So I came to work today and found that my machine is not at my desk. The monitor is still there, but the system unit is nowhere in sight. The only indication that it was ever there was the remnants of unplugged power cables hanging in the desk.
The pictures and notes that were stuck by magnets on the system unit now lay flat on my table, beside the origami and toys that were also on top of it. I stood a good couple of seconds unmoving, still wearing my bag, trying to rack my brains for a reason. I was in this state when Karl came up from behind and in his usual bickering tone said, "O! Asan machine mo? Sinesante ka na!"
Of course not. Well, hopefully not, I thought to myself.
So where is my mysterious missing machine? Fortunately, one of my workstation neighbors informed me that it was the admin who took Grackle for transfer. I approached the admin desk and asked where and why it was moved. Apparently, they received an email late last night that I was the one who was going to train the new batch of developers for the first module of web development. Actually, this was the original plan but I was pulled out from training duty for some other task.
Yes, I train HTML, CSS, and Javascript. My site is so lame that it's almost embarrassing to admit it openly. This one I use is even just a downloaded theme, for crying out loud. But somewhat as a defense, just know that we focus more on the the code structure and not the aesthetics. (Pathetic excuse, I know.)
Anyway, I confirmed with Miss Tara whether there was indeed a mix-up or if I was really going to train that day, for some reason. She told me, "Ok na, nag-email na ako. Sinisi na kita."
Oh. It was embarrassed to be told that it was my fault all along. Was I was supposed to inform the admin that I was pulled out from training? I started to apologize but I eventually found out that Miss Tara meant that she CC'ed me in the email. Not that she blamed me. CC - carbon copy. Sisi - put to blame.
Haay. Miscommunication. Look how that turned out for Romeo and Juliet. At least, the only tragedy for me is just the few frantic and paranoid moments of unemployment.
--
*Grackle is my machine name. It is a kind of blackbird. Our company names our network machines after animals, plants, and sometimes mythical creatures like Nazgul and Basilisk. Wouldn't it be cool if we had Marsh-wiggle or Dufflepud? :)
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Elevator Blues
I have poor luck with elevators. It is officially one of my life's little annoyances.
At work, our office building actually has a decent number of elevator units. As far as I know, sixteen for each tower. Half of which serves the low zone, the other half for the high. But for some reason, a few of them are often out of order. So the zones are bunched up and before we reach the 28th, we have traversed quite a number of other floors.
And there's another thing about them that bothers me. I think some of my fellow software developers have also commented about the weird algorithm that our elevators have. Or the lack thereof. You sometimes see three units at a time heading down simultaneously. And it's frustrating whenever a lot of people are waiting to head up. Especially if it's almost ten and Azeus people are rushing to beat the OTS. :)
I also spent a lot of time in the hospital last year. And Medical City has really atrocious elevator service. And they're also aware of it. They have signs on the lobby apologizing for their elevators' (in)capacity. In the sign, they also included well-worded encouragements to take the stairs because it's good for the heart and overall well-being. Right.
The first few times, I tried to wait. But patience is not a virtue I had the luxury of keeping because I always had to rush to get something or to be somewhere. In the long run, I took the stairs, even five flights of it, just to save time.
But the elevator here in our apartment building takes the cake. It is old and tiny. It looks like it was hijacked from one of the sad MRT stations. When you go up, you have to press down; and you have to press down when you're going up. The fan goes on only when you're about to get off. The floor buttons are almost falling off. The control panel cover is secured with masking tape which is almost always ripped - exposing the switches and knobs underneath, crudely taped with handwritten labels: "man. up", "man. down", "lights", "fan", etc.
To top it all off, it has a sickness. Our elevator is moody. It hates our floor on some days. And on some specific hours.
Our room is on the fifth floor. And the elevator's idea of "opening" on the fifth floor is abruptly stopping, giving a few moments of violent shakes, separating the doors three inches apart, and then - nothing else. When this happens to you for the first time, you begin to contemplate your mortality. You'll start to think whether you're doomed to spend the last minutes of your life in this heaven-forsaken, lousy excuse for technology.
The first time it happened, my roommate actually yelled my name very loudly through the three-inch gap. Unfortunately, no one could hear her from the hallway.
But now, we have an established workaround. After the elevator's "turbulence" in the attempt of opening on our floor, we hit the close doors button and then the 6th floor button. It closes and goes up to the next floor where its doors smoothly (yes, smoothly) opens. Then we take the stairs down one flight.
So now I find myself muttering when I take the elevator, "please open, please open, please open." Sometimes my muttering ends with a sigh of relief, sometimes with a low curse. I have a friend on the sixth floor and I think about dropping by at her place just to make the detour trip more worthwhile, whenever the elevator is in one of its mood.
Well, at the very least, I can console myself that I'll have a healthy heart. Nothing about a cheerful humor, though.
At work, our office building actually has a decent number of elevator units. As far as I know, sixteen for each tower. Half of which serves the low zone, the other half for the high. But for some reason, a few of them are often out of order. So the zones are bunched up and before we reach the 28th, we have traversed quite a number of other floors.
And there's another thing about them that bothers me. I think some of my fellow software developers have also commented about the weird algorithm that our elevators have. Or the lack thereof. You sometimes see three units at a time heading down simultaneously. And it's frustrating whenever a lot of people are waiting to head up. Especially if it's almost ten and Azeus people are rushing to beat the OTS. :)
I also spent a lot of time in the hospital last year. And Medical City has really atrocious elevator service. And they're also aware of it. They have signs on the lobby apologizing for their elevators' (in)capacity. In the sign, they also included well-worded encouragements to take the stairs because it's good for the heart and overall well-being. Right.
The first few times, I tried to wait. But patience is not a virtue I had the luxury of keeping because I always had to rush to get something or to be somewhere. In the long run, I took the stairs, even five flights of it, just to save time.
But the elevator here in our apartment building takes the cake. It is old and tiny. It looks like it was hijacked from one of the sad MRT stations. When you go up, you have to press down; and you have to press down when you're going up. The fan goes on only when you're about to get off. The floor buttons are almost falling off. The control panel cover is secured with masking tape which is almost always ripped - exposing the switches and knobs underneath, crudely taped with handwritten labels: "man. up", "man. down", "lights", "fan", etc.
To top it all off, it has a sickness. Our elevator is moody. It hates our floor on some days. And on some specific hours.
Our room is on the fifth floor. And the elevator's idea of "opening" on the fifth floor is abruptly stopping, giving a few moments of violent shakes, separating the doors three inches apart, and then - nothing else. When this happens to you for the first time, you begin to contemplate your mortality. You'll start to think whether you're doomed to spend the last minutes of your life in this heaven-forsaken, lousy excuse for technology.
The first time it happened, my roommate actually yelled my name very loudly through the three-inch gap. Unfortunately, no one could hear her from the hallway.
But now, we have an established workaround. After the elevator's "turbulence" in the attempt of opening on our floor, we hit the close doors button and then the 6th floor button. It closes and goes up to the next floor where its doors smoothly (yes, smoothly) opens. Then we take the stairs down one flight.
So now I find myself muttering when I take the elevator, "please open, please open, please open." Sometimes my muttering ends with a sigh of relief, sometimes with a low curse. I have a friend on the sixth floor and I think about dropping by at her place just to make the detour trip more worthwhile, whenever the elevator is in one of its mood.
