels. I have already graduated from petty crashes and minor damages. I am now experienced in the destruction of plumbing fixtures, as per my demonstration early this morning.
All I know is: I was reaching for the soap. (That's my defense, your honor.) The next thing I knew, the whole sink fell off from its hook on the wall. On its way down, it hit the water valve of the other faucet and knocked the whole thing off from the wall.
So there I was, bleary-eyed from just waking up from not-enough sleep, soap in one hand, trying to process the whole scenario before me. The sink was awkwardly dangling on the wall, supported only by the silver tube thingy (the only thing that didn't come off the wall). The whole faucet handle was on the floor and there was water gushing out from the hole in the wall where it should have been. There was water everywhere! A mini-hydrant geyser right inside my freaking bathroom!
I wish I had a video of myself at that exact moment. (I bet a lot of people who dislike me would want one, too). All I could think of was: HUH?! What the heck happened?!
Now, the slow thought processing may be attributed to tiredness. It has been one looooong weekend from me. Last friday, I had some of my subjects encoded. Saturday noon, I left for Manila with my mom via Superferry. We arrived Sunday morning. We got home in Antipolo early afternoon. I left for the airport early Monday morning. Waited awhile at the PAL Centennial terminal before acquiring a ticket. Left at 3 o'clock. Arrived in Cebu an hour later but there was a downpour at Mactan so I finally got back here at the dorm at 6.30 already. All this time, I didn't have enough rest. When I woke up at 6 am this morning, I was nothing short of a zombie. So, there. I rest my case.
Eventually, I realized that I had to do something other than just stare at the mess. I carefully lifted the sink and hooked it back into the metal fittings on the wall. I picked up the valve and tried the suppress the water flow with it. No use. I went out of my room to ask for help and the good thing was, Alvin, the utility guy was sweeping the dorm corridor. I gave him the jist of the situation. He took a second to look at the indoor waterfalls and said that he'd be right back. I sat down and waited for him to get back, silently hoping that my floor won't get flooded. When Alvin came back, I thought he brought a wrench or a screwdriver or whatever the heck is used for that kind of situation. Instead, he brought a piece of cylindrical wood. It is from a tree branch that he had cut down. Hesitantly, I asked him what it was for. He said he would just plug the gushing hole temporarily until he could call someone to fix it later in the day.
Hnh.
To make a long, stupid story short, I unplugged the hole when I took a bath and when I was done, I plugged it back in. Could any other morning be weirder?
Anyway, I finished my enrollment (finally!) before noon. I went back to the dorm at around 4 pm. When I saw Alvin outside the building, I asked him if my faucet was fixed.
"Ate, hindi pa naayos kasi walang ano... yung ano..." He gestured with his hands.
Steering wheel? headband? Needless to say, I'm not good at the charade of plumbing tools.
"Sige, 'Vin. Bukas na lang." I didn't have the time to wait for the actual name of the missing tool.
"Oo, 'te, paaayos ko na lang bukas."
I can't get over it. Until tomorrow, I have a twig for a faucet.
Yes, my dear ladies and gentlemen, I am (dis)pleased to announce that my carelessness has reached monumental levels. I have already graduated from petty crashes and minor damages. I am now experienced in the destruction of plumbing fixtures, as per my demonstration early this morning.
All I know is: I was reaching for the soap. (That's my defense, your honor.) The next thing I knew, the whole sink fell off from its hook on the wall. On its way down, it hit the water valve of the other faucet and knocked the whole thing off from the wall.
So there I was, bleary-eyed from just waking up from not-enough sleep, soap in one hand, trying to process the whole scenario before me. The sink was awkwardly dangling on the wall, supported only by the silver tube thingy (the only thing that didn't come off the wall). The whole faucet handle was on the floor and there was water gushing out from the hole in the wall where it should have been. There was water everywhere! A mini-hydrant geyser right inside my freaking bathroom!
I wish I had a video of myself at that exact moment. (I bet a lot of people who dislike me would want one, too). All I could think of was: HUH?! What the heck happened?!
Now, the slow thought processing may be attributed to tiredness. It has been one looooong weekend from me. Last friday, I had some of my subjects encoded. Saturday noon, I left for Manila with my mom via Superferry. We arrived Sunday morning. We got home in Antipolo early afternoon. I left for the airport early Monday morning. Waited awhile at the PAL Centennial terminal before acquiring a ticket. Left at 3 o'clock. Arrived in Cebu an hour later but there was a downpour at Mactan so I finally got back here at the dorm at 6.30 already. All this time, I didn't have enough rest. When I woke up at 6 am this morning, I was nothing short of a zombie. So, there. I rest my case.
Eventually, I realized that I had to do something other than just stare at the mess. I carefully lifted the sink and hooked it back into the metal fittings on the wall. I picked up the valve and tried the suppress the water flow with it. No use. I went out of my room to ask for help and the good thing was, Alvin, the utility guy was sweeping the dorm corridor. I gave him the jist of the situation. He took a second to look at the indoor waterfalls and said that he'd be right back. I sat down and waited for him to get back, silently hoping that my floor won't get flooded. When Alvin came back, I thought he brought a wrench or a screwdriver or whatever the heck is used for that kind of situation. Instead, he brought a piece of cylindrical wood. It is from a tree branch that he had cut down. Hesitantly, I asked him what it was for. He said he would just plug the gushing hole temporarily until he could call someone to fix it later in the day.
Hnh.
To make a long, stupid story short, I unplugged the hole when I took a bath and when I was done, I plugged it back in. Could any other morning be weirder?
Anyway, I finished my enrollment (finally!) before noon. I went back to the dorm at around 4 pm. When I saw Alvin outside the building, I asked him if my faucet was fixed.
"Ate, hindi pa naayos kasi walang ano... yung ano..." He gestured with his hands.
Steering wheel? headband? Needless to say, I'm not good at the charade of plumbing tools.
"Sige, 'Vin. Bukas na lang." I didn't have the time to wait for the actual name of the missing tool.
"Oo, 'te, paaayos ko na lang bukas."
I can't get over it. Until tomorrow, I have a twig for a faucet.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Transition Period
The past few days, I find myself walking a lot. It's crazy, really. It's like I'm some kind of participant in a walkathon with no finish line. I've been following up my transfer credentials in my old school and I've also been processing my enrollment in my new school. (At this point, let's disregard the whole story on why I'm switching schools. It's a different story altogether. One that involves anger, denial, acceptance, and sudden surging attacks of terroristic tendencies against heartless, inconsiderate, power-tripping college administrators.)
I'm okay. *breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...* I'm fine.
Anyways.
Lahug and Labangon are not in close proximity. I should know. I've been going back and forth these places as if I'm hopscotching. The jeepney route 12L (Ayala - Labangon) has become my closest friend. I'm considering naming my firstborn Twelve El. I just don't think any of my friends would want to be godparents of a kid named after a transportation route.
The technical institute I'll be attending has a sprawling campus. Lots of walking involved. The departments are located in separate buildings. More walking involved. Its buildings have multiple floors. Even more walking involved.
When I was trying to have my subjects evaluated, I had to go around all the other departments and colleges to have my units signed. My majors subjects are in the College of Computer Studies, naturally. But the minor ones are scattered all around. So there I was, being my usual absentminded self, staring with mouth agape at the room numbers on top of the doors. Thrice, I walked past the department I was looking for. Three freaking times. Gosh, I can be imbecilic at times.
The Math department was in the third floor. The Physics department was in the fourth. Good thing I asked beforehand where both departments were. Can you imagine if I went up all the way to Physics and then went all the way down again, not knowing that I passed Math? The horror! I would've clubbed myself to unconsciousness. I felt like if I had to climb any more steps, I'd reach the stairway to heaven in no time.
It also doesn't help me that I'm such a klutz. There were a couple of times I tried to enter the wrong doors. Particularly in the EDP, I forcefully tried to open and shove the glass door a couple of times before I noticed the people inside who have been trying to get my attention and motioning to me to use the other entrance. Aargh. So embarrassing. I almost considered not going inside.
I also left ALL my papers with the guy who encoded my classes. The stupid thing was, I remembered to come back and get my ballpoint from him, but I left all the important papers I have been processing all week. Blame it on my pen fetish. The guy was nice enough to come down and look for me to hand me my papers. But I don't attribute that incident totally to my klutziness. The people at the room were watching NBA and the encoder and I had to literally yell to each other to hear ourselves amidst the boisterous cheers and loud conversations.
Now, the guy to girl ratio of the school, as I roughly estimated, is 5:1. It's a man's world. Which is understandable, as most students there are either engineering or architecture majors. My friend Sweet Honesty (yep, that's her real name) is an ECE major and she was once enrolled in a class where out of 40 students, she was the only girl. If I was one of those "so-many-boys-so-little-time" kinda person, I'd be delighted. But, I'm not.
More likely, "So many chances to make a fool of myself, so little time."
I'm okay. *breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...* I'm fine.
Anyways.
Lahug and Labangon are not in close proximity. I should know. I've been going back and forth these places as if I'm hopscotching. The jeepney route 12L (Ayala - Labangon) has become my closest friend. I'm considering naming my firstborn Twelve El. I just don't think any of my friends would want to be godparents of a kid named after a transportation route.
The technical institute I'll be attending has a sprawling campus. Lots of walking involved. The departments are located in separate buildings. More walking involved. Its buildings have multiple floors. Even more walking involved.
When I was trying to have my subjects evaluated, I had to go around all the other departments and colleges to have my units signed. My majors subjects are in the College of Computer Studies, naturally. But the minor ones are scattered all around. So there I was, being my usual absentminded self, staring with mouth agape at the room numbers on top of the doors. Thrice, I walked past the department I was looking for. Three freaking times. Gosh, I can be imbecilic at times.
The Math department was in the third floor. The Physics department was in the fourth. Good thing I asked beforehand where both departments were. Can you imagine if I went up all the way to Physics and then went all the way down again, not knowing that I passed Math? The horror! I would've clubbed myself to unconsciousness. I felt like if I had to climb any more steps, I'd reach the stairway to heaven in no time.
It also doesn't help me that I'm such a klutz. There were a couple of times I tried to enter the wrong doors. Particularly in the EDP, I forcefully tried to open and shove the glass door a couple of times before I noticed the people inside who have been trying to get my attention and motioning to me to use the other entrance. Aargh. So embarrassing. I almost considered not going inside.
I also left ALL my papers with the guy who encoded my classes. The stupid thing was, I remembered to come back and get my ballpoint from him, but I left all the important papers I have been processing all week. Blame it on my pen fetish. The guy was nice enough to come down and look for me to hand me my papers. But I don't attribute that incident totally to my klutziness. The people at the room were watching NBA and the encoder and I had to literally yell to each other to hear ourselves amidst the boisterous cheers and loud conversations.
