Take Cover!

I just came back from the warzone - otherwise known as our kitchen. Factions are forming and tension is building up. I went inside the room and switched on my machine to seek temporary shelter from the heat of the activities – heat, literally and figuratively.

Our household help picked the most inopportune time to not be around - the time when I am the one who’s around (and these chances are just so few and far in between). And so, here I am: programmer during the workweek, dakilang kusina alalay during this New Year long weekend. I switched my keyboard and mouse for the knife and chopping board. Writing codes for washing plates. Ok, enough of the analogies. You get the picture.

My official duty is to prepare the ingredients. Peel, pare, slice, chop. You need it done, I’m the one to go to. I’m a lean, mean, ingredient prepping machine – or something like that. Now here’s the thing. Apart from the usual dishes we prepare during the holidays, my mother and sister each has their own addition to our Media Noche menu. Let’s call them their “baby recipes”. Mama is cooking paella and Mae is cooking penne. Actually, the official names of these recipes are longer and harder to remember, something that is descriptive of how they are prepared and some of the key ingredients. You know, like “Baked penne in creamy tomato-based smoked bacon sauce”. Can you imagine if fastfood is named liked this? I’ll have one “grilled burger patty, lettuce, and cheese in between two bread smeared with dressing”. Whew. What a mouthful, even before you get to eat anything.

So anyway, there I was, resigned to my fate, chopping meat and vegetables as they are pushed to my face. And I was asked the question. The question. Whose garlic am I chopping? And I thought to myself, they’re garlic, they belonged to nature before humans forcefully took them out from their comfort. But I’m glad I didn’t say it out loud since Mama and Mae were in no mood for my sarcastic humor. Apparently, there is now delineation on the ingredients I was preparing. Before I do anything, I had to ask if it was for the paella or for the penne. And how would it be cut specifically and which side of the kitchen it would be stationed. Requirements specification. Darn it, I can’t escape it even at home.

One thing you have to know about my mother and my sister – they are so similar in their personalities. Domineering, outspoken, and highly opinionated. No wonder they clash so often. Me? Whenever they begin an argument on the size of mushrooms, for example - I just take a sudden keen interest on my chopping board (“What a weird shape for a bell pepper…”). Oh, and they’re both indecisive as hell. I diced one carrot – because that’s what I’ve been informed in the verbal specs – but when my mother saw it, she asked me why it was that way. I told her - not without a little incredulity and volume increase in my voice - that it was what she told me to do. She casually said that she changed her mind, and would want them in semicircles instead. HK, is that you? (Sorry, Azeus inside joke.)

But it’s fun. It’s not too often I get to join the family dynamics. We get to exchange laughter and even our white sauce now has its own soundtrack which we sing together: “Béchamel, béchamel mucho…” Ah, craziness. It indeed runs in the family.

They’re calling me for another round of preparations. Wish me luck and a shrapnel-free New Year’s Eve.

Jumpstarting the New Year

I finally bought “The Complete C.S. Lewis Signature Classics” book. I have been thinking about buying it for almost half a year now. I don’t know. I guess it’s easier to buy for other people than for myself. Anyway, I had Powerbooks gift certificates from my birthday and from the Kris Kringle, so I just had to pay only half of the book’s price, which made it less steep for me.

By the way, if any of you have Powerbooks receipts from December and have no significant sentimental attachment to them, do let me know. Their journal would seem like a good replacement to my old one and I just lack P405.00 worth of receipts to have it. But Luis, I do thank you for the Starbucks planner, hehe.

Anyway, the collection consists of the following books: “Mere Christianity”, “The Screwtape Letters”, “The Great Divorce”, “The Problem of Pain”, “Miracles”, “A Grief Observed”, and “The Abolition of Man”. I was so excited when I bought it and texted Luz; she is the one who introduced me to C.S. Lewis books. We called each other up and just excitedly talked about it, much like how teenage girls would gush about the celebrity heartthrob. This is how we are. Once, I was once told that I was just plain weird for wanting to go home early so I could get back to my reading. When I told Luz about it, she asked what was so weird about that. Sigh, what a friend.

I browsed through the thick, encyclopedia-like book and reread parts of The Screwtape Letters. But I’ve decided to start with A Grief Observed. It just seems to pull me to it. Here’s a paragraph that resonated in my thoughts:

“Not that I am (I think) in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The conclusion I dread is not ‘So there’s no God after all,’ but ‘So this is what God’s really like. Deceive yourself no longer.’”

Some would think that this is a depressing way to start the New Year, but I feel like I need to understand sadness – really understand it. To be a better person this coming year. And I’ve always regarded sadness as my muse. I am more prolific in my writing when I’m sad. But I need a new journal.

Won’t you guys get back to me about those receipts? Thanks. :)

Doing Something Rash

I have a hickey. From necking with an unidentified insect sometime between lunchtime and logout time.

It’s ugly. Red spots right in the middle of my neck with pink streaks from where I scratched it. Of course, my guy friends wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. Some wisecracks on how “wild” I am. Questions on where I holed up. One asked if I even knew what a hickey was. I was informed that it’s not from kissing – but suction. They consider me intensely dense when it comes to things of this nature. Most of the time I don’t recognize green jokes until they cast sideway glances at me to check if I got them or not.

Another good indication is whenever conversations take a confusing turn for me and they start snickering and making remarks that they should change the subject because I am around. Whenever this happens, I just assume they’re talking about sex. Big deal.

Anyway, I don’t know if it’s psychological, but I feel like I’m starting to get a skin rash the more I got conscious about my “hickey”. I wonder if it was something I ate. I’m allergic to only a few things. And yes, alcohol is one of them. Again, not the ethyl or isopropyl kind. The one that makes you woozy and makes you regret all the things you said the morning after you indulge in mindless quantity of it. I think it’s worthwhile to note here that I don’t drink (not if I have to work the next day), I don’t smoke (no plans of starting whatsoever), I don’t party (just no). Hi, my name is “Lame”; you can call me that.

I would definitely remember if I had any alcohol intake lately. Unless they spiked the water dispenser in the office, I think I’m clear. So I’ve narrowed the cause to my current task at work. I am allergic to my investigation in my other maintenance project, nyahaha.

Partly because of the psychological-turning-into-almost-physical skin rash, I declined some of my friends’ invitation to watch a movie this evening. On my way to Mega B, I passed by a video store. And I made a 180-degree turn and decided to go in and browse a little. There’s something oddly relaxing in browsing through movies for me. Aisle after aisle of films. Comedy. Action. Animation. Drama. I finally bought “Four Weddings and a Funeral” and “Sleepless in Seattle” – both of which I’ve already seen, but had the sudden urge to watch again (I’m not paying attention to any sniggers).

I was planning to watch them during the New Year long weekend. Old movies during the New Year. I think the only thing that could be more ironic is me having rashes without having the convenient escape offered by being drunk wasted.

Merry (and not-so-merry) Christmas Thoughts

I remember our old Christmas tree when we were small kids. It was white and we trimmed it with red strawberries and gold discs. Even at that age, I felt there was something off about having a white pine tree growing strawberries (Duh?). But my sister and I have always liked helping put up that tree every year. After it has been assembled, my mom would turn off all the lights in the living room and turn on the Christmas tree lights. I thought it was really pretty.

Best part of passing by our tree was the hugging. The tree. Yes, we hugged our tree. My sister especially likes the bristly feel of the leaves on her face and arms. Weird? Hmm, I don’t know. It seems such a waste to put up an argument. It’s just funny remembering. It overwhelms me with nostalgia.

After high school, we stopped putting up the tree. I don’t even know where it is now. You see, we moved around quite a lot when we were younger. And no, my father is not from the military - typical question I am always asked. Anyway, it’s probably one of the boxes in my aunt’s storage room in the province. Or it might have been given away. I know there are a lot of other things I wish were given away instead.