Well, at the very least, I can console myself that I'll have a healthy heart. Nothing about a cheerful humor, though.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Feel the Rain
Today's gospel was about faith. Faith like a child, especially. Please don't squirm. This is going to be quick and painless. I just wanted to share it.
The homily mentioned an oft-repeated story about a town facing food shortage because of drought. To address this problem - the townsfolk, along with all the religious groups, priests, and parishioners organized a prayer rally in the plaza to pray for rain.
But among all the people in the crowd, only a small child brought an umbrella.
I wonder at what point do we lose that sense of blind trust. When do we stop being kids who believe that everything will be ok and that life is simple. There are no conditions. Or negotiations. I wish there was some way to unburden ourselves with the doubts that keep on piling up. And begin to trust the truth that we are loved more than we realize.
Have you ever asked yourself the question: when you pray for rain, do you bring an umbrella?
“I assure you that whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” – Mark 10:15
The homily mentioned an oft-repeated story about a town facing food shortage because of drought. To address this problem - the townsfolk, along with all the religious groups, priests, and parishioners organized a prayer rally in the plaza to pray for rain.
But among all the people in the crowd, only a small child brought an umbrella.
I wonder at what point do we lose that sense of blind trust. When do we stop being kids who believe that everything will be ok and that life is simple. There are no conditions. Or negotiations. I wish there was some way to unburden ourselves with the doubts that keep on piling up. And begin to trust the truth that we are loved more than we realize.
Have you ever asked yourself the question: when you pray for rain, do you bring an umbrella?
“I assure you that whoever does not receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” – Mark 10:15
Friday, January 16, 2009
"I keed."
People say it's always refreshing to meet old friends. Patrick is NOTHING like that. He's not a breath of fresh air. He's a bombardment of dense, suffocating, noxious gas. Green in color.
But, boy, did we miss this guy.
He's the only one who can make "nonentity" sound like a dirty word - who can make ANY word sound dirty. The only one who can talk about sleeping with his mags with a straight face.
A few years ago, Liz, Tago, and I were newbies with Patrick. Just a bunch of greenhorns (that term is just asking for it!). Our team shared more than bugs and enhancement requests. Patrick is one of the reasons that COMIS established itself as one of the closest teams in the company and it carried over to our succeeding projects. Good teammate he is; wholesome he is not. In fact, there are parts of this evening's loud conversation that I didn't get (and didn't want to get) and I concentrated on practicing my Swiss knife skills of paper cutting. And no, I didn't cut myself, surprisingly so.
Behind all those jokes - crass, vulgar, grossly politically incorrect jokes - he's a good guy. Deep inside. Deep, deep, deep, deep down inside (Hey, it was Liz who said he's "wide"!). Actually, he just wanted to ask how I was doing. I could understand his concern because the dominant mode of update we have of each other is through our online blogs. But in real life, I'm not always as glum as I am in my blogs. Although I am AS clumsy. When he was walking me home, I missed a step because my shirt sleeve caught a nail on a tree. Of course.
Next time we all meet up, you guys try to keep the sexual overtones to a minimum, ok? There is a limit to the number of discarded receipts that I can mutilate. :)
But, boy, did we miss this guy.
He's the only one who can make "nonentity" sound like a dirty word - who can make ANY word sound dirty. The only one who can talk about sleeping with his mags with a straight face.
A few years ago, Liz, Tago, and I were newbies with Patrick. Just a bunch of greenhorns (that term is just asking for it!). Our team shared more than bugs and enhancement requests. Patrick is one of the reasons that COMIS established itself as one of the closest teams in the company and it carried over to our succeeding projects. Good teammate he is; wholesome he is not. In fact, there are parts of this evening's loud conversation that I didn't get (and didn't want to get) and I concentrated on practicing my Swiss knife skills of paper cutting. And no, I didn't cut myself, surprisingly so.
Behind all those jokes - crass, vulgar, grossly politically incorrect jokes - he's a good guy. Deep inside. Deep, deep, deep, deep down inside (Hey, it was Liz who said he's "wide"!). Actually, he just wanted to ask how I was doing. I could understand his concern because the dominant mode of update we have of each other is through our online blogs. But in real life, I'm not always as glum as I am in my blogs. Although I am AS clumsy. When he was walking me home, I missed a step because my shirt sleeve caught a nail on a tree. Of course.
Next time we all meet up, you guys try to keep the sexual overtones to a minimum, ok? There is a limit to the number of discarded receipts that I can mutilate. :)
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Hooper Humperdinck
Ok, I’m just going to take a wild shot at this: Do any of you guys know who Hooper Humperdinck is?
I’m actually trying to solicit sympathy here, but I think I won’t get any if I compare myself to Hooper Humperdinck. I doubt if a lot of people remember him from children’s literature. He’s a character in one of the original Dr. Seuss books. And I really felt sorry for him whenever my mother would read us his story.
You see, all throughout the book, kids are having grand parties and are inviting everyone – all other kids with names starting from A-Z – except for Hooper Humperdinck. It’s basically just a list of birthday guests in alphabetical order. I would remember checking and rechecking the page wherein the names starting with H are enumerated, but no. Hooper Humperdinck was always excluded. I think I remember that every page in the book ended up with: “But no, not Hooper Humperdinck!”
I think they mentioned something about him being a party pooper, but I’m not so sure. I cringe whenever I see Hooper in the illustrations of the book just taking a peek into the festive parties he was not invited to. I found it really sad, even if I knew he was not a real person. I guess I was crazy, even as a kid.
Anyway, that’s who I remember now: Hooper Humperdinck. And I’m him! Metaphorically, of course.
My friend Tago is celebrating his birthday with an Amazing Race kind of competition. And no one wants me to be on their team!
Ok, I must admit that they have their reasons. It’s true that I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of Metro Manila. I don’t know how to commute. I am not very good at crossing streets.
I bump into stationary objects, parked tricycles included. I get tangled into hanging objects - tree branches included. I trip over the slightest bump in the ground - sidewalk curbs included. I spill, drop, break, and burn things - solid, liquid, and gas included. I cut, sprain, wound, and bruise myself – and those who are unfortunately within the disaster radius included.
And to top it all off, I have very poor sense of direction. Legendary poor sense of direction. Anywhere. I actually got lost in our dorm building back in college.
But are those reason enough to justify their prejudice over my potential contribution to the team (or the lack thereof)? It’s like being picked last in the playground when kids are choosing players for their teams. Or not being picked at all. Ok, maybe they are right. But, still! Poor me! Poor Hooper Humperdinck! Right? Right?
Or maybe I should just forget it and sign up for the coordinating committee.
Aargh. What a loser. >_<
I’m actually trying to solicit sympathy here, but I think I won’t get any if I compare myself to Hooper Humperdinck. I doubt if a lot of people remember him from children’s literature. He’s a character in one of the original Dr. Seuss books. And I really felt sorry for him whenever my mother would read us his story.