Now, the guy to girl ratio of the school, as I roughly estimated, is 5:1. It's a man's world. Which is understandable, as most students there are either engineering or architecture majors. My friend Sweet Honesty (yep, that's her real name) is an ECE major and she was once enrolled in a class where out of 40 students, she was the only girl. If I was one of those "so-many-boys-so-little-time" kinda person, I'd be delighted. But, I'm not.
More likely, "So many chances to make a fool of myself, so little time."
Monday, June 07, 2004
My (Sister's) Bestfriend's Wedding
Meet Jansen. He and my elder sister Mae have been friends since their college sophomore year. Back then, they bugged me about their research assignments. And when the time came that they were already looking for jobs, they bugged me about their resume contents. Jansen is a staple entity in our lives. He's there when Mae's got problems. And he's also there when he's got problems. And me - I don't hear the end of either of their problems.
Anyway, Jansen's girlfriend got pregnant early this year and so they decided to have a civil wedding. Well, the pregnancy itself is ill-timed, but as a whole, Jansen's ready for marriage. He's turning 25 and he has a stable job.
Now, here's the catch. My sister's in Manila right now. I am the one who's here in Cebu. Therefore, ergo, entonsis: I am supposed to go to Jansen's wedding. I thought about begging off and offering an excuse for not being able to attend but the couple actually dropped by my place to personally invite me and through long distance calls and text messages, my sister adamantly insisted that I go. It isn't that big a deal - if you're not me, that is. The thing is, accepting the invitation means that I have to be in the company of people I don't personally know. It isn't that big a deal - if you're not me, that is.
I don't have much experience with weddings. I've only been to a few. I remember turning down an invitation to be a bride's maid when I was in high school. It was kind of not-nice of me, but there was a frilly gown involved in the whole setup. Enough said.
So anyway, saturday morning, I found myself walking towards the Capitol. My building is just across it. I could look out of one of my building's front windows, and I'd see the imposing facade of the Provincial Capitol. I walked towards the front entrance, forgetting that it was closed on saturdays. Stupid me. So, I walked all the way to the other entrance and entered the rear building. There was a security guard at the entrance.
"Sir, asa diri ang RTC branch four?" I asked him.
"RTC? MTC ni sya na building."
"RTC man ang gi-ingon sa ako."
"Unsa di-ay imo tuyo, 'day?"
"Civil wedding sa ako amigo, Sir."
"Aw, MTC gyud di-ay. Tu-a sa fourth floor and branch four. Isuwat sa imo ngan sa logbook."
I mentally made a note to smack Jansen in the head for mistakenly telling me that it was RTC and not MTC. After writing my name in the log book, I headed up the stairs to the second floor. Up the stairs towards the third floor. When I got there, no more stairs. They don't really think that I should fly towards the fourth floor, do they?
An elderly man walked by and I politely asked him how I could go up the fourth floor. He led me towards a dark passage where a narrow stairway was situated. I thanked the old guy and then hesitantly walked up the steps. I half-expected the boogeyman to come jump out from nowhere and push me off. Eeerie place, that was.
I was waiting alone outside the sala of Judge Tormis ten minutes before the appointed time of 9.30 am. I paced around the corridor and browsed through the schedules of case hearings posted outside the doors. Grave defamation of character. Slight defamation of character. Sum of Money. Unlawful detention. Attempted homicide. And I said to myself, what a wonderful world.
The other guests started to arrive twenty minutes later. The couple and their parents arrived around ten o'clock. We were all ushered in the courtroom. I sat in the backmost bench. The groom's mother came and sat on my right. And the bride's mother sat on my left. Jansen came by and introduced the two women to each other because as I just found out, it was their very, very first meeting. Do you know those slapstick comedies where the funny person gets stuck between two people and finds it hard to excuse himself/herself? Well, I was the funny person in this scene. I tried my best to extricate myself from the beso-beso and the handshakes and the pleasantries and the whole shebang. I transferred seats.
Jansen, sensing that I'd rather be in a dentist chair for a tooth extraction than be in this room full of strangers, sat beside me and chatted awhile. We were both sleepless. He, from his graveyard duty from work, and me from another bout of insomnia. But his eyes were more bloodshot than mine. He introduced me to the guy beside me. It was Jay, his housemate. I nodded at him. Introductions are never my favorite things in life.
The judge finally came at around a quarter before eleven. She called the couple and the rest of us stood nearby. The whole thing was over in ten minutes - just a fraction of the whole time I waited. What irony.
When we came out of the Capitol building, the objective was to hail a couple of taxi cabs for the guests to head towards the reception area at the Cebu Grand Convention Center. Jansen wanted me to be in the same car as himself, but his relatives insisted that he went ahead first so the others can just follow him. Before he left, he told me that I could call up another friend of ours to come to the reception so I wouldn't feel out of place. One by one, the taxis were occupied. I remembered the J.D. Salinger story, "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters" where Buddy Glass was Seymour's only guest in his wedding and he also had to share a cab with the guests he didn't know. Well, in my case, the couple's relatives crowded themselves in the first cars. Jay and I were the last ones left and we had to wait a few minutes for the next cab to come by.
Finally, we got on one. We rode in silence all the way to grandcon. When the cab pulled over, I took out my wallet and extended my fare. Jay offered to pay it all. No way. I insisted that we should split it. He took my money and said no more of it. Good boy.
Jansen welcomed us and led us to our seats in a round table for twelve. The other people in the table were their aunts and uncles and a few cousins. They just stared at us. As an effect, I took out my cellphone and held it discreetly under the table. I texted my friend Abad to hurry up and get there fast. Jay, who also probably got awkward from the staring we got, stood up and excused himself. The coward never came back. He stayed at a different table. Before the food was served, Abad thankfully came and I got a bit more relaxed. At least I had someone to talk to.
After dessert, we stayed awhile. Abad and I chatted with a five-year-old girl, the daughter of Jansen's landlord. The kid's company was ten times better than all of the other guests' combined. Grown-ups. Ugh.
When the timing was polite enough, we said our goodbyes and congratulations to the newlyweds. Jansen thanked me for coming over. He knew that the whole large-scale socializing is not my thing.
And friends really know you well.
Anyway, Jansen's girlfriend got pregnant early this year and so they decided to have a civil wedding. Well, the pregnancy itself is ill-timed, but as a whole, Jansen's ready for marriage. He's turning 25 and he has a stable job.
Now, here's the catch. My sister's in Manila right now. I am the one who's here in Cebu. Therefore, ergo, entonsis: I am supposed to go to Jansen's wedding. I thought about begging off and offering an excuse for not being able to attend but the couple actually dropped by my place to personally invite me and through long distance calls and text messages, my sister adamantly insisted that I go. It isn't that big a deal - if you're not me, that is. The thing is, accepting the invitation means that I have to be in the company of people I don't personally know. It isn't that big a deal - if you're not me, that is.
I don't have much experience with weddings. I've only been to a few. I remember turning down an invitation to be a bride's maid when I was in high school. It was kind of not-nice of me, but there was a frilly gown involved in the whole setup. Enough said.
So anyway, saturday morning, I found myself walking towards the Capitol. My building is just across it. I could look out of one of my building's front windows, and I'd see the imposing facade of the Provincial Capitol. I walked towards the front entrance, forgetting that it was closed on saturdays. Stupid me. So, I walked all the way to the other entrance and entered the rear building. There was a security guard at the entrance.
"Sir, asa diri ang RTC branch four?" I asked him.
"RTC? MTC ni sya na building."
"RTC man ang gi-ingon sa ako."
"Unsa di-ay imo tuyo, 'day?"
"Civil wedding sa ako amigo, Sir."
"Aw, MTC gyud di-ay. Tu-a sa fourth floor and branch four. Isuwat sa imo ngan sa logbook."
I mentally made a note to smack Jansen in the head for mistakenly telling me that it was RTC and not MTC. After writing my name in the log book, I headed up the stairs to the second floor. Up the stairs towards the third floor. When I got there, no more stairs. They don't really think that I should fly towards the fourth floor, do they?
An elderly man walked by and I politely asked him how I could go up the fourth floor. He led me towards a dark passage where a narrow stairway was situated. I thanked the old guy and then hesitantly walked up the steps. I half-expected the boogeyman to come jump out from nowhere and push me off. Eeerie place, that was.
I was waiting alone outside the sala of Judge Tormis ten minutes before the appointed time of 9.30 am. I paced around the corridor and browsed through the schedules of case hearings posted outside the doors. Grave defamation of character. Slight defamation of character. Sum of Money. Unlawful detention. Attempted homicide. And I said to myself, what a wonderful world.
The other guests started to arrive twenty minutes later. The couple and their parents arrived around ten o'clock. We were all ushered in the courtroom. I sat in the backmost bench. The groom's mother came and sat on my right. And the bride's mother sat on my left. Jansen came by and introduced the two women to each other because as I just found out, it was their very, very first meeting. Do you know those slapstick comedies where the funny person gets stuck between two people and finds it hard to excuse himself/herself? Well, I was the funny person in this scene. I tried my best to extricate myself from the beso-beso and the handshakes and the pleasantries and the whole shebang. I transferred seats.
Jansen, sensing that I'd rather be in a dentist chair for a tooth extraction than be in this room full of strangers, sat beside me and chatted awhile. We were both sleepless. He, from his graveyard duty from work, and me from another bout of insomnia. But his eyes were more bloodshot than mine. He introduced me to the guy beside me. It was Jay, his housemate. I nodded at him. Introductions are never my favorite things in life.
The judge finally came at around a quarter before eleven. She called the couple and the rest of us stood nearby. The whole thing was over in ten minutes - just a fraction of the whole time I waited. What irony.
When we came out of the Capitol building, the objective was to hail a couple of taxi cabs for the guests to head towards the reception area at the Cebu Grand Convention Center. Jansen wanted me to be in the same car as himself, but his relatives insisted that he went ahead first so the others can just follow him. Before he left, he told me that I could call up another friend of ours to come to the reception so I wouldn't feel out of place. One by one, the taxis were occupied. I remembered the J.D. Salinger story, "Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters" where Buddy Glass was Seymour's only guest in his wedding and he also had to share a cab with the guests he didn't know. Well, in my case, the couple's relatives crowded themselves in the first cars. Jay and I were the last ones left and we had to wait a few minutes for the next cab to come by.
Finally, we got on one. We rode in silence all the way to grandcon. When the cab pulled over, I took out my wallet and extended my fare. Jay offered to pay it all. No way. I insisted that we should split it. He took my money and said no more of it. Good boy.
Jansen welcomed us and led us to our seats in a round table for twelve. The other people in the table were their aunts and uncles and a few cousins. They just stared at us. As an effect, I took out my cellphone and held it discreetly under the table. I texted my friend Abad to hurry up and get there fast. Jay, who also probably got awkward from the staring we got, stood up and excused himself. The coward never came back. He stayed at a different table. Before the food was served, Abad thankfully came and I got a bit more relaxed. At least I had someone to talk to.
After dessert, we stayed awhile. Abad and I chatted with a five-year-old girl, the daughter of Jansen's landlord. The kid's company was ten times better than all of the other guests' combined. Grown-ups. Ugh.