In our house, Christmases – and other special occasions - consist of long distance phone conversations to relatives with increased speaking volume and nonstop loud laughter. But I still miss my Kuya terribly. But it’s ok. Although his presence won’t be replaced, I’m thankful that we can get to talk to him over YM video calls. Ah, the wonders of technology. It allows me to spend Christmas Eve lounging in my bed, making this blog entry, munching on an apple, while season three of Friends is playing in the DVD. But before you judge me, I already did my part in the kitchen duties, I’ll have you know. Food photography is considered a great help, right? Besides, I’m doing them all a favor by keeping my “help” in the kitchen to a minimum. I can practically hear my mother’s sigh of relief. At least she doesn’t have to hold her breath whenever I handle any of her breakable pyrex. Haha…

To all of you who are spending the holidays at home with your families, and those who are unfortunately not, do have a joyful holiday season. It’s been one helluva year for me. Just read all my whining in previous blog posts. But I’m glad I went through all that because it makes me appreciate what I have now. Besides, I don’t want to spoil His birthday by being my whiney self.

Have a very meaningful Christmas everyone! Let’s not forget to send cheers to the celebrant. :)

My soul's sovereignty

My last company performance evaluation was somewhat interesting. Actually, there was only one comment that stood out for me: I always look sad. And more interestingly enough, everyone I asked agreed with it. Of course, each one had their own way of phrasing it as diplomatically as they could. Like, I always seemed preoccupied or worried over something. Or that I have a vacant expression when I’m by myself. Or that I space out more.

My mother says that although I seem to move with sufficient energy everyday – waking up early, commuting, working, coming home late – it is in my eyes that she can tell how I tired I really am. Mothers. How can you beat that? I don’t have to tell her anything and one look at my eyes, she’s convinced of a diagnosis. Preinstalled sensitivity homing device, I tell you.

And of course, some people have theories on why I am this way: It’s the maintenance project that’s dragging me down, or the fact that my best friend at work has resigned a few months ago. Or that I found multiple typographical and grammatical errors in an email, nyahaha.

Alright, so I may not be the best model for any of the perky multivitamins brands right now, but I believe I’m handling things okay. I’m far from being Wednesday Addams, thank you very much. Although our taste in wardrobe color is not too far off. What you might want to know about me, I can take sadness. We go a looong way back. And no one really needs to know why I’m in this place, they just have to take my word for it that I know how to get out of it. I just don’t know when.

Next time any of you see my expression wandering off to depressionville, give me a nudge. Let’s sing “Favorite Things” together. The one from “The Sound of Music”, not the one by Incubus.

Hmm, although the latter could do the trick just as well, if not better.

Shop Me Not

I got off work today somewhat hurriedly. I even forgot to turn off our servers, tsk tsk. Darn that energy reduction scheme. I wish I had a good excuse but instead I have a lame one: I needed to shop.

Don't mistake me for a shopoholic. Heaven forbid. I'm one of the most unskilled shopper you'll ever meet. It takes me hours to shop for gifts and even longer to shop clothes or shoes for myself. It took me longer to buy my most recent Sunday clothes than my computer. No kidding. I have no sense of style, I am not "kikay", and I don't have the first clue on what it takes to be fashionable. (That's the least of my problems. I still have to perfect being 'presentable'.)

But Christmas is not just the season of love and celebration. It's a challenge to overcome my shopping shortcomings. First order of business is the company Christmas party. The theme is retro, which appears to be a popular theme of other companies, too.

Liz and I actually started to look for clothes yesterday. With three guys tagging along: Paul, Jerome, and Paulo. It took us a good two hours wandering through Megamall, filing through clothes racks, marking an item or two. No purchase, though. I think Liz got a little frustrated with me when I declined her choices one after the other: too bright, too loud, too COC-able. I wanted something subdued. In the end, she was reciting my criteria with every suggestion she put up: "Something black. Or white. Something tailored." Anyway, we decided to put it off for the next day.

But Liz was late in coming to work today. And they had dance practice. So it was Paulo and EJ who volunteered to wait a whole hour for my logout time to accompany me to this retail clothes store in Escriva Ryan suggested to us. That's why I was in a hurry to log off; I didn't want the guys to wait any more than what was necessary. Anyway, we walked the few blocks towards the Escriva store. EJ and Pau are two of my favorite guys in the office; it's so easy to be with them. When we got there, we browsed for a while. Paulo found a sweater which fit the costume he was planning to wear. He tried it on, paid for it, and we were out in no time. Like a SWAT team. The walk to and from took longer.

On our way back to Pearl Drive, we passed by a group of men drinking in the sidewalk, I asked them how would they react if they were asked to take a shot. I found it so amusing that both had their own ready reply that I wondered whether they always had to use it when they were studying in UST, hehe.

"Sige po, boss, pass po muna."

"Next time na, pare, pagbalik ko na lang."

We all parted ways in the corner of PSE. I briskly headed to Megamall where I met my mother and sister who came from Makati that evening. I am so amazed at their shopping stamina. Every time I turn around, they've gone somewhere else and I had to look around which shelf or rack they've zoomed in on. But they were easy enough to spot when I had to pay for their purchases, haha. Tireless, tireless - I tell you. Am I adopted? I have a missing shopping gene!

There wasn't much traffic when we headed home. It was a very long and tiring day, but at least I don't have to worry about what to wear on our company Christmas party. The very least, I hope I don't look like a total schmuck on Saturday.

Easy Sunday

Sundays. Ah, the only day I don't have to think of work. I get to be a daughter, a sister, another member of the household. Most days, it feels like I'm just a boarder in our house. I leave for work early, I get home late.

But not on Sundays. Because I don't have to think of work.

I woke up around 7 am. Which is early, considering I didn't have to work. No work. Gosh, it seems I never get tired of saying that again and again, haha. First thing I did was tinker with my camera and flip through its manual again. Aargh, those guys - they have rubbed off on me! EJ, especially, keeps a keen interest in my progress in photography. He hounds me to share my shots with him. He sternly reminds me to take as many pictures as I can and to always bring my camera everyday.

Anyway, after that, I grabbed a book and read until I dozed off. Not really the book's fault, I still had a lot of cumulative sleep loss to catch up with.

Another thing I like being home is I get to have meals of real food. In a dining table. With plates. Real utensils. My mother's attentive service. No fastfood served on styrofoam containers. Or cramped computer desks as makeshift dining tables. I wish my friends who live far from their families would get to share meals like the ones I have when I'm home.

I also got to play with my guitar today. Finally, I found the time to superglue the small chip on its side. I don't pretend to be a musician. Nosiree. I only know a few chords and I don't even play those few well. The only reason I have a guitar is because back in college, I was inpired to learn how to play it when I found out Jason Mraz started to play only when he was already eighteen years old. I had some money from tutoring Math to a high school kid then, and I spent it all on buying my first instrument. I still want to learn how to learn it, though. But now that my Kuya works somewhere very far, I don't have someone to teach me. Oh, well.

I'm seized with a sudden need to reconnect with old friends. Everyone seems to be so busy moving on to other things so fast. Their own interests, their own lives. I guess there's no point in holding on, either. Sooner or later, everyone parts ways. And whether we admit it or not, sometimes it becomes a task to keep in touch. So it's easier to let go.

Ah, Sundays. The only day I don't have to think of work. Although sometimes it feels like it's easier to think of work than all those other things.

Alice in Trafficland

Her name's Alice. I heard her mother calling out to her when she wandered a little too far from the FX queue. Alice is about three or four - curly hair, pouting mouth, and very intelligent eyes. She's easily noticeable, not only because she's a very cute kid, but more importantly because she loudly whimpered while she extricated her mother's grip from her hand. Kids - they never want to be held on to. Trust me, I know. And I've been told.

