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.

Crow is now (offline, offline)

A teammate of mine recently resigned from work to transfer to the "other" company. In the office, we jokingly refer to his new company as the "Happy Place", deliberately changing what the actual acronym stands for. You do the math. (I feel like it's bad form to mention the name outright.) One of the reasons he's transferring is that he wanted to be nearer his girlfriend.

Our sendoff brunch for Patrick was a bittersweet affair. I can't believe I just described something as a "bittersweet affair". I haven't written in a long while and I'm resorting to cliches. Pathetic. Anyway. It's been more than a year that we have all been working together in our project and we are known as one of the closest teams in the company. So it isn't really overboard to say that it was somewhat a big deal that one of us is leaving. But it turned out to be a lighthearted, cool affair. We laughed while recounting funny moments we shared. The screwups we did. The time we generated that fake urgent email addressed to our team leader for her congratulatory promotion surprise party.

It's tradition to send a farewell email addressed to all the employees when someone resigns. Usually, general thank yous and goodbyes to the company as a whole. In Patrick's case, however, early on his last day, he mentioned that he wanted everyone to know the real people behind each of us, his teammates.

I was the only other person left in our block when Patrick logged out for the last time. He came by my workstation and we hugged. I told him I wasn't going to mushy since we'd still see each other around. Of course, he said, and finally left.

And then his farewell email popped in my inbox. It was a long email. He had a paragraph for each one of us in the team, mentioning our trademark characteristics and quoting our patented lines ("Are you mocking me?" - Karl; "O, ha? Sabong panlaba!" - Virg). It was hilarious. He thanked us for the sendoff, for the gifts, for the card we made him with all our pictures. He said that no matter where he goes, he will always look for the feeling of being part of our team. Aaww. That was so sweet. It was so touching without being sappy. In his email, he answered the question I asked him that he was unable to answer early that morning. What his best moment was. He wrote that it was that time not long ago that he finally got to see me frazzled.

The next day, a lot of our officemates came up to our team to joke about the Patrick's farewell email. One of them asked me whether one of the things Patrick said was true. I told her laughingly that he was just probably misled.

Patrick thanked me for being a good person. And that because of me, he is inspired sometimes to be a good person himself. Just inspire and only sometimes ("hehehe").

That was sooo Patrick.

Someone's Turning Eight Today

I'm fond of kids. Not in the i-want-one-of-my-own way nor in the way the witch in Hansel and Gretel likes kids. Naah, not like that. I like kids because they're fun to look at. Except when they're throwing tantrums and making their parents transform into... well, not-so-parentlike people.

But in general, they're so amusing. There was one kid, for instance, who was so sleepy she wouldn't wake up even while her mother was rubbing her cheeks. They were about to get off the shuttle already and the mother was starting to get flustered since she was also lugging grocery bags. The daughter was so oblivious to her surroundings. The heck with everything, she's sleeping. Good for her. (Not-so-good for the mom, though.)

I was on an elevator with two brothers, probably eight and ten years old. They were with their mom, but she was too busy with her PDA. The boys were pretending that their dad was invisible and that whenever the elevator door closes and opens, they would guess whether their dad just came in or just went out. Cool kids.

There's actually a kid right now beside me in this internet cafe workstation who's poking me with a new unopened toothbrush. I've been waving at him and saying hello, but so far, the only response I get is a pair of wide eyes. Unblinking too, if I might add.

I was walking earlier today when I saw a middle-aged lady carrying a box of cake with a number eight candle taped on top of the box. I like kids so much that they amuse me even if I don't actually see them. I could just imagine the look on the kid's face when the lady comes home and sticks that candle in the middle of the cake and lights it. Priceless.

Wherever you are, happy birthday, kid. Have a great life.

The Fspecs Weekend

The security guard at the mall's entrance greeted me with the standard "good afternoon, ma'am" and gestured as usual that I was to open my bag for inspection. Sure. Wasn't bringing any explosives at the time. I found out, though, that I brought my fspecs with me. Not that it came as a surprise. I did place them in the bag myself. But at that particular moment when I saw them, it was so... unexpected. I was overwhelmed by how geeky it was to have a thick bundle of fspecs in one's bag while going inside the mall on a Saturday afternoon.

And, oh, of course, I've singlehandedly ostracized readers not from my field. Fspecs - or functional specifications - are what I'm being paid to do. Well, partly. It's not all I do, anyhow. They're blueprints, if you will, of the software systems we build. I'm not sure if I'm allowed to take them out of the office and I'm not even sure if I'll even have time to read them over the weekend. I'm sure though, that it's not... hmm, healthy. It's almost a disservice to one's self to read fspecs over the weekend - gosh, the weekend - instead of watching DVDs, catching up on sleep, getting fresh air, strolling in the park, saving endangered species, reenacting the opening scene of The Sound of Music ("... the hills are alive..."), taking a trip around the world, working for world peace...

Oh-kay.

I think I brought the freaking fspecs with me because my deadline's on thursday and I still have no idea what each button click is supposed to do. And being the obsessive-compulsive geek that I am, just the mere thought that I have the documents in my near proximity somewhat settles my nagging, stressed out mind.

Have a nice weekend, everyone. If I can't have it, I'm wishing it for you, at least.

Fifteen Years Later

I'm meeting my gradeschool bestfriend next month. It's been almost a year since I started work here in Manila but we've never had the chance to see each other yet. I guess we were too busy. But also partly because I am a little hesitant. For a whole lot of reasons.