When the timing was polite enough, we said our goodbyes and congratulations to the newlyweds. Jansen thanked me for coming over. He knew that the whole large-scale socializing is not my thing.
And friends really know you well.
Friday, June 04, 2004
Thinking Not Allowed
I was fifteen - or sixteen - when a doctor told me that I "think too much". He was an opthalmologist and I came by his clinic to have my eyes checked because I had an episode of red-static vision not long before.
I was on my way home from school when my sight went blurry and everything appeared to be speckled like a bad TV reception laced with frequent static images. Only, instead of black and white, they were red and white. Pretty freaky actually. That's why I went to the doctor for some answers.
Clearly, the problem was with my eyes - or so I assumed. The examination showed that my vision was all right. The specialist then told me that the problem was in my thinking too much. He told me that there are times when the brain gets overloaded, it manifests its stress through the vision.
Hnh.
My prescription was to let go of my worries and just relax my thoughts every once in a while. I was then referred to a neurologist. And that really freaked me out more that the static vision did. Because - well, it's my brain we're talking about here. It's the seat of my existence. And just the thought that there MIGHT be something wrong about it disconcerted the hell out of me.
it felt a little bit like there was an implication that I'm crazy. Although, apparently, if the opthalmologist thought that way, he would've referred me to a shrink. For all I know, he wanted to, but was just being diplomatic. I'm not sure. I'm really not.
What I know is this. You don't tell a fifteen year old that she thinks too much. Just be glad at that age, she's really thinking at all. Although, the doctor had a point. Worrying is a bad habit to break.
God, I wish I could turn off the flow of my thoughts like a faucet. All right, time for bed, I have to stop thinking now. Off. Zzzz. It doesn't work that way. This is the reason why I lay awake most nights, seriously considering suing the Sandman of negligence and malpractice.
I was on my way home from school when my sight went blurry and everything appeared to be speckled like a bad TV reception laced with frequent static images. Only, instead of black and white, they were red and white. Pretty freaky actually. That's why I went to the doctor for some answers.
Clearly, the problem was with my eyes - or so I assumed. The examination showed that my vision was all right. The specialist then told me that the problem was in my thinking too much. He told me that there are times when the brain gets overloaded, it manifests its stress through the vision.
Hnh.
My prescription was to let go of my worries and just relax my thoughts every once in a while. I was then referred to a neurologist. And that really freaked me out more that the static vision did. Because - well, it's my brain we're talking about here. It's the seat of my existence. And just the thought that there MIGHT be something wrong about it disconcerted the hell out of me.
it felt a little bit like there was an implication that I'm crazy. Although, apparently, if the opthalmologist thought that way, he would've referred me to a shrink. For all I know, he wanted to, but was just being diplomatic. I'm not sure. I'm really not.
What I know is this. You don't tell a fifteen year old that she thinks too much. Just be glad at that age, she's really thinking at all. Although, the doctor had a point. Worrying is a bad habit to break.
God, I wish I could turn off the flow of my thoughts like a faucet. All right, time for bed, I have to stop thinking now. Off. Zzzz. It doesn't work that way. This is the reason why I lay awake most nights, seriously considering suing the Sandman of negligence and malpractice.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Fearless. [thinking aloud]
I love dusks. And rain.
It rained hard at dusk today. And there were sporadic thunderclaps. Just like in The Sound of Music when they were singing My Favorite Things. I'm not scared of thunders. I have a friend who is, though. She jumps in fright every time there's thunder. We tease her about it sometimes. But I realize that we shouldn't. There are just things that one is entitled to be fearful of. Fear is a funny thing. It betrays you. It makes you vulnerable and exposes to the world all the things that you value and hold dear. Maybe it's your life. Maybe it's your pride. Maybe it's your wealth. Maybe it's your loved ones. Each one of our fears reflects our inner selves. It's probably better if we keep our fears to ourselves. So that the whole world wouldn't take advantage of us and of the things that paralyzes us or makes us weak.
The world is a funny place. It's chock full of clueless people. Six billion pathetic lives. Six billion dreams. Six billion fears. Six billion prayers. I hope God has voice mail. And a damn good database system. I don't blame Him if He overlooks my prayers. I bet my priority number is 5,999,999,999. And that's cool with me. Because I fear nothing. Nothing I'd admit to, anyway. Besides, everyone knows that the Lord is our shepherd; we shall not fear.
I'm sure God will get right to me soon. How do I know? Because He made it rain at dusk today.
And I love dusks and rain.
It rained hard at dusk today. And there were sporadic thunderclaps. Just like in The Sound of Music when they were singing My Favorite Things. I'm not scared of thunders. I have a friend who is, though. She jumps in fright every time there's thunder. We tease her about it sometimes. But I realize that we shouldn't. There are just things that one is entitled to be fearful of. Fear is a funny thing. It betrays you. It makes you vulnerable and exposes to the world all the things that you value and hold dear. Maybe it's your life. Maybe it's your pride. Maybe it's your wealth. Maybe it's your loved ones. Each one of our fears reflects our inner selves. It's probably better if we keep our fears to ourselves. So that the whole world wouldn't take advantage of us and of the things that paralyzes us or makes us weak.
The world is a funny place. It's chock full of clueless people. Six billion pathetic lives. Six billion dreams. Six billion fears. Six billion prayers. I hope God has voice mail. And a damn good database system. I don't blame Him if He overlooks my prayers. I bet my priority number is 5,999,999,999. And that's cool with me. Because I fear nothing. Nothing I'd admit to, anyway. Besides, everyone knows that the Lord is our shepherd; we shall not fear.
I'm sure God will get right to me soon. How do I know? Because He made it rain at dusk today.
And I love dusks and rain.
Sunday, May 30, 2004
WeeBee
I woke up at three in the afternoon.
I was nursing a slight headache. I wouldn't categorize it as exactly a hangover, but it's the closest thing I could get to one. After all, I only had one bottle of beer. Which is all I can take because I'm allergic to alcohol.
It was my first day back in Cebu, my favorite city. I love this place. Our family has lived a somewhat nomadic lifestyle because we moved around quite a bit. In fact, right now, we're "geographically distributed". I'm here in Western Visayas, my dad's in Central Luzon, My mom's in Northern Mindanao, my sister's in the National Capital Region and my brother's in Misamis Oriental (I forgot the regional name of this one ;).
Of all the places I've stayed in, Cebu is special to me. Because it's well-developed, but it's not as crazy as Manila. It's not as crowded and it's not as polluted. Everything is so accessible - the pier, the airport, the mall, the schools, and even the resorts. There are tiny little details about the place that makes it unique. But I guess its people also contribute to this because generally Cebuanos are cool.
My friends, for example, are great people. They may be a little crazy sometimes, but I think that adds to their charms. Yesterday, for example, the reason we went out is because Abad (we all call her by her family name) had a sudden urge to sing "Eye of the Tiger" in karaoke.
After they sang to their hearts' content, we went to Dunkin' Donuts and talked about a lot of things over coffee and hot chocolate until sunrise. And these people can talk about anything. And I mean, anything. Books, movies, television, celebrities, careers - anything. I remember that the conversation even veered towards sexually transmitted diseases. How it got to that I couldn't quite exactly recall.
It was half past five in the morning when we all decided to go home. They all walked me to my building which was just a few blocks away. It was nice - strolling along Osmeña Boulevard, laughing together about shallow things, while the sun makes it slow appearance.
I didn't get to sleep right away when I got home. My allergy was starting to act up and my itchy skin was somewhat uncomfortable. But I've had worse attacks than that one. I watched some TV before dozing off.
I was nursing a slight headache. I wouldn't categorize it as exactly a hangover, but it's the closest thing I could get to one. After all, I only had one bottle of beer. Which is all I can take because I'm allergic to alcohol.
It was my first day back in Cebu, my favorite city. I love this place. Our family has lived a somewhat nomadic lifestyle because we moved around quite a bit. In fact, right now, we're "geographically distributed". I'm here in Western Visayas, my dad's in Central Luzon, My mom's in Northern Mindanao, my sister's in the National Capital Region and my brother's in Misamis Oriental (I forgot the regional name of this one ;).
Of all the places I've stayed in, Cebu is special to me. Because it's well-developed, but it's not as crazy as Manila. It's not as crowded and it's not as polluted. Everything is so accessible - the pier, the airport, the mall, the schools, and even the resorts. There are tiny little details about the place that makes it unique. But I guess its people also contribute to this because generally Cebuanos are cool.
My friends, for example, are great people. They may be a little crazy sometimes, but I think that adds to their charms. Yesterday, for example, the reason we went out is because Abad (we all call her by her family name) had a sudden urge to sing "Eye of the Tiger" in karaoke.
After they sang to their hearts' content, we went to Dunkin' Donuts and talked about a lot of things over coffee and hot chocolate until sunrise. And these people can talk about anything. And I mean, anything. Books, movies, television, celebrities, careers - anything. I remember that the conversation even veered towards sexually transmitted diseases. How it got to that I couldn't quite exactly recall.
It was half past five in the morning when we all decided to go home. They all walked me to my building which was just a few blocks away. It was nice - strolling along Osmeña Boulevard, laughing together about shallow things, while the sun makes it slow appearance.
I didn't get to sleep right away when I got home. My allergy was starting to act up and my itchy skin was somewhat uncomfortable. But I've had worse attacks than that one. I watched some TV before dozing off.
Friday, May 28, 2004
"She packed my bags last night..."
Bakit puro black ang gamit mo?! Yung bag mo, yung sapatos mo, yung jacket mo, yung isa mo pang bag, pantalon mo, pati t-shirt mo! Bakit itim lahat yan?!
Nanay ko. Bahagyang nanggagalaiti. Pinupuna color perception/fashion sense ko.
Linawin ko lang sandali. Dark blue ang t-shirt ko, hindi itim. Ang pantalon ko, kahit itim nang una kong binili, ay kupas na ngayon. Kaya grayish na sya.
Balikan natin ang nanay ko. Ganito talaga tuwing nagiimpake ako.
Ano ba yang t-shirt na yan? Dadalhin mo pa ba yan? Eh yung binili ko sayo na skirt and blouse, di mo dadalhin? Hindi mo siguro ginagamit ang mga yun doon, ano? Magsuot ka naman ng mga may kulay paminsan-minsan.
Dark blue ang favorite color ko. Pero marami akong gamit na kulay itim. Maliban sa in-enumerate ng nanay ko, itim rin lahat ng pens ko, mga diskettes ko, mga pantali ko sa buhok, sinturon ko, at kung ano-ano pa.
Gusto ko ang black kasi hindi agaw-pansin. Tsaka di sya nagiging corny o baduy. Natatandaan nyo pa ba nung na-uso ang neon colors? Nakakapangilabot. Buti na lang kanyo at hindi neon ang naging paborito ko. Kung nagkataon, edi mukha akong walking highligter ngayon.