Alice was with her mother, older sister (around six years old), and her grandmother. When we boarded the FX, they occupied the middle seat. And seated on the front, I heard Alice calling out, "Mama? Ate? Lola?" Everyone had to answer her before she settled down. She had to do a roll call, apparently.

When the FX drove out to EDSA, the MRT was incidentally passing through from above. All the passengers were treated to hysterical shrieking of, "TRAIN! TRAIN! TRAIN!" It turns out, our resident toddler has a thing for this form of transportation. When her grandmother told her to stop shouting, she whispered audibly, "Choo-choo... Choo-choo..."

I was so amused with the kid, that from then on, I tuned to all her verbal observations. When we passed the Rivermaya's Bagong Liwanag billboard, she shouted, "Rainbow!" - referring the the band album's logo. And when we turned to Guadix Drive, I had to turn around to see what she referred to as "Castle! Castle!" - It was the facade of Asian Development Bank. Yeah, what a castle indeed. What I would give to be able to work in that fortress. Haha...

Across the street was a launch party or something. With loud music and party treats. "Balloons!" I could feel her pleasure over seeing those inflated orbs. But when we made the u-turn and sped away, she quietly said, "Bye, balloons..." At that moment, I wanted to get off the FX, grab a freaking balloon and give it to Alice. I hoped that the Christmas decorations of the Meralco compound would cheer her up. But when we turned into its street, she was distractedly looking out into the opposite direction. "Look to your left, kid," I said to myself, "Look at the blatant display of extravagance by the power company who charges us with expensive utility rates."

It paid off, because when Alice turned around, she gleefully shouted, "Lights! Lights! Lights!" Yeah, that's what we pay 'em for, kid. =P

This is why I like kids. Because it makes me think about what it was like to be a kid again. To be amazed with the simple things. To be unburdened of the realities of the world. Give them some blinking lights and the world is a great place.

I was snapped out of this reverie when Alice pointed out to: "Cinderella! Castle! Cinderella! Castle!" I'm not kidding, this kid likes repetition. Just to make sure everyone heard her. And the castle? Iglesia ni Cristo church. So what comprises a castle? Imposing facade, I guess. At this point, she was leaning forward on her seat that her face is practically touching my shoulder. I turned to her and said hello. She didn't mind me much, but continued to look out the window, although she touched my hair a few times.

The traffic was stagnant for a while. Alice was seized with a sudden compulsion to count from one to ten again and again. I eventually figured out that she was actually counting the moments when it was the FX turn to move in the traffic. "Ready, go!" And she did it with such good timing that I was so impressed.

Along the way, she also sang her version of "Doe - a deer, a female deer. Ray, a drop of golden sun..." But it sounded like a German version because she still couldn't enunciate every word. What authenticity - sung like an Austrian Von Trapp.

She almost got into a tantrum when she insisted to her mom that the old EMBC bus that drove past us is a "train". She didn't want to say "bus" because for her, it is a "train". So what comprises a train? Long vehicle body, I guess.

When we were heading towards the uphill roads of Antipolo, Alice would yell, "Wheee!" but when we turned to unlit parts, she'd whisper in a low voice, "Mama, it's dark..."

The best part of riding in the FX with Alice was when we reached the plaza. Today is the feast day of the Immaculate Conception and they set of fireworks just when we were nearing the church. Aww, you should've seen her excitement. "Fayerks! Fayerks!" (It's a newly learned word for her, I assume) She was actually standing up and pointing out the window.

I got off the FX and turned to walk away, wishing I could be touched and affected like a kid again. What made me feel worse is that I realized that I had my camera with me and I totally forgot to take pictures of the "fayerks".

Whee.

Quirks

I'm weird. I know I am. I've known it as early as the sixth grade when I first acquired distaste for human interaction. It's when I also discovered I am a loner. I actually liked being by myself, unlike other kids my age who craved for our peers' inclusion. Growing up, I learned to tame this quirk, for the sake of being a well-rounded individual. (Although, I wouldn't really guarantee how that would turn out - I'm no epitome of well-roundedness.)

Sometimes you should give in to the innermost comforts within yourself. I was overwhelmed with the need to be alone tonight and I yielded to a lot of my eccentricities. I didn't wait for any of my friends to logout with me. I would've shared the same elevator with Karl, Ryan, and Tal, but I deliberately hung back so they could go ahead. I also turned down Liz's dinner invitation with the other people who were rendering OT. But just when I thought I had the elevator for myself, my former team leader Miss Eunice came and struck up small talk about the weekly photography competition I was partly organizing. We also both had to drop by the ATM machine, and although I knew she was also heading to Megamall, I politely told her I had to go ahead.

It was raining hard, but I didn't mind the walk. I like rain, I like walking. I also like dusks, but it would be asking too much for me to have logged out at dusk. I don't come in that early to work anymore.

When I reached the final block to Mega, I saw Ryan briskly walking past me without an umbrella. I wanted to call out to him and ask him to share my umbrella, but I didn't. Bottom line is, I simply just wanted to be alone. Although writing that down now, I feel so guilty about letting Ryan get wet. (I'll make it up to him, I promise I will.)

I reached the crowded FX terminal not too dry myself. The queue was long, as usual. The passengers with their zombie-like expressions apparently were not happy with the rain. I wondered if any of them evaded other people's company to rush there. To be alone. How many of them had problematic family lives, complicated personal lives, and uncertain work lives? How many of them were like me, waiting for this time of the day when I could freely wallow in sorrow by myself?

After being stuck in traffic for more than two hours, I finally reached home - soaking wet, but home at least. My mother was not so pleased with my sorry appearance. She was upset that I got rained on. As if the rain was my fault. Or it was the rain's fault that I was in its direct aim, for that matter.

I wonder if Ryan's mom is the same way when he got home this evening.

Catching Up

I am blessed to have a really good relationship with my co-workers. My teammates are also my friends. Some people think that software developers and software test engineers have an antagonistic relationship, but not in our case. I think my testers are some of the coolest people I've ever met.

Friday night - I had dinner with Liz and Paulo. We got to talk about some of the things that have been bothering us lately about work and relationships. We realized how much we haven't talked - I mean, really talked - about things that matter to us. And it was such a relief to find out that we had the same issues and concerns, that we weren't alone in all this mess.

Although we interact everyday, we mostly just end up discussing trivial things like tv shows, our latest LSS (Robbie Williams's Rock DJ - wahaha), and worse, the latest prog comments. But since we all had to get home early that night, we made a date that we'd reschedule the talk Saturday after work - talk longer, no restrictions, direct questions, straight answers. It's somewhat a scary deal. Anything that makes me vulnerable makes me scared. But there was comfort in being a listener and being listened to.

We left work that Saturday as soon as our rendered work hours allowed us to. The first place we headed to was the grocery and buy a pint of ice cream each. Comfort food. If people need weed for their pot sessions, we need sugar for these kinds of conversations.

It didn't start out very comfortable, but once we got the proverbial ball rolling, the talk became more easy. It felt good to be trusted with things you know are very personal and very important to your friends. It also felt good to be listened to. I pride myself for being a good listener, but I forgot how good it felt like to be the recipient of sympathy, of encouragement, of support. Sometimes I feel like I've spread myself too thin; that I've been trying to be everything to everyone. And no one really knows what I feel inside, no one asks, and sometimes I do feel that no one cares.

Sure, I know it's not true (Gosh, I hope it's not. If that's the case, my cheesy and dragging blog entries like this one are the least of my problems). There are just days that when life's toxicity reaches warning levels and it's easy to indulge in self-pity. It's good to have a venue to open up when this happens. And Liz and Paulo were there. We were all there for each other, deriving strength from each other, from the laughters, hugs, and tears. We've willingly broken a part of ourselves and gave it to each other. And I'm honored to be given that chance to be part of lives, and for them to be part of mine.