You see, all throughout the book, kids are having grand parties and are inviting everyone – all other kids with names starting from A-Z – except for Hooper Humperdinck. It’s basically just a list of birthday guests in alphabetical order. I would remember checking and rechecking the page wherein the names starting with H are enumerated, but no. Hooper Humperdinck was always excluded. I think I remember that every page in the book ended up with: “But no, not Hooper Humperdinck!”
I think they mentioned something about him being a party pooper, but I’m not so sure. I cringe whenever I see Hooper in the illustrations of the book just taking a peek into the festive parties he was not invited to. I found it really sad, even if I knew he was not a real person. I guess I was crazy, even as a kid.
Anyway, that’s who I remember now: Hooper Humperdinck. And I’m him! Metaphorically, of course.
My friend Tago is celebrating his birthday with an Amazing Race kind of competition. And no one wants me to be on their team!
Ok, I must admit that they have their reasons. It’s true that I’m not familiar with the ins and outs of Metro Manila. I don’t know how to commute. I am not very good at crossing streets.
I bump into stationary objects, parked tricycles included. I get tangled into hanging objects - tree branches included. I trip over the slightest bump in the ground - sidewalk curbs included. I spill, drop, break, and burn things - solid, liquid, and gas included. I cut, sprain, wound, and bruise myself – and those who are unfortunately within the disaster radius included.
And to top it all off, I have very poor sense of direction. Legendary poor sense of direction. Anywhere. I actually got lost in our dorm building back in college.
But are those reason enough to justify their prejudice over my potential contribution to the team (or the lack thereof)? It’s like being picked last in the playground when kids are choosing players for their teams. Or not being picked at all. Ok, maybe they are right. But, still! Poor me! Poor Hooper Humperdinck! Right? Right?
Or maybe I should just forget it and sign up for the coordinating committee.
Aargh. What a loser. >_<
Saturday, December 27, 2008
See you around, EJ.
EJ thinks I'm a wimp. He thinks I'm a lot of other things, too. Like a klutz and a weirdo. But he must really think I'm a wimp.
You see, most people don't readily know that EJ is the one person who has seen me cry the most number of times in the office. Not that he was the reason for all those pathetic tears. He's just the person I go to when the waterworks start. Ironically, I hate crying. So I don't do it often. And I hate myself whenever I can't help myself.
EJ is one of the best listeners I've ever met. He claims that he's just nosy and is always ready to hear 'tsismis'. But I know better. No one can fake concern that well. I used to be messed up with a recurring issue in my life and he never, never turned me away whenever I had to rant about it. Sheesh, if I had to listen to myself go on and on, over and over again about that same old thing, I'd have snapped at myself. No, make that - I'd have smacked myself straight in the nose. And unrepentantly left myself bleeding. (Ok, too much violence.)
When my mother got sick and I couldn't concentrate on work, I used to sit on the empty corner desk beside EJ and just bury my head to cry. He wouldn't say a word. Every now and then, he'd just pat my head a few times and go back to his work. When I would finally look up with swollen eyes, he'd ask, "Ok ka na?" I'd nod, thank him, and then go back to my workstation.
I also have a propensity for taking off to take brisk walks in the middle of a workday when I get too upset. Yeah, yeah, I know. Such a drama queen. Or more like, such a macho thing to do. We were jabbing and I just said I need to be not there right now and left. The extensive exposure to my crying probably gave him a built-in radar whenever I have a lachrymal activity because after aimlessly walking, I checked my phone and found a couple of missed calls and messages from EJ. One said, "Where are you? Let me be there to help you." I would find out later that he was worried I was going to be hit by a car while I was crossing the street distressed.
Yeah, that's me. What a wimp.
Another one of the good things I like about being friends with EJ is the fact that we have very similar values. We often agree on what we think is wrong or right, what is unfair or just. Although, I must admit we have very different views on what is funny or not. His humor mostly consists of watching me make a fool of myself - often unintentionally. But behind all those jokes and wisecracks, he has a good heart. He told me once that he should probably start listing down names of the people that he wants to include in his prayers. He feels guilty whenever he forgets someone; there's so many people to pray for.
Today was EJ's last day at the office. As a send-off gift, we gave him an Umbra Fotofalls and the scrapbook I completed at 2 am that morning. He treated a couple of us to Italian food. Afterward, he and I waited for Yza in Starbucks. And when it was time to go home, I cried again to EJ. This time, it was finally his fault.
We'll miss spending every day of the week with you, EJ. But you don't get to rid of us that easily. See you around. ^__^
You see, most people don't readily know that EJ is the one person who has seen me cry the most number of times in the office. Not that he was the reason for all those pathetic tears. He's just the person I go to when the waterworks start. Ironically, I hate crying. So I don't do it often. And I hate myself whenever I can't help myself.
EJ is one of the best listeners I've ever met. He claims that he's just nosy and is always ready to hear 'tsismis'. But I know better. No one can fake concern that well. I used to be messed up with a recurring issue in my life and he never, never turned me away whenever I had to rant about it. Sheesh, if I had to listen to myself go on and on, over and over again about that same old thing, I'd have snapped at myself. No, make that - I'd have smacked myself straight in the nose. And unrepentantly left myself bleeding. (Ok, too much violence.)
When my mother got sick and I couldn't concentrate on work, I used to sit on the empty corner desk beside EJ and just bury my head to cry. He wouldn't say a word. Every now and then, he'd just pat my head a few times and go back to his work. When I would finally look up with swollen eyes, he'd ask, "Ok ka na?" I'd nod, thank him, and then go back to my workstation.
I also have a propensity for taking off to take brisk walks in the middle of a workday when I get too upset. Yeah, yeah, I know. Such a drama queen. Or more like, such a macho thing to do. We were jabbing and I just said I need to be not there right now and left. The extensive exposure to my crying probably gave him a built-in radar whenever I have a lachrymal activity because after aimlessly walking, I checked my phone and found a couple of missed calls and messages from EJ. One said, "Where are you? Let me be there to help you." I would find out later that he was worried I was going to be hit by a car while I was crossing the street distressed.
Yeah, that's me. What a wimp.
Another one of the good things I like about being friends with EJ is the fact that we have very similar values. We often agree on what we think is wrong or right, what is unfair or just. Although, I must admit we have very different views on what is funny or not. His humor mostly consists of watching me make a fool of myself - often unintentionally. But behind all those jokes and wisecracks, he has a good heart. He told me once that he should probably start listing down names of the people that he wants to include in his prayers. He feels guilty whenever he forgets someone; there's so many people to pray for.
Today was EJ's last day at the office. As a send-off gift, we gave him an Umbra Fotofalls and the scrapbook I completed at 2 am that morning. He treated a couple of us to Italian food. Afterward, he and I waited for Yza in Starbucks. And when it was time to go home, I cried again to EJ. This time, it was finally his fault.
We'll miss spending every day of the week with you, EJ. But you don't get to rid of us that easily. See you around. ^__^
Thursday, December 25, 2008
8,298 Steps
According to my pedometer (thanks Luz and Allen for this gift), I have walked 8,298 steps today so far. This is running a little above my daily average. Part of the reason is that I visited my dad in Pampanga. So that entailed a lot of commuting steps.
Today was actually the first time I've ridden a provincial bus alone here in Manila. The second time I've ridden a bus alone in Manila. The third time I've ridden a bus alone in my life. I sound like I'm expecting to be congratulated or something. It's an achievement of sorts for me, but I am aware how pathetic I sound - no need to rub it in.