Aalis na nga pala ako mamaya. Goodbye to the comfort of one's own home. Hello again to overrated independent living. Yung mga di pa mulat sa hubad na katotohanan, iniisip siguro nila na napaka-cool to live on your own without parents to breathe down your back. To a certain extent, totoo yun. Ikaw ang boss. Master of your fate, captain of your soul. Masaya kasi diskarte mo lahat. Nasa sayo kung saan ka pupunta, kung kailan ka uuwi, at kung sino kasama mo. Depende na lang sayo yun at sa upbringing and convictions mo (naks!).
Pero, ikaw rin bahala sa lahat. Budget ng pera, hanap ka kung saan ka kakain, mag-aayos ng damit mo, maglilinis ng kwarto, tapos syempre mag-aaral ka pa. Pero ang pinakamahirap kapag nagkakasakit ka. Walang mag-aalaga sayo. Kawawa kang bata ka.
Try mong trangkasuhin ng linggo. Kahit groggy, bili ka gamot sa botika. Absent ka sa lunes. Pero pasok ka sa martes na parang zombie. Try mo. Ang saya. Promise.
Anyway, sign off na ako. Kelangan ko pang i-double check things ko. Sigurado namang may kakalimutan ako, susubukan ko lang to put those at a minimum. Sana di toothbrush maiwan ko.
Nanay ko. Bahagyang nanggagalaiti. Pinupuna color perception/fashion sense ko.
Linawin ko lang sandali. Dark blue ang t-shirt ko, hindi itim. Ang pantalon ko, kahit itim nang una kong binili, ay kupas na ngayon. Kaya grayish na sya.
Balikan natin ang nanay ko. Ganito talaga tuwing nagiimpake ako.
Ano ba yang t-shirt na yan? Dadalhin mo pa ba yan? Eh yung binili ko sayo na skirt and blouse, di mo dadalhin? Hindi mo siguro ginagamit ang mga yun doon, ano? Magsuot ka naman ng mga may kulay paminsan-minsan.
Dark blue ang favorite color ko. Pero marami akong gamit na kulay itim. Maliban sa in-enumerate ng nanay ko, itim rin lahat ng pens ko, mga diskettes ko, mga pantali ko sa buhok, sinturon ko, at kung ano-ano pa.
Gusto ko ang black kasi hindi agaw-pansin. Tsaka di sya nagiging corny o baduy. Natatandaan nyo pa ba nung na-uso ang neon colors? Nakakapangilabot. Buti na lang kanyo at hindi neon ang naging paborito ko. Kung nagkataon, edi mukha akong walking highligter ngayon.
Aalis na nga pala ako mamaya. Goodbye to the comfort of one's own home. Hello again to overrated independent living. Yung mga di pa mulat sa hubad na katotohanan, iniisip siguro nila na napaka-cool to live on your own without parents to breathe down your back. To a certain extent, totoo yun. Ikaw ang boss. Master of your fate, captain of your soul. Masaya kasi diskarte mo lahat. Nasa sayo kung saan ka pupunta, kung kailan ka uuwi, at kung sino kasama mo. Depende na lang sayo yun at sa upbringing and convictions mo (naks!).
Pero, ikaw rin bahala sa lahat. Budget ng pera, hanap ka kung saan ka kakain, mag-aayos ng damit mo, maglilinis ng kwarto, tapos syempre mag-aaral ka pa. Pero ang pinakamahirap kapag nagkakasakit ka. Walang mag-aalaga sayo. Kawawa kang bata ka.
Try mong trangkasuhin ng linggo. Kahit groggy, bili ka gamot sa botika. Absent ka sa lunes. Pero pasok ka sa martes na parang zombie. Try mo. Ang saya. Promise.
Anyway, sign off na ako. Kelangan ko pang i-double check things ko. Sigurado namang may kakalimutan ako, susubukan ko lang to put those at a minimum. Sana di toothbrush maiwan ko.
Thursday, May 27, 2004
The Chicken Curry Incident
If Guns n' Roses had an album named The Spaghetti Incident -- this, my friends, is an entry about the Chicken Curry Incident.
It all started with a good intention.
I'm leaving tomorrow and I thought I'd give my mom a break and be the one to cook lunch. I usually just help with the dishes and steer clear from anything that involves open flame and sharp objects. I followed her instructions, but insisted that I needed no supervision. (Yaahh-bang!)
Okay, kids, don't try this at home. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
What you need for this recipe: (Sorry I don't do measurements. Measuring are for wimps and not for lazy people like me. Hehe.)
1) chicken (duh.)
2) curry powder (double duh.)
3) garlic
4) onions
5) bell pepper
6) potatoes
7) carrots
8) salt
9) pepper
10) milk (coconut milk, preferably)
11) cooking oil
... and!
12) reliable attention span. (You'll NEED this. Trust me on this one.)
Here's what you need to do:
Fry the chicken in oil. Not extra-crispy frying. Just let it brown a little. Set that aside. And then, fry the potatoes and the carrots. Set those aside with the chicken, too. Now, saute the garlic and onions. Dump in the chicken and vegetables. Sprinkle it with the curry powder, salt, and pepper. Put in the bell peppers. Mix it all well. Put in a little water and then the milk. Cover the pan and let the whole thing simmer in low heat.
Easy, huh?
I did all those with veeery little trouble. Sure, there was the occasional altercations with the splash of hot oil while frying or the sporadic dropping of utensils. But other than that, I did fine. In fact, I thought I did a helluva job.
I was so damn cool about the whole cooking thing that I turned on my computer and started surfing a bit. I dropped by my favorite sites, most of which are fellow bloggers'. One of the blogs featured the Goo Goo Dolls' song, "Here is Gone". And I remembered how I really liked the song. I had a hard disk drive crash a few months ago and lost all my old MP3's, including the Goo Goo Dolls' songs. So I downloaded "Here is Gone", and the other old ones like "Name", "Slide", "Iris", and the Rzeznik solo, "I'm Still Here".
After that, I logged on to my instant messaging services. I lurked to find out on who's online and checked my emails. Grrr. I hate spam. I hate chain mails. I hate emails with subjects that contain the words: "enlarge", "live video", and "XXX".
Delete All. Confirm? Hell, yes!
So there I was, idling in front of my computer for almost an hour when all of a sudden, something hit me. No, an anvil didn't fall on my head. I mean, a surge of alarm shot through me and I immediately sat straight up. I know it's so prosaic, but it's like there were warning bells inside my head but I had no idea what they were for.
Looking back, I must've looked stupid while I stared blankly ahead and tried to remember what I missed. Processing... processing... processing... processing...
Oh. My. God.
The pan was still on the stove!
I could've given The Flash a run for his money the way I ran. When I got to the stove, there was no flame, but the knob was still turned on. When I opened the pan's cover, the sauce was entirely evaporated, but thank goodness, nothing was charred. I guess the low flame was put out by some lucky wind, just in time.
Whew.
An hour. I actually left the whole thing for an hour. (Why am I sensing that motherhood is not something meant for me?)
I told you. You need to have a reliable attention span. Well, better than mine, needless to say. Anyway, the end product was drier than the desired texture. But, hey, I'd rather choose that over charcoal. What started with a good intention almost ended up being burnt beyond recognition.
I'm Lia, Queen of the Klutz, and I survived cooking lunch.
It all started with a good intention.
I'm leaving tomorrow and I thought I'd give my mom a break and be the one to cook lunch. I usually just help with the dishes and steer clear from anything that involves open flame and sharp objects. I followed her instructions, but insisted that I needed no supervision. (Yaahh-bang!)
Okay, kids, don't try this at home. Or anywhere else, for that matter.
What you need for this recipe: (Sorry I don't do measurements. Measuring are for wimps and not for lazy people like me. Hehe.)
1) chicken (duh.)
2) curry powder (double duh.)
3) garlic
4) onions
5) bell pepper
6) potatoes
7) carrots
8) salt
9) pepper
10) milk (coconut milk, preferably)
11) cooking oil
... and!
12) reliable attention span. (You'll NEED this. Trust me on this one.)
Here's what you need to do:
Fry the chicken in oil. Not extra-crispy frying. Just let it brown a little. Set that aside. And then, fry the potatoes and the carrots. Set those aside with the chicken, too. Now, saute the garlic and onions. Dump in the chicken and vegetables. Sprinkle it with the curry powder, salt, and pepper. Put in the bell peppers. Mix it all well. Put in a little water and then the milk. Cover the pan and let the whole thing simmer in low heat.
Easy, huh?
I did all those with veeery little trouble. Sure, there was the occasional altercations with the splash of hot oil while frying or the sporadic dropping of utensils. But other than that, I did fine. In fact, I thought I did a helluva job.
I was so damn cool about the whole cooking thing that I turned on my computer and started surfing a bit. I dropped by my favorite sites, most of which are fellow bloggers'. One of the blogs featured the Goo Goo Dolls' song, "Here is Gone". And I remembered how I really liked the song. I had a hard disk drive crash a few months ago and lost all my old MP3's, including the Goo Goo Dolls' songs. So I downloaded "Here is Gone", and the other old ones like "Name", "Slide", "Iris", and the Rzeznik solo, "I'm Still Here".
After that, I logged on to my instant messaging services. I lurked to find out on who's online and checked my emails. Grrr. I hate spam. I hate chain mails. I hate emails with subjects that contain the words: "enlarge", "live video", and "XXX".
Delete All. Confirm? Hell, yes!
So there I was, idling in front of my computer for almost an hour when all of a sudden, something hit me. No, an anvil didn't fall on my head. I mean, a surge of alarm shot through me and I immediately sat straight up. I know it's so prosaic, but it's like there were warning bells inside my head but I had no idea what they were for.
Looking back, I must've looked stupid while I stared blankly ahead and tried to remember what I missed. Processing... processing... processing... processing...
Oh. My. God.
The pan was still on the stove!
I could've given The Flash a run for his money the way I ran. When I got to the stove, there was no flame, but the knob was still turned on. When I opened the pan's cover, the sauce was entirely evaporated, but thank goodness, nothing was charred. I guess the low flame was put out by some lucky wind, just in time.
Whew.
An hour. I actually left the whole thing for an hour. (Why am I sensing that motherhood is not something meant for me?)
I told you. You need to have a reliable attention span. Well, better than mine, needless to say. Anyway, the end product was drier than the desired texture. But, hey, I'd rather choose that over charcoal. What started with a good intention almost ended up being burnt beyond recognition.
I'm Lia, Queen of the Klutz, and I survived cooking lunch.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Snooze button not applicable here
Nagising ako kaninang umaga sa pagkalakas-lakas na pagkanta ng "You Light Up My Life". Pwera biro. Version ng nag-eensayong Christian choir member sa katabing building ng inuupahan naming apartment. Sobrang lakas ng mikropono niya. Alas diyes na ng umaga kaya hindi mo namang masasabi na nambubulabog sya ng tulog. Alangan namang isigaw ko pa na, "Hoy! Alas kuwatro y media na ako natulog! Inaantok pa ako!" Mahaba-habang paliwanag naman iyon na mahirap nang isigaw pa lahat.