I'll rip off a line from "To Kill a Mockingbird". You never really know a person until you shared pints of Double Dutch together, followed by glasses of fruit-flavored cold teas.

Highlights

When I got home from work today, I got the chance to talk with my good friend Luz over the phone for almost an hour. Now that we live in different cities and still work long hours, it takes extra effort for us to keep in touch. But every now and then when life becomes overwhelming, we text each other this line: "I need the sanity of our conversations."

Today was one of those days we needed to unload angst, self-reproach, affirmation. Great thing about these conversations - it never gets too serious. We always get to laugh about something. Usually, at ourselves. It is only with real friends you can feel comfortable calling yourself stupid over and over again, knowing that they will always point out and tolerate your stupidity, whenever necessary. And trust me, Luz is not the kind who'd interrupt you while you're realizing not-so-smart decisions in life. She lets you wade through your own mess until you're all dirty and icky and ready to get out of your own will. And THEN, we both laugh about it.

Not everything we talked about bordered on depressing things. We asked each other our day's highlight. Hers was when she did surgery to two dogs and she's happy that she's starting to get the hang of it again. She's a vet, by the way. Gosh, I sure needed to supply that relevant information or else I might've unintentionally led some of you to think she's some kind of canine sadist. Anyway, I'm so happy for her since this was what she really wanted.

The only highlight I could think of was an email I wrote to our team thread at work today. It was just an email stating the details of our Christmas Kris Kringle, but I tried to keep an amusing tone throughout its few paragraphs. It elicited a lot of response from my teammates. There were wisecracks about needing to open the WordWeb several times and a question if "Inday" - of the text jokes fame - wrote it. People were jabbing me about how funny they found it, but mostly they jabbed my seatmate Liz since I was in busy status all day. I was flattered when our senior dev replied to all saying that I write well and that he approves. What's even more entertaining is that EJ and Jerome translated the mail in Tagalog. Hilarious translations. (email = elektronikong liham; fat chance = matabang pagkakataon; tough luck = matipunong swerte)

To be able to trigger reaction from things you write is a natural high for me. Any reaction. I'd take negative feedback of my writing over any compliment over my programming. Seriously. And Luz, as opinionated as ever, takes this chance to stress to me a point she's been telling me for a long time now: I'm moving in the wrong world and I'll never meet him here.

Of course, "him" refers to the guy in Mars. And since I'm here on Earth, our lives will never cross.

Matipunong swerte.

BFF

I remember a conversation I had with Luz about how interesting it would be to have a "bestfriend" again in our age - the going-through-quarter-life-crisis mid-twenties. Not just any bestfriend, but the kind you used to have in pre-school or grade school, whom you always spent every free moment with, whome you treat with a certain possessiveness that is inherent to kids. "We're bestfriends, you can't take us away from each other." You know, BFF - best friends (freaking) forever.

The thought has sparked our curiosity because I think now that we're trying to be independent, we've forgotten how it was to be reliant and to be relied upon. Although we do have close friends of our own, some we even consider our best friends - I don't think we can ever recapture the innocence of unguarded and vulnerable friendships.

Jenn is my grade school best friend. We became friends in the first grade where we belonged to the same class. Both of us were six years old, a year younger than most of our batch mates. We sat together, ate together, brushed our teeth together, played together, studied together. We were almost inseparable. Her mom was our teacher and she was very nice to me and treated me like a daughter, too. I transferred school just before we started high school but Jenn and I remained friends.

We used to exchange letters. Yes, letters: stamps, envelopes, stationery. Eventually, we progressed to emails, then text messages and occassional phone calls, and just very recently, through Friendster. Through intermittent but continuous communication, we were able to keep in touch and be updated with each others' lives. I was affected when I found out Jenn's dad died when we were in high school, and more devastated when her mom also passed away when we were in college. Now that we're both members of the workforce, we share our sporadic discontent for the routine of our jobs.

From posted pictures in her profile, I got to see how she looks like now. She mostly hasn't changed. She also posted pictures of her parents and I felt like my heart was being wrenched out when I read her caption, "My mother, the greatest woman I've ever met and will ever meet." I miss her with a certain suddenness now. We've been friends for twenty years. And that's something you don't come across with often.

I realize something about friendships. It's not about how often you are together or see each other. It's how much you learn from each other, how you become a better person because of each other. And that sounds cheesy as hell, but it's true. I'm guessing anyone would want to be remembered as a person who made his friends better people.

I think that would be a good epitaph. (I've been thinking of a good epitaph for myself, by the way. Morbid, I know.)

Of cameras and peanut butter

I came across my Papa's old Olympus OM-4 SLR camera this afternoon while I was idly going through some old stuff in the cabinets. It was in a dusty leather bag with the flash and lens in their own velvet pouches and the camera itself secured in a leather case.

The camera was black, which was the only color in which Olympus released it back in 1983. The knobs and levers were unfamiliar to me. It felt hefty in my hand although it has a compact design. Despite the long disuse, it looked functional only in need of a good cleaning. The unattached Zuiko lens and the removable flash unit were also heavy.

There was a sense of nostalgia as I uncovered and handled each item. This camera was off limits when my siblings and I were very young. I was probably a toddler when my Papa acquired it. He had another camera at that time, a sleeker Pentax which was more handy. When I was an older kid, I was allowed to even use this. But the SLR, he only handled himself.

When he came home from years of overseas work, I remember Papa always tinkering with mechanical and electronic objects when we were growing up. Sometimes, he didn't even bother putting them back together again - which was always a source of exasperation for my mother. We always had disemboweled remote controls, spark igniters (the ones used for old stoves), TV antennas, and betamax players (it WAS the 80's). Of course, he tinkered with his cameras, too, but those always ended up securely replaced in their respective containers.

He is generally a quiet man, my father. Even then, he would be content on sitting by himself in the head of the dining table - reading the newspapers, drinking coffee, answering the crossword puzzles, reading chess books, and yes - tinkering with gadgets. He also took pictures of us. Lots and lots of pictures of us.

We have stacks and stacks of photographs when we were kids. Most of them candid shots. When we were playing, watching tv, or eating. He must've taken good measure not to be noticed when he took these shots since we weren't aware of him taking pictures.

My sister and I have a picture sitting side by side with jars of peanut butter on our laps. I remember we ate spoonfuls of it in the afternoons after school. And another one when we all went to the fishpond in our jogging attires with binoculars dangling over our necks.

Papa has grown much older, especially this past year. Complications of his diabetes have made his constitution far weaker than it used to be. His eyesight is failing and he finds it difficult to move around. He is still the quiet man I've always known him to be. Over dinner this evening, I ask him about his camera. I told him I was planning to bring it to the service center to have it checked. He says I didn't have to since it was not broken, to start with. I just needed to have the batteries replaced.

I mumbled that I still have yet to open the battery and film compartments. You still don't know how, so figure it out, he said.

And I felt like I was a toddler again. Getting told off for eating spoonfuls of peanut butter.

Who is Ramon?

It was a little past seven am and I was checking my email in the desktop when I heard the intro of Fuel's "Sunburn" playing from somewhere in my bed. I had to think for a second where the music was coming from and soon I remembered that I had set it as my cellphone ringtone a couple of days ago.

I picked up the phone and an unregistered cell number was displayed. I stared at it for a while, deliberating whether I'd answer it or not. I still had terrible colds and my voice sounded like something from the deep underground. And most likely, it was a wrong number, anyway. But common courtesy won over and I answered the call as clearly as my blocked nasal passages would allow.

The other end of the line was a voice of an old man. An elderly gentleman.

It's them again, I thought.

He couldn't quite hear me and we spent the first few moments repeating our "hellos". Finally, I asked him - although I knew what the answer was, "Sino po hinahanap nila?"

"Maaari bang makausap si Ramon?"

"I'm sorry po, but you have the wrong number, Sir."

Pause. "Wrong number?"

"Yes po."