It's been almost four years since the last time I have been in Pampanga. I was born and partly raised there. Yeah, yeah - another one of those irrelevant personal information that I inflict upon you all. It was just interesting to see all those old places that were once part of my life. The hospital where I was born. The small bakeshop where we used to buy taisan. The EENT clinic where I had my ear infection treated. The minimart where we buy our school snacks: Gee Cee mamon and Hi-C (May Hi-C pa ba?). Reminiscing galore.
You know what they say about our memories from youth are exaggerated? It's so true. I saw how un-intimidating the intersection which I was so deathly afraid of crossing when I was a kid. How near the parish church was to our old house; I've always thought I needed to bike back then.
Anyway, another part of the reason for the numerous steps is because when I came back and got off EDSA and heard mass at the Shrine, I decided to walk the rest of the way to my apartment. Poor decision - some might perceive because it was slightly raining. But it was Christmas day. Ortigas Center was unreal. I actually like the overcast weather, the drizzle, the empty streets. Too perfect for a walk to pass up.
I got home covered in the rain, sweat, and the grime of NLEX and EDSA. Just keeping in tune with the holidays.
Today was actually the first time I've ridden a provincial bus alone here in Manila. The second time I've ridden a bus alone in Manila. The third time I've ridden a bus alone in my life. I sound like I'm expecting to be congratulated or something. It's an achievement of sorts for me, but I am aware how pathetic I sound - no need to rub it in.
It's been almost four years since the last time I have been in Pampanga. I was born and partly raised there. Yeah, yeah - another one of those irrelevant personal information that I inflict upon you all. It was just interesting to see all those old places that were once part of my life. The hospital where I was born. The small bakeshop where we used to buy taisan. The EENT clinic where I had my ear infection treated. The minimart where we buy our school snacks: Gee Cee mamon and Hi-C (May Hi-C pa ba?). Reminiscing galore.
You know what they say about our memories from youth are exaggerated? It's so true. I saw how un-intimidating the intersection which I was so deathly afraid of crossing when I was a kid. How near the parish church was to our old house; I've always thought I needed to bike back then.
Anyway, another part of the reason for the numerous steps is because when I came back and got off EDSA and heard mass at the Shrine, I decided to walk the rest of the way to my apartment. Poor decision - some might perceive because it was slightly raining. But it was Christmas day. Ortigas Center was unreal. I actually like the overcast weather, the drizzle, the empty streets. Too perfect for a walk to pass up.
I got home covered in the rain, sweat, and the grime of NLEX and EDSA. Just keeping in tune with the holidays.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Another Prosaic Christmas Greeting
I hear Christmas carols wafting through the window. There is a choir performing in the multipurpose hall two blocks down the street. They're actually pretty good.
Apart from distant singing outside, it's awfully quiet in here. For tonight, I have consciously done away with the usual background of television and mp3 drone. I'm rereading the book of John and (unsuccessfully) trying to forget that it's Christmas Eve.
Memories of Christmases past give me strength to tide myself through this season, but ironically, they also remind me of everything that is now different in my life. There's a first time for everything, but I'm hoping this is the last time I'll be spending Christmas Eve alone in a studio apartment eating leftover spaghetti and Honey Mustard Piknik for Noche Buena.
To everyone, have a very blessed Christmas. Let's not forget to include in all the festivity the One whose birthday we are actually celebrating.
Apart from distant singing outside, it's awfully quiet in here. For tonight, I have consciously done away with the usual background of television and mp3 drone. I'm rereading the book of John and (unsuccessfully) trying to forget that it's Christmas Eve.
Memories of Christmases past give me strength to tide myself through this season, but ironically, they also remind me of everything that is now different in my life. There's a first time for everything, but I'm hoping this is the last time I'll be spending Christmas Eve alone in a studio apartment eating leftover spaghetti and Honey Mustard Piknik for Noche Buena.
To everyone, have a very blessed Christmas. Let's not forget to include in all the festivity the One whose birthday we are actually celebrating.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
The Sign of Peace
Halfway through the second reading at mass today, a mother and her preteen son excused themselves and squeezed their way into my pew, where I was occupying the edge. The mother seated herself on my right and I paid her very little mind because I was trying to pay attention to the gospel. Although I did notice that she was somewhat agitated, worriedly looking at something on our left side.
I finally realized the source of her anxiety during the singing of "The Lord's Prayer". I usually don't initiate hand contact with strangers during this part of the mass. I'm thinking that I'd just give them the option of taking my hand or not, depending whether or not they were overly concerned about contracting the influenza virus or something like that. But the mother took my hand casually and addressed someone on my left and said, "Take her hand."
It was then that I noticed a boy, apparently the mother's other son - around eight years old - seated on the floor beside me. He stood up and obediently took my hand and unabashedly sang "Ama Namin" offkey. Oh, it was so endearing. His small hand didn't feel awkward at all and he knew all the words to the song.
When it was over, I whispered to him that we should switch places so he would be beside his mom. He moved over to my seat but hesitatingly said, "Pero andito po yung mga bags namin" - pointing to two backpacks on the floor where he was seated earlier. I told him they wont get lost but he hauled them nevertheless in front of the kneeler. The boys' mother told me that she would just ask her younger son to sit on her lap, I assured her that it won't be necessary and that I'd just stand during the rest of the mass. She quietly said something to the kid, maybe telling him to thank me for giving up my seat, but the kid just looked up at me curiously. I smiled at him but he just blinked back.
When the priest asked the congregation to give the peace sign - the boy immediately turned to look up at me, with both his palms flat against each other and under his chin and very formally gave me a small bow and said, "Peace po."
I actually laughed softly at his gesture. That was worth more than what I gave up for my seat. And it was the first moment that I actually felt the Christmas spirit this year. I've been dreading this season. I still am. A part of me doesn't want it to come. Or I just want it to pass by painlessly quick. Like stripping off a bandage in one quick motion.
But this kid - he reminded me that families are together, looking forward to the traditions. And although I'm never going to have that anymore, I've already had my chance at every joyful thing that Christmas has to offer, especially to the children - decorating the tree, getting presents, being allowed to stay up late, singing offkey to church songs and Christmas carols. And when I get this perspective, I do not feel deprived that it was taken away from me - the complete family and joys of Christmas traditions - but grateful that they were once mine, too.
Peace be with you, kid. Enjoy the holidays.
I finally realized the source of her anxiety during the singing of "The Lord's Prayer". I usually don't initiate hand contact with strangers during this part of the mass. I'm thinking that I'd just give them the option of taking my hand or not, depending whether or not they were overly concerned about contracting the influenza virus or something like that. But the mother took my hand casually and addressed someone on my left and said, "Take her hand."
It was then that I noticed a boy, apparently the mother's other son - around eight years old - seated on the floor beside me. He stood up and obediently took my hand and unabashedly sang "Ama Namin" offkey. Oh, it was so endearing. His small hand didn't feel awkward at all and he knew all the words to the song.