Isa pa, nang nagkalaon, napansin ko namang magaling ang pagkakanta niya. Maganda ang boses at kuhang-kuha ang tono.
Nanay ko naman, himbing na himbing ang tulog habang todo bigay sa pagbirit yung babae. Kasi kung ako, 4.30 na nang natulog, siya naman, alas sais na. (Wala po kaming lahing aswang, FYI lang.) So ang naging alarm clock ko kanina ay ang makabagbag-damdaming lyrics ng 70's na kantang ito.
You light up my life
You give me hope
To carry on
You light up my days
and fill my nights with song
Ewan ko lang kung tungkol pa rin kay Kristo ang awitin nya. Pwede naman kasing i-interpret ang "You Light Up My Life" as either romantic love or love for God. Tulad ng kanta ni Gary V na "Gaya ng Dati" (Maliban na lang dun sa linya ng "Panginoon, ako’y nabulag ng mandarayang mundo, ako ay patawarin Mo..." na malinaw naman ang ibig sabihin). May kanta rin ang Jars of Clay na ang chorus ay "I want to fall in love with you..." Kung yun lang ang pakikinggan mo, di mo talaga aakalain na para kay Jesus pala ang kantang yun. Pero kung alam mo yung title, halata na. ("Love Song for a Savior".)
Astig ang performance ni kapitbahay. Pang Star in a Million. Kahit si Fritz Ynfante walang masasabi. Kaya nga lang, malakas. Nagising ako. At dahil dun, hindi ko siya hihikayatin mag-audition. Bumangon na lang ako at inumpisahan na ang hundred little chores na kailangan sa household maintenance. (kung sa Starcraft pa, ako yung lowly SCV, "reporting for duty, Sir!")
Maiba ako ng kwento (kaya nga digressions, eh). Habang nanananghalian kami kanina, sabi ng nanay ko, may sasabihin daw sya sa akin. Akala ko kung ano na. Yun pala, nung madaling araw at mag-isa na lang daw syang gising at nagpapaantok, may humila-hila daw sa dalawa nyang daliri sa paa - yung katabi ng thumb at index digits.
Natawa ako. Sabi ko baka nananaginip lang sya. Pero hindi daw talaga at gising na gising pa ang kanyang diwa. Baka 'ka ko, imagination nya lang yun dahil sa pagkakulang ng tulog. Pero sigurado daw talaga sya. Ang paniwala nya, baka daw nagparamdam ang lola ko dahil sa lunes na ang death anniversary nito.
Tumahimik na lang ako. Magtakutan ba kami sa hapag kainan?! Parang di yata angkop yun. Besides, maghuhugas pa ako ng plato. At hulaan nyo kung ano ang last song syndrome ko na naging soundtrack ng dishwasher scene ko ngayong araw? Galing. "You Light Up My Life" nga. Very bright students. Class dismissed.
Isa pa, nang nagkalaon, napansin ko namang magaling ang pagkakanta niya. Maganda ang boses at kuhang-kuha ang tono.
Nanay ko naman, himbing na himbing ang tulog habang todo bigay sa pagbirit yung babae. Kasi kung ako, 4.30 na nang natulog, siya naman, alas sais na. (Wala po kaming lahing aswang, FYI lang.) So ang naging alarm clock ko kanina ay ang makabagbag-damdaming lyrics ng 70's na kantang ito.
You light up my life
You give me hope
To carry on
You light up my days
and fill my nights with song
Ewan ko lang kung tungkol pa rin kay Kristo ang awitin nya. Pwede naman kasing i-interpret ang "You Light Up My Life" as either romantic love or love for God. Tulad ng kanta ni Gary V na "Gaya ng Dati" (Maliban na lang dun sa linya ng "Panginoon, ako’y nabulag ng mandarayang mundo, ako ay patawarin Mo..." na malinaw naman ang ibig sabihin). May kanta rin ang Jars of Clay na ang chorus ay "I want to fall in love with you..." Kung yun lang ang pakikinggan mo, di mo talaga aakalain na para kay Jesus pala ang kantang yun. Pero kung alam mo yung title, halata na. ("Love Song for a Savior".)
Astig ang performance ni kapitbahay. Pang Star in a Million. Kahit si Fritz Ynfante walang masasabi. Kaya nga lang, malakas. Nagising ako. At dahil dun, hindi ko siya hihikayatin mag-audition. Bumangon na lang ako at inumpisahan na ang hundred little chores na kailangan sa household maintenance. (kung sa Starcraft pa, ako yung lowly SCV, "reporting for duty, Sir!")
Maiba ako ng kwento (kaya nga digressions, eh). Habang nanananghalian kami kanina, sabi ng nanay ko, may sasabihin daw sya sa akin. Akala ko kung ano na. Yun pala, nung madaling araw at mag-isa na lang daw syang gising at nagpapaantok, may humila-hila daw sa dalawa nyang daliri sa paa - yung katabi ng thumb at index digits.
Natawa ako. Sabi ko baka nananaginip lang sya. Pero hindi daw talaga at gising na gising pa ang kanyang diwa. Baka 'ka ko, imagination nya lang yun dahil sa pagkakulang ng tulog. Pero sigurado daw talaga sya. Ang paniwala nya, baka daw nagparamdam ang lola ko dahil sa lunes na ang death anniversary nito.
Tumahimik na lang ako. Magtakutan ba kami sa hapag kainan?! Parang di yata angkop yun. Besides, maghuhugas pa ako ng plato. At hulaan nyo kung ano ang last song syndrome ko na naging soundtrack ng dishwasher scene ko ngayong araw? Galing. "You Light Up My Life" nga. Very bright students. Class dismissed.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
People Repellant
The few times I venture out into the world where I am required to actually interact with people, it takes me a second or two before I convince myself that I don't have a sign on my forehead that says, "Keep Away."
I was queuing at the ATM machine the other day. A middle-aged woman fell in line after me. She kinda reminded me of my Aralin Panlipunan teacher back in my sophomore year of high school. There was nothing noteworthy about her except for the way she looked at me. The moment she arrived, from my peripheral vision, I could see her closely observing me (in my opinion, somewhat disapprovingly, too) from head to toe with knotted eyebrows. I glanced down at my clothes and discreetly checked whether I had anything on my hair or face. I'm not a punk, ok? Granted, I'm not angelic either (not by a long mile) but I thought I looked decent enough to suppress any form of suspicion.
While the queue progressed, the lady after me, Mrs. Oracion (I decided to name her after my high school teacher for the time being), slowly inched her way to stand closer to me. I was tempted to say, "You're encroaching into my interpersonal space, Ma'am. The average ideal distance is around 18 inches, but in my case, it's waaay farther than that." But of course, I didn't say that. I contented myself with leaning forward against the railing. When I was already the next one to use the machine, Mrs. Oracion hesistantly tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I could help her out with her ATM transaction because she left her eyeglasses and couldn't see quite well without them. I nodded and weakly smiled at her (These obligatory smiles of mine is a whole different story altogether.)
Anyway, I then figured out that the weird looks and invasive proximity were just all about asking me for help. Why couldn't she have said that right away? She could've spare me from the paranoid thoughts in my crazy head. So while queue_item_1 to queue_item_n-1 sequentially dequeued, she was sizing me up whether or not I was amiable enough to ask assistance from. When queue_item_n-1 exited from the booth, I politely told Mrs. Oracion, "Ma'am, mauna na po kayo sa akin. Pagkatapos ko kayo tulungan saka na lang ako susunod." (I forgot to translate myself in Visayan at the time, but instead addressed her in my default Tagalog tongue). She gave me her PIN, and at her instructions, I transacted a balance inquiry and a P3000 withdrawal for her. She profusely thanked me afterwards.
This incident is the reason why I was thinking about whether I have some unknown repelling pheromone. This is not an isolated incident, mind you. It happens to me all the time. My friendster testimonials say a lot about how I come off as a stuck-up, snobbish jerk to most people who meet me for the first time. And for good reason, too, I must admit.
True, I don't like to be around a lot of people. I'm not shy, though. I'm just easily annoyed. By the noise. By the inanities. I don't have the patience. I'm not one of those sunshiny people who greets everyone with a beaming smile. I'm not that way. I don't mind being alone. In fact, sometimes I prefer to be alone. But if one gets to know me long enough to let the ice melt and the wall to break down, I'm actually pretty nice. Ask Mrs. Oracion. The ATM lady, not my high school teacher. Aralin Panlipunan was never one of the strongest subject.
(Pardon the occasional geek jargon. But I think it's pretty understandable by context.)
I was queuing at the ATM machine the other day. A middle-aged woman fell in line after me. She kinda reminded me of my Aralin Panlipunan teacher back in my sophomore year of high school. There was nothing noteworthy about her except for the way she looked at me. The moment she arrived, from my peripheral vision, I could see her closely observing me (in my opinion, somewhat disapprovingly, too) from head to toe with knotted eyebrows. I glanced down at my clothes and discreetly checked whether I had anything on my hair or face. I'm not a punk, ok? Granted, I'm not angelic either (not by a long mile) but I thought I looked decent enough to suppress any form of suspicion.
While the queue progressed, the lady after me, Mrs. Oracion (I decided to name her after my high school teacher for the time being), slowly inched her way to stand closer to me. I was tempted to say, "You're encroaching into my interpersonal space, Ma'am. The average ideal distance is around 18 inches, but in my case, it's waaay farther than that." But of course, I didn't say that. I contented myself with leaning forward against the railing. When I was already the next one to use the machine, Mrs. Oracion hesistantly tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I could help her out with her ATM transaction because she left her eyeglasses and couldn't see quite well without them. I nodded and weakly smiled at her (These obligatory smiles of mine is a whole different story altogether.)
Anyway, I then figured out that the weird looks and invasive proximity were just all about asking me for help. Why couldn't she have said that right away? She could've spare me from the paranoid thoughts in my crazy head. So while queue_item_1 to queue_item_n-1 sequentially dequeued, she was sizing me up whether or not I was amiable enough to ask assistance from. When queue_item_n-1 exited from the booth, I politely told Mrs. Oracion, "Ma'am, mauna na po kayo sa akin. Pagkatapos ko kayo tulungan saka na lang ako susunod." (I forgot to translate myself in Visayan at the time, but instead addressed her in my default Tagalog tongue). She gave me her PIN, and at her instructions, I transacted a balance inquiry and a P3000 withdrawal for her. She profusely thanked me afterwards.
This incident is the reason why I was thinking about whether I have some unknown repelling pheromone. This is not an isolated incident, mind you. It happens to me all the time. My friendster testimonials say a lot about how I come off as a stuck-up, snobbish jerk to most people who meet me for the first time. And for good reason, too, I must admit.