I am not sure if he said "ok" or "thank you", but there was a click not long after and that was the end of the phone call.

Two minutes later, the same number was trying to call me up again. But it was cut short. Fuel got to play only the first few chords. I decided to compose a text message to send to the obviously confused caller.

"I'm sorry, but you have the wrong number po. Kindly recheck the number you are trying to dial. Thank you po."

Another two minutes later, I received a text message from a different unregistered number. And reading it caused a twinge somewhere inside of me for no apparent reason.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!GOD BLESS!P.s. keep im touch."

It's the kind of text messages compositions I used to receive from my parents when both were still using cellphones. Awkward use of spacing and capitalization. No word shortcuts. Misspelled words usually mean they just find it tedious to scroll back and correct the mistake. Most older people I know also text in this distinct way.

Needless to say, it wasn't my birthday, but this unknown Ramon's. I have been receiving calls asking for Ramon for a long time now. Maybe two years already.

The first time, I thought it was a prank one of my guy cousins were trying to pull on me. The same cousins who answer their land line phone with the greeting, "You have reached Malacañang Palace. May I help you?" They used to have this meaningless expression of saying in matronly voices, "Si Ramon, kuyapan? Quezo de bola ang pamahaw? Imposible si Ramon kuyapan!" Roughly translated, "Ramon passed out? He eats quezo de bola for breakfast. It's impossible for Ramon to pass out!" The line do not mean anything. Just something that they say at random points in the conversation and we laugh about.

I thought it was a prank the first time because the caller was from a woman with an uncertain voice and provincial accent whom I assume was a household help When she asked for "Señorito Mon" and told me that his dad, "Don Ramon" was looking for him. A part of me was clouded with disbelief since it seemed that these were part of a telenovela where feudalism still existed.

Sometimes, it's a middle-aged woman. But oftentimes, it's the older gentleman. Don Ramon himself, I assumed. I always imagine him to be white-haired and dignified-looking. His voice was old, but sure. Whenever I answer any of these calls and politely inform them that they have dialled the wrong number, they do not call back again in the same period. Maybe they look more closely at the handwritten number in their directories and realize that the five is actually a six or the one is actually a seven.

It may be appropriate to mention that I've kept the same number since '97 or '98. I've been through sim upgrades, cellphone models, but I've maintained the same number. It is one of the few Globe prepaid numbers I know that still has the 0917 access code.

But who is this Ramon who worries his household every now and then? He must be some rich kid, insensitive to his parents' concern. Why isn't he even home on his birthday and why does he have to be reminded to keep in touch? There was something wistful in the birthday messages that I could sense. Was that the first time in a long while that they even kept in touch? I don't know. I guess I'm just letting my imagination run wild. After all, it was just a wrong number. Just another one. No reason to let it worry me. Maybe being sick makes me more sensitive. I don't know. I shouldn't be thinking at all. I just have to lie in bed, drink my meds, and get some rest.

I HAVE to work tomorrow. I can't miss another day. Just thinking of all the pending tasks that has been piling up since I got sick is making me more dizzy. What a cycle. How fun.

And, Ramon, whoever and wherever you are: Happy birthday. And for goodness' sake, call your dad, will you?

Runny Nose Marathon

I've been sick the whole day. Actually, I've been sick since yesterday, but I had other things to distract me from the runny nose the day before. Two good friends of mine joined the recently-concluded Canon Photo Marathon 2007. Gary and EJ were so cool to have invited me to join them.

We all met at around 7.30 am at the MiniStop in front of the PSE Centre. We proceeded to the activity headquarters at Blue Leaf, The Fort where they both registered. By ten, the first theme was announced: "Modern Metropolis". The participants were to take their photographs in Makati and return by one pm with their entries.

Now, Makati is alien territory for me. Come to think of it, I cannot claim thorough familiarity with any place. Me and directions - we don't agree much. It's a standing joke. But I didn't have to worry about that since the guys pretty much had an idea where they are and where they wanted to go and where to take photographs. I just had to tag along. So easy.

There was a small park along Legazpi Street by the name of (take a wild guess) Legazpi Mini-Park. It was a nice park, grass-covered, with gazebo, benches, a pond with a bridge, gold-colored fish, and ducks. Ducks! I thought of Holden and Central Park and his question on where the Ducks go during winter.

The next lot was also a park with a playground. It was so amusing to see Gary and EJ walk around, sit on the grass, cross the street, and cross the street again. It started to drizzle not long after so we had to take out our umbrellas while walking the streets of Makati. They took pictures of the building, streets, workers. When they thought they had the first theme covered, we went back to the headquarters and had their chosen photos downloaded. Gary chose a picture of the playground with the buildings as a background. EJ's choice was a blue-tinged overcast picture of two highrises.

We had lunch at Market! Market! with two other participants who were EJ's sister's officemates: Zer and Hya. But everyone had to get back by two pm for the announcement of theme two and the bonus round. Theme two was "Life in the City" and the bonus round was "Sarap Maging Pinoy". All photographers were to report back by six pm.

And so off we all went again. The guys took pictures of buses, jeepneys, signposts, sidewalk vendors. We walked in churches, side streets, underpasses, sidewalks, everywhere our feet took us and their cameras could take shots. We got back before 6 pm and had time to loiter outside while waiting for further announcements. They and the other photographers took shots of the nearby construction site against the setting sun. Their output were amazing.

Live entertainment and dinner were served inside. Gary was so patient with me through dinner because I was so hesitant to dine with them. Anyway, we had to wait until past nine for the announcement of winners who turned out to be seasoned photographers who took awesome pictures.

I am so proud of Gary and EJ. It was their first time to join a competition such as this one. They have so much potentials in their craft. And being exposed to these professional talent will enable them to be even better. I honestly, honestly think that they have a really good shot of breaking through this industry. And I'm not just saying this because we're good friends. Although that counts.

There isn't another pair of guys I would have enjoyed walking around Makati with. I didn't feel exhaustion from all the walking. I had a runny nose but that wasn't a big deal, either. I had so much fun watching them take pictures, talking to strangers, eyeing out for prospective angles. Neither one of them lost their good humour. I'm just so glad I've found such cool friends in those two.

That was how eventful my day was yesterday. I had a fever when I got home and was nursing it the whole day today. My movements are so heavy, my nose is runny, I speak with a raspy voice, and there is a constant pounding pain in my head. I'm singlehandedly consuming all tissues in the household. My mother is force-feeding me with citrus fruits and pitcher after pitcher of orange juice. I'm considering to have it IV'd. I'm dozing off every few hours of so. When I'm awake, I watch episodes of Heroes. Early this evening, I turned on my computer to do this entry because I didn't want this to be missed.

I guess I'm too woozy to read if everything is cohesive in this entry. Not feeling well enough to satisfy my OC'ness and to a rereading and revising. If you find anything amiss, just drop me a line below. I'll just be here, sniffing and sneezing while contemplating on having my nose surgically removed.

Passengers

Early mornings, you'd find me in queue at the FX terminal. Another employee on the way to work. Another commuter battling the challenging world of public transportation. Just another sleepy soul, trapped in the routine of daily life. It would be excessive to say that it is almost like a community, that long queue, because it's not. It's just a group of people whose faces are familiar to each other, but they're not there to make friends. A terse nod when asked if this was the end of the line is the most interaction that can go. Each other's presence is incidental, an irrelevant detail in the travel from point A to point B.

Those days when shuttles take long to arrive and my mind is not preoccupied with my other thoughts, I practice characterization for my fiction writing. You take boredom, a need to stay awake, and the long wait for the next FX -- and you get me, the casual observer. It helps if you have your earphones on. It lends a sense of disinterest in the process of observation. You can stare long at someone without making them feel like their personal space is being intruded. The earphones give you the benefit of the doubt that although your eyes are fixed, your mind is actually elsewhere. I lay a disclaimer here. Don't use my tip for stalking. Please. I have enough of my own guilt to worry about.