When it was over, I whispered to him that we should switch places so he would be beside his mom. He moved over to my seat but hesitatingly said, "Pero andito po yung mga bags namin" - pointing to two backpacks on the floor where he was seated earlier. I told him they wont get lost but he hauled them nevertheless in front of the kneeler. The boys' mother told me that she would just ask her younger son to sit on her lap, I assured her that it won't be necessary and that I'd just stand during the rest of the mass. She quietly said something to the kid, maybe telling him to thank me for giving up my seat, but the kid just looked up at me curiously. I smiled at him but he just blinked back.
When the priest asked the congregation to give the peace sign - the boy immediately turned to look up at me, with both his palms flat against each other and under his chin and very formally gave me a small bow and said, "Peace po."
I actually laughed softly at his gesture. That was worth more than what I gave up for my seat. And it was the first moment that I actually felt the Christmas spirit this year. I've been dreading this season. I still am. A part of me doesn't want it to come. Or I just want it to pass by painlessly quick. Like stripping off a bandage in one quick motion.
But this kid - he reminded me that families are together, looking forward to the traditions. And although I'm never going to have that anymore, I've already had my chance at every joyful thing that Christmas has to offer, especially to the children - decorating the tree, getting presents, being allowed to stay up late, singing offkey to church songs and Christmas carols. And when I get this perspective, I do not feel deprived that it was taken away from me - the complete family and joys of Christmas traditions - but grateful that they were once mine, too.
Peace be with you, kid. Enjoy the holidays.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Paid in Sand
My good friend Jayjay and his girlfriend Rae are in town for the weekend. They arrived from Cebu friday morning. It's been more than a year when I last saw Jayjay. We always keep in touch through Jabber, Multiply, and SMS, but it's different when I personally hear him go on monologue about the latest books he's read or his latest interest like camera tossing or whatever.
Late friday night until 3 am of Saturday morning, I found myself in the company of Jayjay and Gary. We've spent hours talking about nothing and everything. About men and women, gender roles, hammers and screwdrivers, and black swans, and culture, and history, and photography. Even the art of picking up girls.
Conversations turn to almost chauvinistic, but always interesting. I came in a few minutes late for my training. But the newbies were doing their final exercise, so that was ok. In the afternoon, I met up with Jayjay and Rae in Cubao where we browsed through the stalls of Cubao X.
I've discovered Cubao X through Luz. And the first two times I've been there was with her. We lose time going through old books, antiques, curios, and all those 'lived-in' items seemingly covered with not just dust, but almost tangible residual memories of their previous owners. We once remarked to the guy who worked at Heritage how cool his job was - just reading and having access to all these interesting old books and magazines and art. He replied that it is a great job and he will still love it even he gets paid in sand. His exact words.
There are quirky galleries featuring collages and cutouts. Of modern oil paintings. There's also a place where they sell interesting chairs and chandeliers. Jayjay recognized one of the chairs as a world-famous design. I forgot the name, I'll text him to ask. And we were told that it was worth P40,000. Yeah that one previously-owned chair, where you rest your behind. And it's not even ergonomically comfortable. Form over functionality, I've been told. Sheesh.
While browsing through the shelves, Jayjay came upon this book - Time Life Book: The Art of Photography - which featured The Decisive Moment by Henri Cartier-Bresson, the famous photojournalist. He was raving about the photograph featured in the page. I bought the book for him and told him that he should consider it my early Christmas gift. It was well worth it.
And oh, yeah, to end this entry with a funny anecdote. We entered a dimly-lit and tiny cafe. There were sketches of Robert Alejandro for sale at P500 each and other knickknacks. A somewhat elderly guy came down from the second floor stairs, somehow startling Jayjay who excused himself by saying, "Ay, good evening po." I thought Jayjay recognized the guy already, so I just kept grinning back at him. Apparently, he didn't because when we exited he asked why I was so amused. That was Kuya Bodjie of Batibot, I laughingly told him. And both he and Rae chorused, "Oh, so that's why he looked so familiar!" They resolved to have their picture taken with Kuya Bodjie. So we went back in, Jayjay made small talk and asked if it was alright if he'd pose with them. He was nice about it. If Jayjay posts the pic, you guys now know who took it. :)
Mga bata, yan ang kwento ng pagbisita namin sa Cubao X. Hanggang sa susunod... Paalam!
Late friday night until 3 am of Saturday morning, I found myself in the company of Jayjay and Gary. We've spent hours talking about nothing and everything. About men and women, gender roles, hammers and screwdrivers, and black swans, and culture, and history, and photography. Even the art of picking up girls.
Conversations turn to almost chauvinistic, but always interesting. I came in a few minutes late for my training. But the newbies were doing their final exercise, so that was ok. In the afternoon, I met up with Jayjay and Rae in Cubao where we browsed through the stalls of Cubao X.
I've discovered Cubao X through Luz. And the first two times I've been there was with her. We lose time going through old books, antiques, curios, and all those 'lived-in' items seemingly covered with not just dust, but almost tangible residual memories of their previous owners. We once remarked to the guy who worked at Heritage how cool his job was - just reading and having access to all these interesting old books and magazines and art. He replied that it is a great job and he will still love it even he gets paid in sand. His exact words.
There are quirky galleries featuring collages and cutouts. Of modern oil paintings. There's also a place where they sell interesting chairs and chandeliers. Jayjay recognized one of the chairs as a world-famous design. I forgot the name, I'll text him to ask. And we were told that it was worth P40,000. Yeah that one previously-owned chair, where you rest your behind. And it's not even ergonomically comfortable. Form over functionality, I've been told. Sheesh.
While browsing through the shelves, Jayjay came upon this book - Time Life Book: The Art of Photography - which featured The Decisive Moment by Henri Cartier-Bresson, the famous photojournalist. He was raving about the photograph featured in the page. I bought the book for him and told him that he should consider it my early Christmas gift. It was well worth it.
And oh, yeah, to end this entry with a funny anecdote. We entered a dimly-lit and tiny cafe. There were sketches of Robert Alejandro for sale at P500 each and other knickknacks. A somewhat elderly guy came down from the second floor stairs, somehow startling Jayjay who excused himself by saying, "Ay, good evening po." I thought Jayjay recognized the guy already, so I just kept grinning back at him. Apparently, he didn't because when we exited he asked why I was so amused. That was Kuya Bodjie of Batibot, I laughingly told him. And both he and Rae chorused, "Oh, so that's why he looked so familiar!" They resolved to have their picture taken with Kuya Bodjie. So we went back in, Jayjay made small talk and asked if it was alright if he'd pose with them. He was nice about it. If Jayjay posts the pic, you guys now know who took it. :)
Mga bata, yan ang kwento ng pagbisita namin sa Cubao X. Hanggang sa susunod... Paalam!
Sunday, November 30, 2008
"And I don't even know how I got off the track..."
I woke up early, considering it's Sunday. I have to go somewhere but I'm stalling.
I'm all ready to go. But I thought I'd surf first. There's an interesting blog
I'm all ready to go. But I thought I'd have a quick breakfast first. I reheated some leftover pizza and pasta that Luz and I kept in our ref. I microwaved the food, and - tadaah! Carbo-loaded breakfast. I discovered cheese and garlic pizza lose its appeal when you don't eat it straight from the box.