True, I don't like to be around a lot of people. I'm not shy, though. I'm just easily annoyed. By the noise. By the inanities. I don't have the patience. I'm not one of those sunshiny people who greets everyone with a beaming smile. I'm not that way. I don't mind being alone. In fact, sometimes I prefer to be alone. But if one gets to know me long enough to let the ice melt and the wall to break down, I'm actually pretty nice. Ask Mrs. Oracion. The ATM lady, not my high school teacher. Aralin Panlipunan was never one of the strongest subject.
(Pardon the occasional geek jargon. But I think it's pretty understandable by context.)
Monday, May 17, 2004
I was floored.
Minsan, iniisip ko kung bakit may mga habits ako na masasabing weird ng ibang tao. Pero kapag natatandaan ko ang mga quirks ng nanay ko tulad nang inutusan niya ako na magscrub ng sahig ng alas onse y media kagabi, hindi na ako nagtataka. Gising pa nga naman kami dalawa at medyo maputik ang sahig kasi maulan buong araw. Natural nga naman na linisin ito. Maghahatinggabi nga lang. Tutal, wala naman daw akong ginagawang produktibo. (In my own defense, may ginagawa naman ako ng oras na yun. Nagda-download ako ng mga kanta at lyrics ng Three Doors Down at Jars of Clay - na ngayon ko lang nadiskubre na marami palang magagandang kanta maliban sa alam ko na.)
Anyway, sa madaling salita, sa kalaliman ng gabi, I was down on all fours, scrubbing the floor. Scouring pad ang sandata ko. Zonrox, sabon, at tubig ang bala ko. Natuyong putik na nanuot sa pagitan ng tiles ang kalaban ko. (Hindi talaga binitiwan ang analogy, eh, noh?! Hehe.)
Di naman kasindak-sindak na naglilinis ako ng sahig. Sa katunayan, kaming magkakapatid ay hindi estranghero sa gawaing-bahay. May mga panahon naman na may kasama kami sa bahay para tumulong sa trabaho, pero kadalasan kami-kami lang talaga ang gumagalaw. Kaya nung nag-college na ako at may nakakasama ng roommates sa boarding house, napupuna ko talaga kung sino ang mga marunong magtrabaho at sino yung mga señorita sa bahay nila.
Ngayong bakasyon na ako lang ang bum sa bahay at nagtratrabaho na ang mga kapatid ko, wala akong kahati sa mga utos. Alam ng mga kaibigan ko yan. (Online ko lang sila nakakasalimuha ngayong summer dahil wala ngang pasok). Tuwing bumabalik ako galing sa isang BRB na message, natatanungan agad ako ng: "Are you done watering the plants already?" O di naman kaya pag sinasabi ko na kailangan ko munang mag-log-out, sinasabihan ako ng: "Tama, maghahapunan na nga pala, maghain ka na tapos maghuhugas ka pa ng pinggan."
Natatawa na lang ako minsan. Kaya nga habang ikinukuskos ko ang sahig ng sabon, iniisip ko kung ilan kaya sa mga kakilala ko ang di kinakailangang mag-manual labor. Just out of curiosity lang naman. Pero hindi mga elitista ang mga pinakamalapit kong kaibigan, eh. Palibhasa'y pare-parehas lang kami lahat na anak ng mga middle-class na pamilya na tamang-tama lang ang pamumuhay. Nakakakain, nakakapagpaaral hanggang kolehiyo. Nagigipit kung minsan, pero nakakaraos din, sa awa ng Diyos. Walang mga assets na ipapamana kundi yung edukasyon lang na pinagtustos sa amin. Yun na yun. (walang magiging drama tungkol sa last will and testament, di gaya ng old-school teleserye plot lines sa telebisyon) Minsan, sa sobrang kasanay ko na ang kasama ay mga tao sa pareho kong socio-economic level, nakakalimutan kong di lahat ng tao, kagaya ko. May naging kaklase ako na babaeng sosyal. Kung manamit sya araw-araw, parang laging may pictorial sa isang telenovela (description po nung isa kong kakilala, hindi akin). Napansin ko na mahahaba fingernails niya na french-manicured. Without thinking, natanong ko sa kaibigan ko kung pano kaya maghugas ng plato at maglaba ng damit yung kaklase namin, kung nagga-gloves kaya sya. Hello?! Ang tanong: naghuhugas at naglalaba ba yun?! Oo nga, noh. Tanga-tanga ko naman. Di ko kaagad naisip yun. Malamang hindi nga.
Maraming nagsasabi na mahirap kung nasa gitna ka ng spectrum. Kunwari, hindi maganda, pero hindi pangit. Hindi matalino, pero hindi bobo. Hindi lalaki, pero hindi babae. Yung mga ganon. Mga alanganing sitwasyon. Ang mahirap kasi dun, hindi mo alam kung saan lulugar. Parang di lubos ang acceptance at belonging. Sabagay, superficial lang naman na observation yun.
Kung pag-uusapan naman yung pagiging hindi mahirap pero hindi mayaman, sa tingin ko, okay lang yun. Kaya mong mag-adjust sa iba't ibang klase ng tao. Saan ka man masabak, hindi gaano kalaki ang agwat na sinusubukan mong abutin. Mas bukas ang isip mo. You can be sensitive to the plights of poverty without being bitter towards wealthy people. Or you can be appreciative of material things without losing the perspective of the hard work spent in earning every single one of them.
Something like that. Ewan ko ba. Basta alam ko, paggising ko kaninang umaga, malinis sahig namin.
Anyway, sa madaling salita, sa kalaliman ng gabi, I was down on all fours, scrubbing the floor. Scouring pad ang sandata ko. Zonrox, sabon, at tubig ang bala ko. Natuyong putik na nanuot sa pagitan ng tiles ang kalaban ko. (Hindi talaga binitiwan ang analogy, eh, noh?! Hehe.)
Di naman kasindak-sindak na naglilinis ako ng sahig. Sa katunayan, kaming magkakapatid ay hindi estranghero sa gawaing-bahay. May mga panahon naman na may kasama kami sa bahay para tumulong sa trabaho, pero kadalasan kami-kami lang talaga ang gumagalaw. Kaya nung nag-college na ako at may nakakasama ng roommates sa boarding house, napupuna ko talaga kung sino ang mga marunong magtrabaho at sino yung mga señorita sa bahay nila.
Ngayong bakasyon na ako lang ang bum sa bahay at nagtratrabaho na ang mga kapatid ko, wala akong kahati sa mga utos. Alam ng mga kaibigan ko yan. (Online ko lang sila nakakasalimuha ngayong summer dahil wala ngang pasok). Tuwing bumabalik ako galing sa isang BRB na message, natatanungan agad ako ng: "Are you done watering the plants already?" O di naman kaya pag sinasabi ko na kailangan ko munang mag-log-out, sinasabihan ako ng: "Tama, maghahapunan na nga pala, maghain ka na tapos maghuhugas ka pa ng pinggan."
Natatawa na lang ako minsan. Kaya nga habang ikinukuskos ko ang sahig ng sabon, iniisip ko kung ilan kaya sa mga kakilala ko ang di kinakailangang mag-manual labor. Just out of curiosity lang naman. Pero hindi mga elitista ang mga pinakamalapit kong kaibigan, eh. Palibhasa'y pare-parehas lang kami lahat na anak ng mga middle-class na pamilya na tamang-tama lang ang pamumuhay. Nakakakain, nakakapagpaaral hanggang kolehiyo. Nagigipit kung minsan, pero nakakaraos din, sa awa ng Diyos. Walang mga assets na ipapamana kundi yung edukasyon lang na pinagtustos sa amin. Yun na yun. (walang magiging drama tungkol sa last will and testament, di gaya ng old-school teleserye plot lines sa telebisyon) Minsan, sa sobrang kasanay ko na ang kasama ay mga tao sa pareho kong socio-economic level, nakakalimutan kong di lahat ng tao, kagaya ko. May naging kaklase ako na babaeng sosyal. Kung manamit sya araw-araw, parang laging may pictorial sa isang telenovela (description po nung isa kong kakilala, hindi akin). Napansin ko na mahahaba fingernails niya na french-manicured. Without thinking, natanong ko sa kaibigan ko kung pano kaya maghugas ng plato at maglaba ng damit yung kaklase namin, kung nagga-gloves kaya sya. Hello?! Ang tanong: naghuhugas at naglalaba ba yun?! Oo nga, noh. Tanga-tanga ko naman. Di ko kaagad naisip yun. Malamang hindi nga.
Maraming nagsasabi na mahirap kung nasa gitna ka ng spectrum. Kunwari, hindi maganda, pero hindi pangit. Hindi matalino, pero hindi bobo. Hindi lalaki, pero hindi babae. Yung mga ganon. Mga alanganing sitwasyon. Ang mahirap kasi dun, hindi mo alam kung saan lulugar. Parang di lubos ang acceptance at belonging. Sabagay, superficial lang naman na observation yun.
Kung pag-uusapan naman yung pagiging hindi mahirap pero hindi mayaman, sa tingin ko, okay lang yun. Kaya mong mag-adjust sa iba't ibang klase ng tao. Saan ka man masabak, hindi gaano kalaki ang agwat na sinusubukan mong abutin. Mas bukas ang isip mo. You can be sensitive to the plights of poverty without being bitter towards wealthy people. Or you can be appreciative of material things without losing the perspective of the hard work spent in earning every single one of them.
Something like that. Ewan ko ba. Basta alam ko, paggising ko kaninang umaga, malinis sahig namin.
Saturday, May 15, 2004
Ang hiwaga ng gripo at mga screensavers
Si Mary Shaira yang nasa kanan. Ira kung tawagin namin ang two-year old niece kong ito. Dumaan sila sa bahay kanina, kasama ang ten-year old kuya niyang si Joshua at auntie ko na lola nila (na "mommy" ang pinapatawag sa kanyang mga apo, at wag "lola", please lang.)
Cute si Ira, di ba? Mala-anghel ang itsura. Sa totoo lang, mabait naman talagang bata ito, medyo hyper nga lang kung minsan. At maliban na rin lang kung umaandar ang pagka-astigin nito at sinusuntok ang lahat ng makita nito habang nandidilat ang mata sabay sigaw ng "Hawa!" (Visayan term po ito na ang loose translation sa tagalog ay "Alis!")
Sinabi ko nang mabait na bata si Ira, di ba?
Mabait naman talaga. Sobrang playful nga lang kasi nga nasa stage ng "terrible two's". Kuya Joshua nya ang usual object of Ira's "cariño brutal". Kung "maglaro" ang mga ito, daig pa minsan ang first round ng Pacquiao-Marquez match. At, wag kayo! Si Ira ang gumaganap na PacMan. Si Josh, pinapaiintindi na lang namin lahat na di dapat patulan ang kid sis nya. Kaya minsan, pag masakit na talaga ang mga tama ni Ira sa kanya, nagpipigil na lang siya ng iyak. Naiintindihan ko rin naman si Josh kasi nung minsan sinuotan ko ng sandals si Ira, bigla nya akong nasipa (ayaw kong isipin na sinadya nya) at sapol sa tuhod ko ang tama. Masakit sya, in fairness. Nagka-bruise pa ng konti. Natutuwa si Ira sa mga painful slapstick comedies brought about by her playfulness. Niloloko ko nga magulang nya na baka may sadistic tendencies yung bata. (Pabiro ko lang po sinasabi yun. At sa mga concerned sa home upbringing ng pamangkin ko, wag po kayong mapraning. Born-again Christians po ang mga magulang at lola nya at sa katunayan ay malapit nang maging pastor ang tatay niya. Weird lang po yata ang sense of humor ng bata.)