There are those students from UA&P. With their youthful and perky outfits and air of their parents' money. Two of them are friends who are freshmen (I can tell by their age and their textbooks). One always comes in late while the other saves a spot on the line for her. I sometimes want to tell them that it's unfair for the ones who arrived earlier, but I let them be. It's too small a thing to worry about. Besides, they get enough piercing stares from the more irritable passengers.

The middle-aged lady who always carries a book with her. For a couple of days, it was a copy of the Sherlock Holmes short stories collection. It amused me since Holmes is one of my most favorite book characters of all time. I wondered if she was enjoying it as much as I did when I first read the stories in high school.

There's that good-looking pair of mid-twenties corporate professionals. Who look like they stepped straight out of a yuppie magazine. Guy's tall dark, and handsome - . Girl looks like a doll with porcelain skin, with hair always made up and clothes that reek of Cosmo. When I see them, I sometimes wonder if I dress too casually for my age and profession. Oh, well.

And there's the old couple. They're probably around sixty years old. The old man is frail looking with hunched shoulders; the woman has a kind face. He carries a leather briefcase and his wife just keeps him company in the queue, she doesn't get on the shuttle. They talk quietly while waiting and sometimes she asks the manongs at the terminal if she could borrow one of the monobloc chairs for her husband to sit on. She just waits with him, stands beside him. And when the shuttle arrives, she straightens his polo, kisses him on the cheek, helps him inside the front seat, and waves him goodbye.

Once, in another seemingly normal morning, I find the old couple in their usual place. But after a few minutes, I discerned some agitation in the crowd. I took off one of my earphone pieces and realized that the old lady was asking for help from those standing nearby. Her husband was apparently feeling ill and they had to call a trike and help him inside and rush him to the hospital.

I honestly did not know how to react, what to think. I was somewhat a long way off from the commotion, but I felt the tension. I feel like I'm having a crash-course of self realization. Here was a real life couple. Apparently, with deep love for one another. How do you find someone you'd be willing to do anything for? How do you never get tired of loving each other? How do you ever get to that time when you're willing to just stand beside someone patiently, talking quietly, until it was time to say goodbye. Until it was time.

I find myself actually trying to listen to the music from my earphones. Consciously. Drown in music these thoughts and questions I have no answers for.

Nameless

Have you ever been to that place? Where your soul is bottom-feeding? Afraid of light, incapable of happiness, even of words. It's soul catatonia. There's no sense in trying to feel because all sensation is blunt. Nothing makes sense.

It strikes in unexpected moments. While you're having dinner. Walking down the street. Even while you're washing your face. You find yourself washing away tears with handful after handful of water. Not knowing where all this grief is coming from, seemingly the result of a dam breaking somewhere. In your mind, in your heart. Somewhere.

But it remains nameless. And without cause – this sadness that's devolving the person whom you knew to be yourself. It nags at you. Something betrays the surface of normality and control. It's a monster – a quiet monster – emerging from the depths, agitating the tranquility. The false tranquility. How do you deal with something without a face, without a source. All you know is that it's after you.

Music and laughter become offensive sounds to hear, you recognize that you have finally stepped into something dark – almost tangibly so. Any joy is a personal offense. It becomes an alien feeling and you don't even remember how it felt like and how long ago it was since you did.

Surely someone can understand. There has to be someone who has been there. Family, friends, co-workers, former schoolmates. Someone. Surely someone knows the right things to say. I'll call them up, I'll talk to them. Try to remember what it's like to have a human connection. You pick up your phone and begin scrolling in the contact list. Next, next, next. They have their own lives. Their own problems to deal with. And you, you have your pride. Besides, you are ill-equipped to explain without sounding crazy. Maybe that's what you are.

How do you pull yourself back into the comforts of reality? And you wonder for a second if that's what you really want. The routine, the acceptance of a monotonous life. Of mediocrity, inanities. Yes. Damn it, yes. Anything but this numbing emptiness. And this undiluted and magnified realization of self-insignificance.

You can't seem to derive pleasure from the things you love. But you try, anyway. And end up staring blankly into a screen, with a clean sheet of page while the blinking cursor stare right back at you. Blink, blink, blink. It is defying you. Daring you to type anything. A line, a word, even just a single keystroke. Anything.

But this is one thing you can't let it you beat in. This is your sanity. Your last hold. It can't take this away from you. No, not today. And by heavens, not ever. So you take a deep breath and write the immediate questions in your mind.

Have you ever been to that place? Where your soul is bottom-feeding?

Klutzy

I have a scar on my left cheek. It's slightly less noticeable now, but when Luz pointed it out to me over lunch two days ago, it was very visible, nothing short of what you'd expect from someone who just came from a fistfight. In fact, Gary - with his usual far-out analogies - said I looked like I came from a prison riot. I knew it was exaggeration, but how many times have you been told you looked like you came from a prison riot? Not too many, I would bet. :)

Funny thing is, I honestly don't know where I got it from. And even funnier, this is not an isolated case. I guess I need to rethink my usage of the adjective “funny”. Cutting, scratching, wounding, bruising are not very humorous, unless you're the type who go for slapstick. And you're not the recipient of those unfortunate mishaps.

There are times when I'd find that I have scratches, wounds, and bruises unaware of where I acquired them. I'd be washing my hands, and – where did that scratch come from? I'd be waking up from bed and – hello, new bruise. Maybe it's because I have a high threshold for pain. Once while inside a mall, I noticed a bloody trail on the floor. I was surprised to find that it came from my own hand which had a small but deep cut. It is for this reason I always keep a couple of band aids with me.

Pathetic. People have Mastercards in their wallets. I have Mediplasts.

But, oh, yes. There are also plenty of times when I exactly know it happened. Painful times – both painful to the body and to the self-esteem. But I tell you, if it's too painful physically, you wouldn't think too much of your ego. Trust me, I know. I have had the firsthand experience of ungracefully alighting from not one - but two! - jeepneys. I sprained my ankle on both occasions. I even needed an x-ray and consultation with an orthopedic surgeon. The impact was so sudden that when I landed on my knee, the asphalt scratched right through the denim and ripped it, leaving me with a bleeding knee and a back-to-grunge fashion statement. Ripped jeans at the knees, yeah! With bloody stains, even more yeah!

Sometimes, it can be attributed to plain absentmindedness. I have been known to stand up from my workstation with a sudden movement, only to be seated back again because I have not removed my neckband headphones. As a result, my keyboard and phone toppled over from the table. And I had to replace my headphones because the other ear wouldn't play already from too much yanking, I presume. My keyboard has also been replaced but it was because I spilt iced tea on it. The systems administrators had to send a reminder to all employees to be careful of spilling any liquid on our computer hardware. Yikes.

My klutziness is notorious among my friends. It is a source of puzzlement and entertainment for them. The most recent instance of which is an bruise on my right arm a few weeks ago. It initially elicited a lot of concern and worry as it looked very ugly and forbidding. But when they found out where I got it from, they become incredulous and eventually bawled over with laughter. I tell them the truth. I got the bruise from hitting a tricycle sidecar.

It was parked.

Thank you, ladies and gentlemen! You've been a great audience! I'll be here the rest of the week!

Wide Open Spaces

There are a lot of purportedly benefits of physical exercise such as jogging or brisk walking. Stronger physical constitution, healthier heart, weight loss - among others. But, me? I jog to be somewhere else.

Sure, it'd be great if I gain all those positive effects. But mostly, I do it just to see wide open spaces. Just to see the sky above. There's a horizon of high rise buildings nearby (including our own office building), but you can overlook that. You look way up and you see the infinite sky. You don't hear passing vehicles with their blaring horns and roaring engines. There are no shoving commuters. Just a handful of fellow joggers who mind their own business and just go round and round the oval. Like clockwork with different paces.

