xkcd series: "Small Talk"

Precipitation

Every monumental turning point in my life is accompanied by rain. When I die, I am convinced that there will be a downpour. It will be the most appropriate ending to a life lived like a drenched person with an unused umbrella. How ironic. Or disgustingly accurate.

In any case, always check your local weather news.

The Checklist

Lately, when I have enough free time, I find myself hearing mass during my lunch hour. Maybe it’s true what they say. People find Him especially when they’re in deep in sh*t. Well, those are not the exact words. Something more elegant sounding. But you get my drift. Besides, I don’t think there’s any indignity in admitting that I need help of a higher nature. Ultimate level of appeal, so to speak.

During weekdays, there’s a 12.15 mass at the EDSA Shrine. This is what I rush off to catch. I take an FX and walk the length of Galleria. I usually sit at the center-most back pew. I find peace in not being with anyone, not knowing anyone there.

The first reading today is one of my favorite chapters in the Bible - which I’m sure also a lot of people love. First Corinthians Chapter 13. Apart from its profound meaning, I like it a lot because it is well-written. Expressive. Succinct. Elegant. I’m sure even Strunk and White will commend St. Paul.

Maybe a lot of people think love is anything they wish it to be. I believe this chapter is the definitive checklist. When others ask me if what they’re feeling is love (you’d be surprised to know how many people volunteer this kind of personal information to me) – I just go back to this chapter. Is it patient? Kind? Jealous? Righteous? …

You’d be surprised to know how many people realize what they thought was love is actually heavily disguised pride. Or worse, selfishness. Ok, extreme example: Just think of any soap opera villain who is obsessed with the protagonist. Is that love? I think not.

I expect dissents, of course. But this is my opinion, and last I checked, it’s still my blog. And I run the risk of being thought of as a pedant or a prude. Sheesh, I suddenly feel like I’m ostracizing everyone. I’m just saying, it is a big deal. Love. Not just the romantic variety. Parental, platonic, patriotic – whichever. We should not just say it because it’s… cinematic. Heaven knows how much Hollywood has ruined our perception on things.

But that’s another story.

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I Corinthians 13:1-13

"If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

"Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

"Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love."

Incorruptible Tomatoes

We have a long-standing science experiment in our apartment, Luz and I. It started the week we moved in. That is almost four months ago.

The primary subject of such experiment is (spotlight, please) a pair of tomatoes.

A brief background of this scientific undertaking. The tomatoes in question entered our lives as innocent vegetables (or fruits?) meant to be sliced and served with salted red eggs as part of an effort to escape the daily routine of dining in fastfood burger chains that serve unhealthy grease with every meal.

Somehow, amidst all the trouble of adjusting to a new place and in the hubbub of everyday living, the tomatoes were left forgotten in an inconspicuous corner of our table. It was probably in the fourth week that Luz noted that the tomatoes were still as fresh as the day she bought them. Without refrigeration, or any cling-wrap nor vacuum pack. Smooth, bright orange, unblemished.

Her first instinct is food irradiation. Mine is… well, I probably didn’t think too much of it, at this point. I was pretty convinced it would spoil soon. So we didn’t throw them out and just waited for nature to take its course. So weeks went by, and we just let the tomatoes be - a constant pair of orange orbs on top of our ref, quietly sitting between the pancake mix and its distant relative, a pack of tomato sauce.

After two months, this prolonged shelf-life can no longer be ignored. These freaky tomatoes were outlasting every perishable thing we put in our refrigerator. They were too weird to eat by now (who would want to eat something like those, anyway?) but too interesting to throw out. Eventually, we address them as “Ang Mga Mahiwagang Kamatis” and thus, the experiment commenced which aims to find a conclusion to the ultimate question:

How long will these tomatoes last?

Yeah, ok. Not very scientifically relevant. We wouldn’t find out the cause of its non-spoilage or the effect if we did consume them. But hey, these tomatoes may be freaky cool, but we actually have lives. Well, most of the time.

To make gazillions of money, Luz considers the idea of selling these tomatoes to Dr. Vicki Belo. Behold, a product of nature that unaffected by time, temperature, humidity, and the unkemptness of the studio apartment it resides in. Kept pristine by heaven-knows-what, with an unknown stubborness in not yielding to its decay . That’s up to the Belo Medical Group to find out.

Just this evening, Luz wondered aloud whether the tomatoes would last til Christmas. Asking why she wanted to know, Allen joked whether Luz was going to get them holiday presents.

I’m thinking a sweater. But something in a neutral shade. Very few colors go with orange, you know.

Presently Missing

I woke up from the beep of an incoming text message. It is Saturday afternoon. I got home that morning and was exhausted from a week-long load of work, of non-work -- of life. Weekend afternoon naps are a luxury that I seldom get to enjoy.

It is a short message. "I miss u, Cee! L0ve u!"

Only my good friend Tago calls me Cee. He got this from reading "Atonement" where one of the characters is my namesake, Cecilia, but is nicknamed "Cee".

I reply, "We just saw each other this morning. :) But I do love you, too, Tags. Everything ok?"

Yes, I am a pessimist and a paranoid. I often assume the worst in everything.

"Yeah. Namiss lng kta. Hehe."

Aww. It was such a sweet thing to say and I was touched. I feel so blessed to have friends who sincerely care about me. The past couple of weeks - I feel like I've been drifting in and out of reality. Or ascending and descending levels of reality, if it is hierarchical.

To me, life becomes real in varied forms: in sleepless nights when I lay awake worrying, in church homilies I escape to during lunch hour, in the throbbing pain in my nape from leaning too close to the monitor, in an SQL package I am updating, in my mother's tender hand as I prick her finger for another blood test.

Reality is the moment when I realize I've been spacing out in too many conversations I am a part of. That I've been close to abusing my friends' patience and good humor.

"I miss just hanging out with you, Let's plan the next major group activity soon. :)"

He ends it with, "Agree!"

back. back. exit. keypad lock.

I try to remember old realities of less complicated days, temporarily available only in short Saturday afternoon naps.