Ako ang napagod sa kakapanood kay Ira habang walang tigil ang ikot nya sa sahig. Paikot-ikot na parang trumpo. Giggling all the while. Titigil lang sya kung makakakita sya ng sapatos na susuotin. She gets a kick out of that - wearing shoes too big for her. Oo nga pala, tumitigil rin sya kung susubuan mo sya ng chocolate. Yung mga tigsi-singkwenta centavos na nakabalot ng foil. (Tanong lang: bakit kaya kahit anong ingat ang pagsubo mo ng pagkain sa bata, it's inevitable that they'll spoil their clothes? Or worse, yours?)
Anyway, nang naubos na ang tsokolate, binuhat ko si Ms. Madungis at pinatong sya sa lababo. Binanlawan ko kamay at mukha nya. At syempre nang natapos, ayaw nyang magpababa. Dahil nadiskubre nya ang faucet at pinihit-pihit ito. Sobrang hina, sobrang lakas. Sobrang hina, sobrang lakas. Ang kasiyahan nya, di mo mawari at aliw na aliw syang nakikita ang agos ng tubig. So pinagbigyan ko sya sandali bago sya nilapag sa sahig. (Self snapshot at this point: chocolate stains on my PE t-shirt, and water splashes from the faucet adventure - well, you do the math).
I went to my computer to check on my downloads for a second but the next thing I knew, Ira was extending her arms to me, asking to be seated on my lap. (She knows how to open doorknobs already, I made a mental note). She found the keyboard amusing and started to press the ones she could reach (i.e, the spacebar, the Ctrl key, and the Windows shortcut key). I had to distract her from this and so I launched the screensavers previews. Boy, did she like those! She'd clap her hands whenever there's a change in the image. She yelled "Fish! Fish!" when she saw the aquarium screensaver. But I think she liked 3D Flower Box best. It elicited the most shrieks and giggles.
I'm the youngest in the family which is probably the reason why I'm kinda fond of kids - no matter how messy or playful they get. Ira and Josh are just two of my numerous nieces and nephews (children of my cousins).
They left late in the afternoon. Ira waved to me goodbye (one of her perfected "tricks"). I was left wondering about faucets and screensavers. And trying to figure out at which point in growing up do they cease to be wondrous things.
Wednesday, May 12, 2004
Who is "Georgia"?
I always hum along to John Mayer's "Why Georgia" and I just realized I have no earthly idea who Georgia is. Or if it refers to the U.S. state.
But you gotta hand it to John Mayer. The guy knows how to put his words together. Nothing too profound but just honest, give-it-to-me-straight-without-a-chaser kinda thing.
Because I wonder sometimes
about the outcome
of a still verdictless life
Am i living it right?
am i living it right?
am i living it right?
I like that. My thoughts exactly! So I guess not getting the part about Georgia is not that big a deal. But if anyone of you out there knows who/what Mayer was referring to, drop me a line, will you? It's all in the pursuit of knowledge. Amen.
But you gotta hand it to John Mayer. The guy knows how to put his words together. Nothing too profound but just honest, give-it-to-me-straight-without-a-chaser kinda thing.
Because I wonder sometimes
about the outcome
of a still verdictless life
Am i living it right?
am i living it right?
am i living it right?
I like that. My thoughts exactly! So I guess not getting the part about Georgia is not that big a deal. But if anyone of you out there knows who/what Mayer was referring to, drop me a line, will you? It's all in the pursuit of knowledge. Amen.
Sunday, May 09, 2004
Mothers' Day
I woke up at 6 am. I had gone to sleep only three hours before. Being up at three am is not something unusual for me.
Anyway, I tiptoed out of of the house at that ridiculously early hour. I walked two blocks towards the bakeshop. Chocolate or ube or mocha. Chocolate, definitely. No contest. Carrying with me the cake in a box, i crossed the street and bought a bunch of white flowers.
Now here's the tricky part. When I got home, making the least noise as possible, I tried to place the flowers inside the usual container but the stems were too long so the whole thing kept tipping over. I considered just laying the flowers on the table in an artistic sort of manner (read: the lazy method) and just let my mom arrange them in the vase herself when she wakes up. But, no. I decided that I shouldn't let my mother worry about her own flowers. So I took a pair of scissors and cut about a third of the flowers' length, stuck it in the vase and poured some water inside.
When my mother woke up, my brother (who conveniently took a passive role in all this thing) and I greeted her a happy mothers' day and told her that we got her flowers and cake. She was obviously touched by the gesture but was more shocked to know that I got up early to get them. She even asked me three times if I really was the one who bought them. She couldn't get over the thought that I was up before noon.
My mom's great. She's loving, warm, funny, upbeat, and she screams a lot when watching boxing games (Sorry, people, I'm still nursing some residue of the Pacquiao-Marquez draw). God knows that she deserves a whole lot more than cake and flowers with trimmed stems stuck inside an old vase. I just hope she knows that we love her a lot.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
The Beginning After the Supposed End [short story]
"What were you thinking?"
"That's it. I wasn't. Ironically, my head was never as clear than when I've decided that I was going ahead with it."
"If there's anyone who has to go, it should damn well be Jericho Rosales."
He laughed.
"Hey, I'm not kidding, ok? Don't ever scare me like that again. Ever. I know it seems like you're like given a preview to hell right now, but believe me, it will get better. Think about it: How could it get any worse?"
"You know what? Of all the people I wish to talk to, it's you, because your hell is closest to mine. Well, no offense meant."
"None taken."
He smiled but did not say anything.
"Just... I don't know. Just breathe. Breathe, ok? You have to start somewhere. Start with your breath."
He nodded at her noncommittally. She stood up to leave.
"’My future is a cadaver crunching in a very fast decay...’"
She looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. "Plath again?"
"No. Mine. Narcissistic, huh?"
She shook her head and closed the door behind her.
He sat alone in the empty room, silently contemplating. Everything seemed to be trivial. Funny. Because he was so convinced he would be dead by now. He had written his farewell journal entry to his fictitious friend Holden. His stories and poetry were neatly set aside to be left posthumously. He even returned the rented VCDs. It was funny that those were all he managed to put into order.
The poet stood up. This called for a walk. Walking was his substitute to weed. He would've preferred the real thing, but walking would have to do right then. Stepping out into the open air of the street, he was oblivious to the usual cacophony of the city. Instead, his mind wandered elsewhere.
He remembered his flunked subjects. His suspension from the University. The painful talk with his parents. The equally painful email he had to write to his aunt who was supporting his college education. The pleading. The refusing. The white lies. He found it amusing that he had to lie to spare them all from the pain of knowing the full extent of the reality.
"Nobody fails if everyone studies."
His mother's words echoed within the hollow corners of his head, taunting him. Aggravating him that he had to be burdened by the truth.
"I don't have the heart for it," he had said. And barely getting the words out, he choked, "You would never understand me because you don't even read the books I read."
He remembered his asphyxiation attempt. Somewhere along the long and painful effort to restrain his breathing, a tiny part of him wanted to let go. He remembered his struggle for breath. In his life full of difficulties, he tried to deprive himself of something that was easy. The air was his and it never failed him, was never disappointed at him, and never had to question him.
A vehicle's blare snapped him back into his senses. He quickened his steps. He had to get home soon. He had to find his copy of J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye.
"That's it. I wasn't. Ironically, my head was never as clear than when I've decided that I was going ahead with it."
"If there's anyone who has to go, it should damn well be Jericho Rosales."
He laughed.
"Hey, I'm not kidding, ok? Don't ever scare me like that again. Ever. I know it seems like you're like given a preview to hell right now, but believe me, it will get better. Think about it: How could it get any worse?"
"You know what? Of all the people I wish to talk to, it's you, because your hell is closest to mine. Well, no offense meant."
"None taken."
He smiled but did not say anything.
"Just... I don't know. Just breathe. Breathe, ok? You have to start somewhere. Start with your breath."
He nodded at her noncommittally. She stood up to leave.
"’My future is a cadaver crunching in a very fast decay...’"
She looked back at him and raised an eyebrow. "Plath again?"
"No. Mine. Narcissistic, huh?"
She shook her head and closed the door behind her.
He sat alone in the empty room, silently contemplating. Everything seemed to be trivial. Funny. Because he was so convinced he would be dead by now. He had written his farewell journal entry to his fictitious friend Holden. His stories and poetry were neatly set aside to be left posthumously. He even returned the rented VCDs. It was funny that those were all he managed to put into order.
The poet stood up. This called for a walk. Walking was his substitute to weed. He would've preferred the real thing, but walking would have to do right then. Stepping out into the open air of the street, he was oblivious to the usual cacophony of the city. Instead, his mind wandered elsewhere.
He remembered his flunked subjects. His suspension from the University. The painful talk with his parents. The equally painful email he had to write to his aunt who was supporting his college education. The pleading. The refusing. The white lies. He found it amusing that he had to lie to spare them all from the pain of knowing the full extent of the reality.
"Nobody fails if everyone studies."
His mother's words echoed within the hollow corners of his head, taunting him. Aggravating him that he had to be burdened by the truth.
"I don't have the heart for it," he had said. And barely getting the words out, he choked, "You would never understand me because you don't even read the books I read."
He remembered his asphyxiation attempt. Somewhere along the long and painful effort to restrain his breathing, a tiny part of him wanted to let go. He remembered his struggle for breath. In his life full of difficulties, he tried to deprive himself of something that was easy. The air was his and it never failed him, was never disappointed at him, and never had to question him.
A vehicle's blare snapped him back into his senses. He quickened his steps. He had to get home soon. He had to find his copy of J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Marunong ka bang magpa-cute?
Pwedeng magpaturo? Feeling ko kasi nang nagsabog ang Maykapal ng kagalingan sa pagpapahumaling ng mga kalalakihan, parang nagtago ako sa kailaliman ng isang liblib na kweba at wala akong nakuha ni katiting man lang.
‘Ika nga, being too charming was never one of my faults. Ang opinyon ng ibang tao sa akin sa unang tingin, kung hindi repulsively abrasive, eh, coldly indifferent naman. Alam ko yun, kasi tinanong ko ang mga kaibigan ko kung ano ang first impression nila sa akin. Meron rin namang iba na medyo tactful at sinasabi na I “look comfortable being alone”, self-sufficient daw kumbaga kaya walang nagtatangkang lumapit kahit sino.