Today was the first time in the last few months since I went to the oval. I used to go weekly with Luz and Macha. One of the most memorable times was when we went there and it rained unbelievably hard. We got stranded in the covered platform. The soccer teams who were playing in the field continued with their game and we just stood there to watch and took turns to take shots of them from my camera phone. The stadium lights as they hit the rain made a pretty sight.

When it's not raining, it's a nice place where you can write, too. Just sit down on floor, on the outermost track with a pen and notebook and just take in the openness. It's a literal breath of fresh air and a change from the sometimes claustrophobic environment. A different perspective is a good perspective for someone like me who needs to be more imaginative and write better.

I alternately jog and walk every couple of meters or so. I don't have the endurance to keep a fast pace all throughout and there's the issue of my nagging right knee, which I hurt from stupidly tripping a couple of months back (don't ask how). I listened to my play list as I went around the oval today. Maybe I should've customized the order of my songs to match the rhythm of the steps I take. All I remember is that the last track playing after I decided to finally stop and slump down on the floor was “My Favorite Mistake”. And I thought it was an appropriate closing credit soundtrack to the day as I sweated profusely and the ache of not-so-well-conditioned muscles started to settle in.

But as I hung my head to rest, I get a glimpse of the dark sky above. And took a deep breath. Even just the smell of fresh grass made it worth all the trouble.

Mang Jhonny

Araw-araw akong nagtatraysikel papunta sa sakayan ng FX. Malayo ang tinitirhan ko mula sa opisinang pinapasukan ko. Madalas, isang oras akong nagcocommute. Kung tatanghaliin ng gising o kung mamalasin at matrapik, minsan inaabot ako ng dalawang oras.

Trese ang pamasahe mula sa labas ng subdivision namin hanggang sa sakayan. Halos doble ng minimum fare, kaya matatantya nyo na kung gaano ito kalayo. Nagiging pamilyar na sa akin ang mga mukha ng mga traysikel drayber sa araw-araw kong pagsakay.

Isa si Mang Jhonny sa madalas kong makita sa paradahan. Ganyan ang pagkakabaybay ng pangalan nya, ayon sa rehistro na nakasabit sa traysikel nya. Matanda na si Mang Jhonny. Kulubot ang balat, maitim, kulot ang buhok, at hindi matangkad. Madalas manipis na kamiseta ang suot nya at magrasang shorts. Butas-butas na ang goma nyang sapatos. Sa TODA terminal, pumipila ang mga traysikel para makakuha ng pasahero. Habang naghihintay, dispatcher rin si Mang Jhonny.

Una ko syang napuna nung minsan sakay ako ng traysikel nya at nagpakrudo sya sa isang gasolinahan. Kakataas lang ng presyo ng gas ilang oras lang ang nakakalipas at dismayadong dismayado si Mang Jhonny sa balitang ito. “Anak ng ... Taas ng taas ang gasolina, di naman kami pwede magtaas ng pamasahe, lintik na buhay ito, oo...”

Laspag na ang traysikel ni Mang Jhonny. Kalawangin ang mga bakal, tagpi-tagpi ang upuan at nirecycle na trapal ng mga advertisement ang bubong nya na tumutulo kapag umuulan.Kung nakaparada ito sa isang tambakan, hindi mahirap isipin na baka pwede na itong ipatimbang sa junk shop.

Pero kahit naghihingalo na tricycle ni Mang Jhonny, mabait naman sya sa mga pasahero. Sa katunayan, namumukhaan nya na ako at di nao kailangan pang tanungin kung saan ako bababa. Di nya rin hinahayaan masingitan ako sa pila ng mga ayaw maghintay ng kanilang pagkakataon. Kapag ginagabi ako ng uwi at konti na lang ang mga traysikel sa pila, pinipilit nya ang mga drayber na kunin akong pasahero kahit di na nila ruta. At sinasabihan nya rin akong tandaan ang numero ng traysikel kung sakaling may maiwan ako, gaya ng isang ale na minsang humingi ng tulong sa kanya sa naiwang wallet. Daig pa ni Mang Jhonny sa pagiging maasikaso ang maraming mga empleyado sa pampublikong tanggapan.

May isang araw na di si Mang Jhonny ang nagmaneho, kundi ang anak nya, siguro mga disi-syete anyos pa lang. Sakay lang si Mang Jhonny sa likod habang nagbibigay ng mga utos. "Tingnan mo magkabalang gilid mo. Maging alerto ka sa mga dumaraan. Wag na wag kang magaalinlangan sa interseksyon, tuluy-tuloy lang at nang di ka mabitin sa gitna."

Pagdating sa gate ng subdivision namin, inabot ko bayad ko sa kanya, sabay sabi ng, “Salamat po.”

Madami akong natutunan sa mga simpleng kapwa tao na nakakasalimuha ko araw-araw. Di lang trese pesos ang halaga niyon.

Unconditional

I'm convinced that sometimes life plays out events with undeniable cohesion just to make a point come across to you as clearly as possible.

It was another one of those I-don't-know-how-we-got-to-this-topic conversations over dinner with Gary. We were talking about parental love. We were talking about how easy it is for a parent to love a good child. It's when they love the problematic ones - the ones who consistently screw up all time - that proves how much love parents are capable of. And we could only surmise the depth of that kind of love. I've been told I'll never understand it until I become a parent myself.

Later that evening, I was waiting for the FX to be filled with passengers when a father, his two kids, and a yaya clambered up the backseat with me. The dad was in his early to mid-thirties and he spoke English when he addresses his kids, a toddler son and a pre-school daughter. He called his son "mahal ko" and his daughter "ate".

The children were loud. No, make that: the children were LOUD. And restless. And quarrelsome. And loud. Did I mention they were loud? The dad gave them a warning at the start of the trip. "Don't misbehave, guys, ok? We're not the only ones in the backseat." But after the kids exchanged mean words to each other and a number of poking at each other, the warning ended up unheeded. And also - do kids really have to repeat every line they say? I mean every line. Twice. At the least. The girl, who was a little older, was somewhat manageable. But the boy was everywhere. Standing up, twisting on his seat, pulling at everyone's clothes. It's amazing how many things a three-year old can do in that cramped space.

The dad took a phone call on the way. I couldn't help but overhear the phone conversation. It was a business proposal. Mr. Dad was politely declining any networking endeavor since his time is divided between his day job and his family. And besides, he said, he was more inclined to creative work than in sales. The kids continued to wreak havoc in the backseat while he tried to get on with the phone call. And not once did the dad tell them off. I was awed at his patience. Ok, maybe I was more incredulous he didn't find it annoying to conduct a conversation above the ruckus.

After the call, he quietly tells his son, "Mahal ko, you have been extraordinarily naughty today." The kid who was sitting on his lap, looks up to him with wide eyes. The dad kisses him on the forehead and says, "But I still love you."

The boy falls silent and after a few moments says, "I'm sleepy, Dad. Sing me 'hush now'."

The dad began to sing a lullaby unfamiliar to me. With lines like, "Hush now, my darling child... into a place where there is no harm... with cuddly clouds..."

The FX atmosphere experienced its first moments of silence. And I find myself thinking, "I get the point."

"Rain"

He found himself grinning, in spite of the circumstances.

The rain came pouring down suddenly. Perfect cue, he thought. The day was clear moments ago and then – seemingly out of nowhere - heaven's tears. Heaven was bawling, more like it.

Office workers in corporate attires hurried to take shelter, trying to maintain whatever poise and dignity they could manage as they clambered under awnings, entryways, canopies. The austere business center was covered in a blanket of what looked like static-laden television reception.

For what seemed to be slow-passing moments, he stood there at the middle of the unfolding chaos, trying to absorb life's ironic humor. He felt like he was part of a scene in one of the movies he often watches. But he wore the wrong expression on his face. He was grinning. And protagonists do not end up grinning under the rain after chasing the girl but not catching up with her.