I'm all ready to go. But I thought I'd dry my hair first. It has gotten too long to be ignored but I STILL haven't had the time to get a haircut. Maybe during the Christmas break. They make fun of me at the office when I come to work with almost-dripping hair. I don't have a hair-dryer or anything so I turn on the fan and well - just sit around and listen to Weezer's The Good Life set on repeat mode in my Winamp. I love this song. It's been my LSS for most of the week. Except for that Wednesday when Paulo noticed that my status was from Sister Hazel's Your Winter. So senti, I know.
I'm all ready to go. But I though I'd write a quick blog on how I've been delaying the inevitable necessity of going home to an empty house in Antipolo. I'll make it quick. Dive right in. Do the errands, check if everything's ok. I'm hoping the silence won't be too loud. Damn, I really should get myself a portable music player. And bring Weezer with me wherever I go.
I'll be back in a few hours. Wish me luck. And all together now: "And I don't wanna be an old man anymore. It's been a year or two since I was out on the floor..."
I'm all ready to go. But I thought I'd surf first. There's an interesting blog
I'm all ready to go. But I thought I'd have a quick breakfast first. I reheated some leftover pizza and pasta that Luz and I kept in our ref. I microwaved the food, and - tadaah! Carbo-loaded breakfast. I discovered cheese and garlic pizza lose its appeal when you don't eat it straight from the box.
I'm all ready to go. But I thought I'd dry my hair first. It has gotten too long to be ignored but I STILL haven't had the time to get a haircut. Maybe during the Christmas break. They make fun of me at the office when I come to work with almost-dripping hair. I don't have a hair-dryer or anything so I turn on the fan and well - just sit around and listen to Weezer's The Good Life set on repeat mode in my Winamp. I love this song. It's been my LSS for most of the week. Except for that Wednesday when Paulo noticed that my status was from Sister Hazel's Your Winter. So senti, I know.
I'm all ready to go. But I though I'd write a quick blog on how I've been delaying the inevitable necessity of going home to an empty house in Antipolo. I'll make it quick. Dive right in. Do the errands, check if everything's ok. I'm hoping the silence won't be too loud. Damn, I really should get myself a portable music player. And bring Weezer with me wherever I go.
I'll be back in a few hours. Wish me luck. And all together now: "And I don't wanna be an old man anymore. It's been a year or two since I was out on the floor..."
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Life Snapshots (S01, E02)
Five o'clock. When early comers can already afford to slack off a bit since effort hours are complete and logout time is near. Dens, Paulo, EJ, and Lead Character are huddled around Dens's workstation.
DENS: Umamin ka na kasi sa kanya, Ate LC (LEAD CHARACTER).
PAULO: Oo nga, sabihan mo sya crush mo sya.
LEAD CHARACTER: Ano ba! Wala ako aaminin!
EJ: Is it the truth? Totoo yun! Is it fair to all concerned? Oo! Will it bring goodwill and better friendship? Oo naman! Is it beneficial to all concerned? Beneficial yun! Isipin mo. Pumasa lahat sa four-way test ng Rotary kaya umamin ka na. Baka magka-boyfriend ka pa at maimbitahan ka pa sa kasal ko.
DENS: Basta ako, EJ, imbitado na ako, ah.
PAULO: Ano ba ang conditions mo, EJ?
EJ: Magkaboyfriend si LC, o manalo ako Lotto, o manalo sya ng lotto.
DENS: O, ano ang easiest dun?
LEAD CHARACTER: Manalo ng lotto!
Peals of Laughter from the guys (succeeding occurrences of which will be referred to as: POLFTG).
Sir Roy overheard the whole conversation and couldn't stop himself from joining the POLFTG.
LEAD CHARACTER: Tingnan nyo, natatawa si Sir Roy sa inyo. Sir Roy, Di daw po kasi ako iimbitahan ni EJ sa kasal nya kung di ako manalo sa lotto or wala akong boyfriend.
DENS: Ayan, tamang-tama! Manghingi ka ng tips kay Sir Roy!
SIR ROY: Bibigyan kita tips - number 4, number 7, number 20... Lotto tips.
Uproarious POLFTG.
SIR ROY: Kailan ka ba ikakasal, EJ?
EJ: Medyo malayo pa naman po.
SIR ROY: Malayo pa pala, LC. May panahon ka pa.
LEAD CHARACTER: Opo, may panahon pa po ako. Tataya ako araw-araw.
DENS: Umamin ka na kasi sa kanya, Ate LC (LEAD CHARACTER).
PAULO: Oo nga, sabihan mo sya crush mo sya.
LEAD CHARACTER: Ano ba! Wala ako aaminin!
EJ: Is it the truth? Totoo yun! Is it fair to all concerned? Oo! Will it bring goodwill and better friendship? Oo naman! Is it beneficial to all concerned? Beneficial yun! Isipin mo. Pumasa lahat sa four-way test ng Rotary kaya umamin ka na. Baka magka-boyfriend ka pa at maimbitahan ka pa sa kasal ko.
DENS: Basta ako, EJ, imbitado na ako, ah.
PAULO: Ano ba ang conditions mo, EJ?
EJ: Magkaboyfriend si LC, o manalo ako Lotto, o manalo sya ng lotto.
DENS: O, ano ang easiest dun?
LEAD CHARACTER: Manalo ng lotto!
Peals of Laughter from the guys (succeeding occurrences of which will be referred to as: POLFTG).
Sir Roy overheard the whole conversation and couldn't stop himself from joining the POLFTG.
LEAD CHARACTER: Tingnan nyo, natatawa si Sir Roy sa inyo. Sir Roy, Di daw po kasi ako iimbitahan ni EJ sa kasal nya kung di ako manalo sa lotto or wala akong boyfriend.
DENS: Ayan, tamang-tama! Manghingi ka ng tips kay Sir Roy!
SIR ROY: Bibigyan kita tips - number 4, number 7, number 20... Lotto tips.
Uproarious POLFTG.
SIR ROY: Kailan ka ba ikakasal, EJ?
EJ: Medyo malayo pa naman po.
SIR ROY: Malayo pa pala, LC. May panahon ka pa.
LEAD CHARACTER: Opo, may panahon pa po ako. Tataya ako araw-araw.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Breakfast Club
I’ve resolved to not skip breakfast anymore. So for the past few weeks since I came back from leave, I try to wake up early to get to the office before 9 and have breakfast before starting the day’s workload.
I have the pleasure of sharing the “most important meal of the day” with three guys: EJ, Paulo, and Dens. They are the ones who arrive at the office earlier than me. Sometimes, I eat with only one or two of them. But whenever they’re in “full force”, my mornings start out with a good jolt.
These guys have made it a sport to find amusement in most things I do. They think it’s funny when I get startled, when I don’t get jokes, or when I yell “Let’s cross na!” when we go from Tektite to Pearl Drive. I let them have their fun, because honestly, I don’t really get annoyed with their wisecracks. And they know it.
It actually feels a little like having brothers with you all the time. Rambunctious and sarcastic brothers who never tire of teasing.
Breakfast is usually a rotation of McDo Sausage McMuffins, Jollibee longganisa meals, Dell’s tapsilog, or Hungry Hippo burgers. They’re not very healthy food, but the easy conversation and laughter we share over those couple of minutes equip me with good humor - or hope for good humor - for the rest of the day. That makes any greasy food healthy – emotionally, at least.