First of all, I haven't seen her since we were in the fifth grade. Ten years old. I mean, that's a whole lot of time. Where do we start to catch up? Too many things have happened. How do you rank the most relevant ones? Did anything relevant happen, in the first place?

I am overwhelmed by the idea of being confronted with who I was and who I've become. I think that seeing someone so close to me from my past would force me to evaluate my life. A crash course on My Life 101. What happened, what changed. Did I become who I wanted to be when I was ten? I don't exactly remember what I wanted to be when I was a kid. I wasn't consistent, that's why. At one point, I wanted to be a doctor (Or I think it was just my mother who wanted me to become one). I don't remember wanting to spend six days a week in front of a computer, but that's what I ended up doing now.

I'm not worried that my life would pale in comparison to my friends. Because I like my life, despite the occassional annoyances. I've been through so many screwups in the past that I feel like I'm fairly equipped to face whatever's ahead.

I think my ten-year-old self wouldn't be too disappointed how I turned out to be.

Bird-Lover

Don't you think it's amazing how little our very own parents know about us, but where it essentially counts, they're the best people who understands us thoroughly in and out?

I'm not making a sweeping generalization. But most parents really don't keep the same close connection with their children when they hit adolescence. I think they get fixated on their kids' childhood when they still had a hold on what they think or do. I suspect that my mother still thinks that my penmanship remains cartoony with large loops (It is most certainly not like that anymore, I'd like to inform you all.). Or my dad still thinks that I am deathly afraid of walking alone in the streets. He never forgot the time I ran back home when he asked me to buy suha all by myself for the first time (I was around ten.).

What are things about you that your own parents don't know about? I bet there's a whole lot. I once wrote a short story about my friend, Ryan, based on something he told his mother. (I hope he doesn't mind me mentioning this here.) He said that she would never understand him because she doesn't even know what books he reads. Some people will think that knowing the books is not a big deal. But it is. It's just a matter of realizing that certain books can change someone's outlook in life.

My writing is something my family doesn't know about, or just know superficially. But this matter is something that deserves its own different story. Its own different novel, for crying out loud. I have so many unresolved issues with this, which I hope I'd get over someday. I'll keep you posted.

Anyway, I was trying to get to my point (and I do have one, despite the deceptive aimless meandering) that sometimes it doesn't matter that much if your parents don't know anymore what music you listen to, or who your new friends are, or what your views on suicide and religion are.

There's this cosmic energy, if you will, that binds us with our parents that never fails to inform them the essentials of our own beings. Our happiness, our sadness, our anger, our frustrations, our peace of mind. They're our personal resident psychics in this world and lifetime, that even without solicited consultation, they will be able to point out how you are and more importantly, who you are.

How did this epiphany hit me? It was New Year's Eve, I think, when I was reading an old children's encyclopedia off my aunt's bookshelves. The whole two-inch thick volume was all about the evolution and appreciation of visual art written as an instructional material to children and young teens. It has always been an absorbing read ever since I was a kid and I invariably browsed through it each time we came over their house. I didn't notice that my mother was keenly observing me until she interrupted my reading. She had this pensive look on her face.

She told me in our family's patented hodge-podge English-Tagalog-Visayan mode of communication, which I'm going to simplify here for readability: "Bom, you have a pure spirit. You don't know any midpoints or in-betweens. When you're happy, you heartily laugh out loud. But when you're angry, you're not afraid to show it, too. When you read, you get so absorbed in it. Just like in everything else you do, the world around you ceases to matter."

And of course, that merited the most graceful response from me: a snort.

That's what's amazing about it. She could sum me up into something so simple that it's almost right. Who else but one's own mother can cut through delusional complexities of one's self and just trim it down to the most rudimentary things? How did she come up with these things, anyway? To think that these profound insightful assessment came from the same person who not so long ago sharply turned to me in mid-conversation and in a shocked voice asked me, "You're allergic to alcohol?! How did you even know you are?" (Another different story, people. And no, she wasn't referring to ethyl or isopropyl alcohol.)

Alas, I am not the deep, multifaceted, angsty, misunderstood individual I thought I was all along. Apparently, according to my own mother, I'm pure of spirit. Whatever that means.

Pedestrians

It was the afternoon of December 24. Christmas Eve. She and her mother were doing last-minute grocery shopping in one of the convenience stores downtown. Items that were forgotten. A few cans of cream and pineapples. As expected, the place was packed. People busily moving along the aisles. Long queues at the cashier.

Finally, after paying at the counter, they emerge out of the air-conditioned store and into the loud and crowded street. Traffic was uncommonly heavy as ambulant vendors placed their goods way beyond the sidewalk, encroaching their display space into the narrow street itself. Nobody seemed to mind. The throngs of passersby were thankful that they could buy their fruits without even going inside the market. The tricycle drivers - those who braved the slow outflow of the route - also didn't mind the traffic, as they were a lot of passengers to pick up, anyway. Even the traffic enforcers themselves didn't mind. After all, it was Christmas Eve.

Her mother paused at the curb and looked wistfully around the festive chaos all around. She then gave out an audible sigh and shook her head.

"What's wrong?" She asked her mother.

Without responding, her mother took her by the hand as they stepped down the curb to cross the street. Halfway, they both paused mid-street to let a tricycle pass by. "I just remembered your uncle, that's all." Her mother dismissingly said.

The daughter nodded and reassuringly held her mother's hand tightly. They both continued crossing until they reached the opposite side. Wiping something from her eyes, she quietly told her daughter, "I just realized it's the first Christmas without my brother."

Up ahead, a vendor was hollering that her apples were only ten pesos apiece.

Snapshots of memories

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.

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.