But she was not an ordinary, random girl. Not just another pretty face in the crowd who has caught his eye. Far from being so. This was her - the ubiquitous presence in his past and the continual haunting in his present. She who kept a hold on his life long after he had convinced himself that he was free from everything she meant to him. There are days when he believed it, and there are those when he can't. For some reason, that day, he was overwhelmed with a nameless need to approach her. Say hello. See her up close. Maybe even shake her hand, if he felt casual enough.

He wondered how well he could play the part of a grown-up, unflurried by the past shared between the two of them. Besides, it shouldn't be so hard, he reasoned. After all, they have been good friends once before. Before the heartbreaks, tears, and eventual goodbyes. He felt he could manage a nonchalant air. It need not be an awkward situation. He was an adult now; his character, he hoped, has been strengthened by the time and space they spent apart. Maybe enough time has passed for them to reconsider their interrupted friendship.

Fuelled by these optimistic possibilities, he mindlessly paid his fare and got off the cab. And as the screenplay scene called for it, our lead character frantically searched the crowd for her familiar face.

Familiar. Hers will always be a familiar face. At the back of his head, he felt that if he'd lived to meet a thousand more people, her face will never lose its familiarity. He could also recognize her scent anywhere - even in public elevators as it hits him and leaves him reeling from the impact of sudden memories. And he'd try to seek the source. Which one? Was it her? Or her? Until he couldn't sense it anymore and he'd be left hanging on to every breath of the still air all by himself. Left hanging with the images unseen to others but vivid in his own head.

And once again, he sought her. How many times had he been in this situation - seeking her? He lost count. He seems to be always trying to find her, the answers she withheld, and the explanations she didn't deem necessary to share.

This time, he searched for her in the crowd of commuters, pedestrians, bystanders. She seemed to have vanished. He began to think whether he made her image up in his head or he simply mistook her for someone else. Still, he spun around, bent on finding her. Which one? Was it her? Or her? This is not how this scene is meant to end. It should have a sense of completion, maybe even vindication.

Moments pass and at last, he finally saw her. A figure walking briskly away. He tried to quicken his steps to catch up, but didn't dare call out after her. The movement of his steps matched the rhythm of his heartbeat. But it was futile. The last he saw was her back disappearing behind the glass door. When it closed after her, he was faced with his own reflection – somewhat dishevelled and obviously out of place.

He can never seem to catch up with her. Never have. He had always felt she was so evanescent even before when she was such a real and tangible part of his life. That quality seemed to have magnified more now that she is part of his past.

The thought hit him as the first drops of rain collided with the ground. Heaven was sympathizing with him, perhaps. Or making fun of him. He decided it must be humor. And he found himself grinning, in spite of the circumstances.

"Polytony"

It's Monday morning. And I'm home, surfing the net, uploading pictures, updating my dormant blog, reading Smoke and Mirrors of Neil Gaiman while my ailing computer tries to catch up with every mouseclick, alt+tab, and other keystroke.

I am on leave from work. For one week. One whole week. No work. No coding. No program comments. No technical investigations. No Eclipse, no Oracle, no EDC, not even Jabber. Ok, maybe I'll miss Jabber. Or specifically, the people whom I jab with. I've gotten used to greeting everyone good morning in Jabber.

The plan is to just break the monotony. Of course, that was not the official reason in my leave application. But I'm sure my team leads (Yes, that is supposed to be plural) would understand, even if I stated it that way. I've been working for over two years with no real vacation yet. I have no particular plans to travel this week. Besides, I feel it wouldn't really be fun without my travel buddies. And travel usually requires another vacation for rest. Me, I'm just going to stay at home. Catch up on my reading, my writing, my movie-watching. Catch my breath. Catch up with myself.

I was up at 5.30 this morning. But unlike other mornings, I was not in a hurry. Took a bath, read a couple of pages from one of the books I brought home. My Mama and I took a leisurely walk. We were in the quest of the best pancit palabok within a two-subdivision radius. We found it in a carinderia-slash-garage of Aling Fe. Best of all, only ten pesos! What a deal! :)

Walking back home, we passed by a roadside vegetable stand. While my Mama puttered around the cabbages, tomatoes, and what-have-you, I took pictures of the veggies. These are the same pictures I uploaded as an album in Multiply. I ended up lugging almost five kilos worth of vegetation. I just wanted fresh air, I got more than I bargained for - arm workout.

There's so much things I want to do this week. Meet up with old friends. Go finally see my dentist. Watch sunrises and sunsets. Take long walks by myself. Dusks. I don't know. It feels like I have this week to like my life and myself again. Reassure myself that I'm ok.

I'm thinking of it as a reboot. And I've just hit Ctrl+Alt+Del. (Aargh, I guess my vocabulary hasn't caught up with the whole concept yet.)

Matches and Gasoline

And so here comes that day again. Freaking Feb 14. And before anyone would accuse me of being this bitter, unattached, and scorned female, let me just put up my defenses for a minute, ok?

I most certainly am not a bitter person, ladies and gentlemen. Although, I am the the perfect candidate - since, after all, I am single, already in my mid-twenties, and I do basically distrust guys. I'm not bitter. I'm mostly... uhm - I'm looking for an erudite word here, but the term "annoyed" keeps on volunteering itself for usage.

So, let's settle with that. I am annoyed.

I guess this is the point where I pose the rhetorical question, "Why?" (Oh, how I hate being predictable.) So why am I annoyed at this supposedly love-filled time of the year? Where everywhere you look, you find roses, chocolates, greeting cards, and any other commercially lucrative product that can be stamped with a "Happy Valentines". Thanks to those enterprising companies who found a way to cash in on the gullible sheep mentality of the human race, the idea of love is now a commodity. No different from the season's latest fashion or technology's latest innovation. Price tagged, bought, tied with a bow, and sent. Signed, sealed, delivered, it's yours. Now, I'm not a socialist. I'm all for capitalism. I just don't like the idea of love being cheapened somewhat by all this circus.

And there's that nagging pressure of having love in my own life during this time of year. I get these concerns on my single status from those I interact with. Am I more single on Feb 14 than any other day of the year? Why do I get more question on why am I single? Why haven't I found the right one? Why do I distrust guys?

See? This is why I am annoyed. I don't have the patience to repeatedly explain that I happen to like being single, that I am not actively looking for anyone to mess up my life - oh, sorry - to be in my life, and I distrust guys - especially charming ones - because most of time, they just end up being dense, shallow, narcissistic jerks.

Interesting. My passionate ranting has caused me to see red all over. Finally, I have something in common with this heaven-forsaken occasion.

Happy Valentine's Day, people. For whatever that greeting's worth, coming from me.

--

The entry title is from a song by the band Live - the title and exact lyrics of which escape me at the moment. Something like, "It's amazing what we can do with love. With some matches and gasoline - do with love". If any of you happen to know the song, please do let me know. Thanks.

Indecisions

What is it about being at this point in our lives -- mid-twenties, I guess -- that renders us conflicted with decisions. Switching careers. Migrating abroad. Settling down.

Seems that there are too many crossroads to ponder and choose from. It's more tangible at this age. I am explicitly aware that whatever I decide now, will definitely make a lasting impact long term in my life. And I'm overwhelmed, frankly.

Who, what, where do I want to be?

Is it too pathetic to admit that I haven't figured it out just yet? I have my desires. I don't have a gameplan.

I spend ten to fifteen hours a day, six days a week in front of a computer. Not exactly unhappy, but incapable of finding time to find myself. I've always made that as an excuse. If I had the all the time in the world for discernment, would I finally get it?

Sad thought if I don't. But I need not worry, apparently, since I do not even have the time to blog sensibly - I won't have enough time to get all depressed.

The status quo works out so perfectly.