Eh, sa mga crushes ko, ‘kanyo? Paano ako umasta? Parang male-male na may speech defect at dyslexia o di naman kaya parang di-makabasag pinggan na noveciada sa kumbento – pormal na pormal at hindi nagsasalita o kung hindi naman parang isang sobrang dedma na weirdo. Sitcom ang crush life ko. Slapstick na may pagka-spoof na may pagka-horror.
Abnormal ba ako? Ba’t di ako marunong magpa-cute?
Ilang beses nang nangyari na andyan na sya sa tabi ko. O kaya sa harap ko. Nakangiti sya. Alam n’yo ba ang pakiramdam na parang disconnected ang logic mo sa motor senses mo? Ganon. Hindi man lang ako makatango. Andali lang magsabi “Uy, ‘musta?” Aargh. Di lang ‘to katorpehan. Katangahan na talaga.
May mga pagkakataon naman, ewan ko lang talaga kung bakit, na hindi ko talaga kayang malapit siya. Parang hindi ako mapalagay kaya ako ang lumalayo. Group meeting namin. Syempre andon sya. Ewan ko lang kung saan nagbabakasyon ang diwa at dila ko kaya’t daig pa ako ng ibang extra sa mga telenovela. Buti pa sila, may mga one-liner, ako talaga, wala. Anyway, napansin yata ng mga kasamahan ko na masama pakiramdam ko. “Okay ka lang?”, ‘ka nila. Nakatingin si lalaking pinagpalaan sa akin. Sa akin. Gusto niya ring malaman kung okay lang ako. Ako. At ano ang ginawa ko? Bilis, ano sa tingin nyo? Tumayo ako bigla sabay sabi nang, “Bili muna ako paracetamol.” Tapos, lumakad ng mabilis palabas. Sa totoo lang, sumakit nga ulo ko. Sa sarili kong ka-weirdo-han. Ha-haay.
Hindi naman palaging “don’t-know-what-to-do/say-whenever-you-are-near” ang eksena ko. Nakakausap ko naman. Minsan, talaga lang nabobobo ako. My IQ shoots down a few points pag andyan na object of my affliction, uhm, affection pala. Magkaharap kami sa lamesa at nagke-kwentuhan. Nabanggit sa usapan namin na Kapampangan ang roots ko. Sabi niya, “So, it’s true pala na girls from Pampanga are pretty.” Reaction ko? Wala. Tameme ako for what seemed to be an eternity of uncomfortable, tense silence. Sabay tingin sa sahig. Ano ba naman inaasahan kong makita doon sa sahig? Cue cards? Teleprompter? Bilis, ano sa tingin nyo? Dahil hanggang ngayon di ko talaga alam kung bakit. Iniba ko na lang ang usapan. Siguro nga wala sa personalidad ko ang mag-react sa mga klaseng remark na ganon with a “thank you”. Pero, it would have been characteristic of me to have said, “Uy, ah. Wag ka naman gaanong magpa-obvious na nagkakagusto ka na sa akin.” Di lang common sense ang nawawala sa akin. Pati sense of humour.
Normally, I am a fast thinker; even quick-witted, sometimes. Kumbaga, parang DSL, mabilis ang response time. Pag crushie ko na ang kaharap ko, nagiging 28.8 kbps na dial-up ako. Oras ang lumilipas bago ko nalalaman kung ano ang pinaka-akmang sabihin. ‘Saklap.
May kaibigan ako. Kung ako ay hindi pa nakakapasa ng pre-school sa pagpapa-cute, yung kaibigan ko, may ph.d. na. Nakalimutan ko kung nakailang nobyo na sya, sa sobrang dami. Ako, ni isa, hindi pa nagkakaroon. Sabi niya, you have to give a motive daw. Yung mga tipong, pasulyap-sulyap daw o kaya pangiti-ngiti sa taong gusto mo. She tried to tell me that flirting is something every girl should master.
Hindi ba pwedeng ibang paraan na lang? Wala akong talent sa “beautiful eyes” kahit noong bata pa ako, eh. Hindi yan isa sa mga naging “tricks” ko noong toddler pa ako. And I don’t think reciting “Ten Little Indians” count as a flirtation skill. Pero ang pagpapa-cute is just a way to get to know the other person better, di ba? Sabi ko sa sarili ko, baka pwedeng mag-tong-its na lang kami. Ako pa bibili ng isang malaking supot ng mani. Mas magkakakilala kami sa ganoong paraan. As they say, you learn more about a person in five minutes of play than in an hour of talk. O, sige, baka mas gusto niya ng Uno, ok rin lang sa akin.
Eh, pano nyan? Kailangan ko pa rin syang yayain mag-hang out para maglaro. Based on my track record, malamang, makakaubos ako ng isang supot ng mani mag-isa nang di oras.
‘Ika nga, being too charming was never one of my faults. Ang opinyon ng ibang tao sa akin sa unang tingin, kung hindi repulsively abrasive, eh, coldly indifferent naman. Alam ko yun, kasi tinanong ko ang mga kaibigan ko kung ano ang first impression nila sa akin. Meron rin namang iba na medyo tactful at sinasabi na I “look comfortable being alone”, self-sufficient daw kumbaga kaya walang nagtatangkang lumapit kahit sino.
Eh, sa mga crushes ko, ‘kanyo? Paano ako umasta? Parang male-male na may speech defect at dyslexia o di naman kaya parang di-makabasag pinggan na noveciada sa kumbento – pormal na pormal at hindi nagsasalita o kung hindi naman parang isang sobrang dedma na weirdo. Sitcom ang crush life ko. Slapstick na may pagka-spoof na may pagka-horror.
Abnormal ba ako? Ba’t di ako marunong magpa-cute?
Ilang beses nang nangyari na andyan na sya sa tabi ko. O kaya sa harap ko. Nakangiti sya. Alam n’yo ba ang pakiramdam na parang disconnected ang logic mo sa motor senses mo? Ganon. Hindi man lang ako makatango. Andali lang magsabi “Uy, ‘musta?” Aargh. Di lang ‘to katorpehan. Katangahan na talaga.
May mga pagkakataon naman, ewan ko lang talaga kung bakit, na hindi ko talaga kayang malapit siya. Parang hindi ako mapalagay kaya ako ang lumalayo. Group meeting namin. Syempre andon sya. Ewan ko lang kung saan nagbabakasyon ang diwa at dila ko kaya’t daig pa ako ng ibang extra sa mga telenovela. Buti pa sila, may mga one-liner, ako talaga, wala. Anyway, napansin yata ng mga kasamahan ko na masama pakiramdam ko. “Okay ka lang?”, ‘ka nila. Nakatingin si lalaking pinagpalaan sa akin. Sa akin. Gusto niya ring malaman kung okay lang ako. Ako. At ano ang ginawa ko? Bilis, ano sa tingin nyo? Tumayo ako bigla sabay sabi nang, “Bili muna ako paracetamol.” Tapos, lumakad ng mabilis palabas. Sa totoo lang, sumakit nga ulo ko. Sa sarili kong ka-weirdo-han. Ha-haay.
Hindi naman palaging “don’t-know-what-to-do/say-whenever-you-are-near” ang eksena ko. Nakakausap ko naman. Minsan, talaga lang nabobobo ako. My IQ shoots down a few points pag andyan na object of my affliction, uhm, affection pala. Magkaharap kami sa lamesa at nagke-kwentuhan. Nabanggit sa usapan namin na Kapampangan ang roots ko. Sabi niya, “So, it’s true pala na girls from Pampanga are pretty.” Reaction ko? Wala. Tameme ako for what seemed to be an eternity of uncomfortable, tense silence. Sabay tingin sa sahig. Ano ba naman inaasahan kong makita doon sa sahig? Cue cards? Teleprompter? Bilis, ano sa tingin nyo? Dahil hanggang ngayon di ko talaga alam kung bakit. Iniba ko na lang ang usapan. Siguro nga wala sa personalidad ko ang mag-react sa mga klaseng remark na ganon with a “thank you”. Pero, it would have been characteristic of me to have said, “Uy, ah. Wag ka naman gaanong magpa-obvious na nagkakagusto ka na sa akin.” Di lang common sense ang nawawala sa akin. Pati sense of humour.
Normally, I am a fast thinker; even quick-witted, sometimes. Kumbaga, parang DSL, mabilis ang response time. Pag crushie ko na ang kaharap ko, nagiging 28.8 kbps na dial-up ako. Oras ang lumilipas bago ko nalalaman kung ano ang pinaka-akmang sabihin. ‘Saklap.
May kaibigan ako. Kung ako ay hindi pa nakakapasa ng pre-school sa pagpapa-cute, yung kaibigan ko, may ph.d. na. Nakalimutan ko kung nakailang nobyo na sya, sa sobrang dami. Ako, ni isa, hindi pa nagkakaroon. Sabi niya, you have to give a motive daw. Yung mga tipong, pasulyap-sulyap daw o kaya pangiti-ngiti sa taong gusto mo. She tried to tell me that flirting is something every girl should master.
Hindi ba pwedeng ibang paraan na lang? Wala akong talent sa “beautiful eyes” kahit noong bata pa ako, eh. Hindi yan isa sa mga naging “tricks” ko noong toddler pa ako. And I don’t think reciting “Ten Little Indians” count as a flirtation skill. Pero ang pagpapa-cute is just a way to get to know the other person better, di ba? Sabi ko sa sarili ko, baka pwedeng mag-tong-its na lang kami. Ako pa bibili ng isang malaking supot ng mani. Mas magkakakilala kami sa ganoong paraan. As they say, you learn more about a person in five minutes of play than in an hour of talk. O, sige, baka mas gusto niya ng Uno, ok rin lang sa akin.
Eh, pano nyan? Kailangan ko pa rin syang yayain mag-hang out para maglaro. Based on my track record, malamang, makakaubos ako ng isang supot ng mani mag-isa nang di oras.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
Be
Have you ever thought so hard
that everything you see blurs
and you can feel the earth rotate?
Have you ever hit your fist against a wall
over and over and over again
just to measure how much pain you can take?
Have you ever wished so hard upon a star
that everything else dims and
it becomes the only light you see?
Have you ever fallen asleep
to the ticking sound of the clock
and took comfort that it matched your heartbeat?
Have you ever woken up from a dream
with your hand clutched to your heart
and your eyes damp from too much tears?
Have you ever wondered how it will all end
and asked yourself whether you
have lived too much, enough, or at all?
that everything you see blurs
and you can feel the earth rotate?
Have you ever hit your fist against a wall
over and over and over again
just to measure how much pain you can take?
Have you ever wished so hard upon a star
that everything else dims and
it becomes the only light you see?
Have you ever fallen asleep
to the ticking sound of the clock
and took comfort that it matched your heartbeat?
Have you ever woken up from a dream
with your hand clutched to your heart
and your eyes damp from too much tears?
Have you ever wondered how it will all end
and asked yourself whether you
have lived too much, enough, or at all?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