Although when they call me “girlaloo” – they know this gets my goat – I want to conk their heads.
I have the pleasure of sharing the “most important meal of the day” with three guys: EJ, Paulo, and Dens. They are the ones who arrive at the office earlier than me. Sometimes, I eat with only one or two of them. But whenever they’re in “full force”, my mornings start out with a good jolt.
These guys have made it a sport to find amusement in most things I do. They think it’s funny when I get startled, when I don’t get jokes, or when I yell “Let’s cross na!” when we go from Tektite to Pearl Drive. I let them have their fun, because honestly, I don’t really get annoyed with their wisecracks. And they know it.
It actually feels a little like having brothers with you all the time. Rambunctious and sarcastic brothers who never tire of teasing.
Breakfast is usually a rotation of McDo Sausage McMuffins, Jollibee longganisa meals, Dell’s tapsilog, or Hungry Hippo burgers. They’re not very healthy food, but the easy conversation and laughter we share over those couple of minutes equip me with good humor - or hope for good humor - for the rest of the day. That makes any greasy food healthy – emotionally, at least.
Although when they call me “girlaloo” – they know this gets my goat – I want to conk their heads.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Childhood Dusks
I’m looking out the window and I’m reminded how I love dusks.
we were kids, we used to play patintero outside our old house in Pampanga. We’d start when the afternoon sun was not too hot anymore and we’d end just after dusk, when the sun had already set. Some days, we rode our bikes back and forth our quiet street.
There’s an old schoolteacher who lived right across us and whenever she came home and we’re playing outside, I’d yell her name at the top of my voice, “Dang Deeeeee!” She was very tolerant of us since she knew us as the polite kids in the neighborhood, despite my tendency of over-exuberant greetings.
My sister improvised this game of making molds out of muddy soil. She called it “bigak-bigak”. It has no etymology whatsoever. Its name was the least of our problems. We had worse problems of muddy hands, faces, and clothes after we played.
Our grandmother spent her afternoons playing a card game called kwaho with some of the other elderly people a couple of blocks away. They played for money – just loose change, yes – but still money. She came home usually when we were wrapping up our games or parking our bikes. We’d each have a balot whenever she had good winnings from the game. Yes, as a kid, I used to eat unhatched duck eggs. Because whenever Lola gave them, we’d be asked to eat them right then and there, when the sun was already down and we had no idea what we were eating.
A couple of years later, I’d have the misfortune of being too curious about the balot eggs and scrutinized them under the glare of a 40 watt fluorescent light. I didn’t care for the Pinoy delicacy too much after that.
When it got too dark, Mama would call us to come inside the house and prepare for dinner. We’d enter through the kitchen door and I’d make a little hop so I could reach the faucet and wash my hands. They’d be finishing cooking dinner by then. I distinctly remember the smell of sautéed garlic at dusk. Even now, whenever I come across that smell, I am taken back to those countless afternoons when I came home from playing and dinner was being cooked in our kitchen.
We’ve always helped out with chores. The menial task of setting the table seemed to have been always assigned to me. I think it was because I was too young to handle hot pots and pans. Although I remember being told that only by handling breakable plates more often will I ever be less clumsy and more careful. That didn’t work out too well. We ended up dining with mismatched plates and glasses because I usually broke one or two in every set. And until now, I’m still clumsy as hell.
Around dinnertime, TV Patrol would be on the television. It was not the TV Patrol World as it is today. Just TV Patrol. With now-Vice President de Castro leading the panel of newscasters with Mel Tiangco, the late Frankie Evangelista, and Angelique Lazo for the showbiz news. The news bored me then. Who would’ve thought that years later I’d be bored because I couldn’t have television news.
It’s officially nighttime now. I look out the window again and the lights of the buildings around Shaw Boulevard and the Ortigas Center are now lit up. Soon, I have to decide what I’ll have for dinner: fast food, reheated food, or instant food.
I suddenly miss eating balot.
we were kids, we used to play patintero outside our old house in Pampanga. We’d start when the afternoon sun was not too hot anymore and we’d end just after dusk, when the sun had already set. Some days, we rode our bikes back and forth our quiet street.
There’s an old schoolteacher who lived right across us and whenever she came home and we’re playing outside, I’d yell her name at the top of my voice, “Dang Deeeeee!” She was very tolerant of us since she knew us as the polite kids in the neighborhood, despite my tendency of over-exuberant greetings.
My sister improvised this game of making molds out of muddy soil. She called it “bigak-bigak”. It has no etymology whatsoever. Its name was the least of our problems. We had worse problems of muddy hands, faces, and clothes after we played.
Our grandmother spent her afternoons playing a card game called kwaho with some of the other elderly people a couple of blocks away. They played for money – just loose change, yes – but still money. She came home usually when we were wrapping up our games or parking our bikes. We’d each have a balot whenever she had good winnings from the game. Yes, as a kid, I used to eat unhatched duck eggs. Because whenever Lola gave them, we’d be asked to eat them right then and there, when the sun was already down and we had no idea what we were eating.
A couple of years later, I’d have the misfortune of being too curious about the balot eggs and scrutinized them under the glare of a 40 watt fluorescent light. I didn’t care for the Pinoy delicacy too much after that.
When it got too dark, Mama would call us to come inside the house and prepare for dinner. We’d enter through the kitchen door and I’d make a little hop so I could reach the faucet and wash my hands. They’d be finishing cooking dinner by then. I distinctly remember the smell of sautéed garlic at dusk. Even now, whenever I come across that smell, I am taken back to those countless afternoons when I came home from playing and dinner was being cooked in our kitchen.
We’ve always helped out with chores. The menial task of setting the table seemed to have been always assigned to me. I think it was because I was too young to handle hot pots and pans. Although I remember being told that only by handling breakable plates more often will I ever be less clumsy and more careful. That didn’t work out too well. We ended up dining with mismatched plates and glasses because I usually broke one or two in every set. And until now, I’m still clumsy as hell.
Around dinnertime, TV Patrol would be on the television. It was not the TV Patrol World as it is today. Just TV Patrol. With now-Vice President de Castro leading the panel of newscasters with Mel Tiangco, the late Frankie Evangelista, and Angelique Lazo for the showbiz news. The news bored me then. Who would’ve thought that years later I’d be bored because I couldn’t have television news.
It’s officially nighttime now. I look out the window again and the lights of the buildings around Shaw Boulevard and the Ortigas Center are now lit up. Soon, I have to decide what I’ll have for dinner: fast food, reheated food, or instant food.
I suddenly miss eating balot.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
On Hold
I feel like I’m constantly trying to drive away something that slowly creeps in my soul. Something dark and clingy and repressive. I do not have a name for it. Or I do not choose to identify it for fear that it may grow stronger with its acknowledgement. No, I do not have a name for it; just the instinct to keep it at bay.
Most days, I keep it pacified. By reading books, listening to loud music, being with friends. I bombard myself with all the superficialities the material world can hope to offer. I get to convince myself that the world is a wonderful place. The future is bright. And everything is all right.
But it catches up with me sometimes. When I walk alone. When I lay awake at night. Sometimes when I close my eyes long enough, it corners me - this dark and clingy and repressive shadow. And it badgers me with images I don’t care to see or recall. With memories I’d rather forget but have to keep. With grief I have not given into.
I have a debt to pay with grief. I keep on stalling it, putting it on hold. But it patiently waits for me in quiet moments when I don’t have any other excuse and all I have left is my own soul, tired of moving around in never-ending circles, unable to find an escape.
It bothers me that every morning, I have to concede to myself that these moments of weaknesses come to me as they please. And make me pay up. I’d have run away, if I could. But in truth, I’m much too tired.
There isn’t a day that passes that I wish this weren’t all real. And that when it becomes too painful to bear, I’d be granted the mercy of waking up. To a wonderful world where the future is bright and everything is all right.
Most days, I keep it pacified. By reading books, listening to loud music, being with friends. I bombard myself with all the superficialities the material world can hope to offer. I get to convince myself that the world is a wonderful place. The future is bright. And everything is all right.
But it catches up with me sometimes. When I walk alone. When I lay awake at night. Sometimes when I close my eyes long enough, it corners me - this dark and clingy and repressive shadow. And it badgers me with images I don’t care to see or recall. With memories I’d rather forget but have to keep. With grief I have not given into.
I have a debt to pay with grief. I keep on stalling it, putting it on hold. But it patiently waits for me in quiet moments when I don’t have any other excuse and all I have left is my own soul, tired of moving around in never-ending circles, unable to find an escape.
It bothers me that every morning, I have to concede to myself that these moments of weaknesses come to me as they please. And make me pay up. I’d have run away, if I could. But in truth, I’m much too tired.
There isn’t a day that passes that I wish this weren’t all real. And that when it becomes too painful to bear, I’d be granted the mercy of waking up. To a wonderful world where the future is bright and everything is all right.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
"Hush Now"
I am not used to seeing her like this. Wordlessly reclined on a chair, breathing with difficulty. It’s the quietness that unnerves me most. Her usual energy is now replaced by laborious movements. A few steps drains her so.
Her illness did not just take away from health; it took away from her whole person. She stopped talking to people and would decline even long distance phone calls from her siblings wishing to inquire of her wellbeing. How she loved to talk and to laugh. Laugh. Yes. Nieces and nephews would mimic her distinctly hearty laughter. And the way she ended her conversations with a melodious, “Okay, buh-bye!”
She never ran out of stories from her colorful life. And she never lacked of willing listeners. People sought her for her conversations, her lively company.
I see her now, frustrated at her own body. Seemingly angry at everything in this world because she couldn’t partake in the beauty of life as she used to.
I learned to speak to her in hushed tones. Without tension, alarm, or worry. To speak without sadness or impatience. Especially not sadness. I’ve mastered the art of monotone. Of having a calm bedside manner.
I learned how to get used to being woken up abruptly and acting as if I’ve been up for hours – no sleepiness in appearance, no hoarseness in voice, nor disorientation in behavior. On cue, I know her medication, from the milligrams, to the generic name, to the prescribing physician.
I learned to feign tiredness when I’m wide awake and she wants to turn in for the night; wakefulness when I’m sleepy and she wants someone to stay up with her. When it’s late at night and there’s nothing else on TV, “Ang Dating Daan” starts to become interesting.
I learned how to hold back my own tears whenever I ask her not to cry. To keep a steady voice despite of the creeping fear inside of me, while I assure her that everything will be all right.
I learned how to invoke in me enthusiasm for things that might cheer her up. I tell her funny anecdotes; watch her favorite soap operas with her; and plan vacations we’d take together. Her disposition seems to lighten up when I tell her we’d visit the province, go to the nearby beach, and eat freshly-baked warm bread by the shore just like we used to do on idle weekend afternoons when I was younger.
The thought makes her smile and it’s worth it.
This morning at the hospital while I was overwhelmed by the medical forms, the long queue, the insurance, and the bills, she tells me she needs to rest her head and catch her breath. I frantically look around for a waiting area, a couch, a seat, even considered the emergency room.
For a moment, I forget everything I’ve learned, and panic registers in my actions. She lays a hand on my arm and quietly tells me she’s sorry for burdening me with all these worries. Inside, I scold myself for causing the look of sad guilt on her face. I shrug off her needless apology and mumble something incoherent that I hope would pass off as a reply.
What I wanted to tell her, “I love you, Ma. I’m the grown up now. And I’ll take care of you.”
----
I wrote this a few months ago when my mother was still in and out of the hospital. She has been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. She has been confined in the hospital for almost a month, has been in depressed consciousness for a week, and has been in the ICU for four days.
Please help pray for my Mama.
Her illness did not just take away from health; it took away from her whole person. She stopped talking to people and would decline even long distance phone calls from her siblings wishing to inquire of her wellbeing. How she loved to talk and to laugh. Laugh. Yes. Nieces and nephews would mimic her distinctly hearty laughter. And the way she ended her conversations with a melodious, “Okay, buh-bye!”
She never ran out of stories from her colorful life. And she never lacked of willing listeners. People sought her for her conversations, her lively company.
I see her now, frustrated at her own body. Seemingly angry at everything in this world because she couldn’t partake in the beauty of life as she used to.
I learned to speak to her in hushed tones. Without tension, alarm, or worry. To speak without sadness or impatience. Especially not sadness. I’ve mastered the art of monotone. Of having a calm bedside manner.
I learned how to get used to being woken up abruptly and acting as if I’ve been up for hours – no sleepiness in appearance, no hoarseness in voice, nor disorientation in behavior. On cue, I know her medication, from the milligrams, to the generic name, to the prescribing physician.
I learned to feign tiredness when I’m wide awake and she wants to turn in for the night; wakefulness when I’m sleepy and she wants someone to stay up with her. When it’s late at night and there’s nothing else on TV, “Ang Dating Daan” starts to become interesting.
I learned how to hold back my own tears whenever I ask her not to cry. To keep a steady voice despite of the creeping fear inside of me, while I assure her that everything will be all right.
I learned how to invoke in me enthusiasm for things that might cheer her up. I tell her funny anecdotes; watch her favorite soap operas with her; and plan vacations we’d take together. Her disposition seems to lighten up when I tell her we’d visit the province, go to the nearby beach, and eat freshly-baked warm bread by the shore just like we used to do on idle weekend afternoons when I was younger.
The thought makes her smile and it’s worth it.
This morning at the hospital while I was overwhelmed by the medical forms, the long queue, the insurance, and the bills, she tells me she needs to rest her head and catch her breath. I frantically look around for a waiting area, a couch, a seat, even considered the emergency room.
For a moment, I forget everything I’ve learned, and panic registers in my actions. She lays a hand on my arm and quietly tells me she’s sorry for burdening me with all these worries. Inside, I scold myself for causing the look of sad guilt on her face. I shrug off her needless apology and mumble something incoherent that I hope would pass off as a reply.
What I wanted to tell her, “I love you, Ma. I’m the grown up now. And I’ll take care of you.”
----
I wrote this a few months ago when my mother was still in and out of the hospital. She has been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. She has been confined in the hospital for almost a month, has been in depressed consciousness for a week, and has been in the ICU for four days.
Please help pray for my Mama.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Sunday, September 21, 2008
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.
In any case, always check your local weather news.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
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.
----
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."
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.
----
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."
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