I just found out that my mother's pet dogs already passed away. Our neighbors in the old house who were taking care of them for us texted me the sad news that Tyra and Toby passed away recently and only three days apart from each other. Mama loved those askals. Especially Toby whom she got thirteen years ago. She named the puppy Toby because she got her on an October. The dogs kept her company when we were at work. And also Papa after he retired. My mother fed them, bathed them, took care of them when they were sick. She talked to them as she would talk to children. When disciplining them, she used her stern voice which was very familiar to me and my siblings.
When Toby was still little, I distinctly remember the incident when we woke up one morning and found shreds of paper strewn about on the kitchen floor. Toby had bitten off and chewed on the cover and first few pages of my sister's copy of Salinger's Nine Stories. My sister is very particular with her things and it was a big deal. I tried to salvage what was left of the book and taped torn pages, teeth marks and all. When my sister found out, she whined to our mother. And Mama told us in all seriousness that we should not worry about it; she has already reprimanded Toby and told her that what she did was a wrong thing and she won't do it again.
I remember how my sister and I were so incredulous at the resolution that my mother offered. Toby was a dog, after all, and what good did it do that the pet was told off? BUt that's how Mama was. She believed that the pets understood. She told me that Toby was aware whenever she was planning to give the dogs a bath. Just planning, no water hose involved yet. She came to this conclusion because Toby would hide under beds every single time. Tyra was a little slower and would be the first to be subjected to the unwelcome baths. But Tyra had always been the amiable one. We joked how lousy she was as a guard dog because she was friendly to all strangers. Both dogs would always rush out of the house whenever the gate was opened. But they always, always found their way back home.
When my parents passed away, Toby and Tyra were both inconsolable. Since we did not stay at our parents' house anymore, we had to leave them in the custody of our neighbors. They told us of how the dogs whimpered at night. And how the both of them waited around at our locked house, seemingly waiting for any member of the family to come home. They shared our grief.
I texted my siblings about Toby and Tyra and got separate phone calls from them. Both are working overseas, living separately in the same city. We couldn't hide the sadness we felt and my sister unsuccessfully tried to hold back tears at work. We all just hope that the dogs were reunited with our parents and maybe Toby can even nag Salinger himself.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Some-degree burns
Ok, situational pop-quiz.
It's Tuesday night. As part of the Christmas party committee, a few officemates and I went to a resto-bar to finalize the venue booking. The events manager played the gracious host and offered as serving after serving of the menu choices. Later on, the bartender placed before each of us a shot glass with layers of liquid. Being the allergic-to-alcohol, non-drinker dork that I am, I had to be explained what was in it. Vodka, Kahlua, Bailey's. It was named something crass I don't feel like typing down right now. Anyway, here's the clincher. The waiter brought a lighter and lit each cocktail on fire. I mean, honestly - allowing a klutz within inches of an open flame indoors? What were these people thinking?!
So, question is: will anyone be surprised if I told them that at one point during the night, a significant portion of my table was on fire? Literally. Blue flame crawling on the table's surface. Someone burning the knuckle of her index finger.
Tell me, that is still considered unexpected, right? Hypothetically. >_<
Looking back now, I guess I should have given them fair warning to not light up mine. I think it should be my civic duty to responsibly inform all unknowing people the hazards of being in my company. As my dear roommate said, anywhere I am is a hard-hat zone.
Now, maybe firesuit-zone, too.
It's Tuesday night. As part of the Christmas party committee, a few officemates and I went to a resto-bar to finalize the venue booking. The events manager played the gracious host and offered as serving after serving of the menu choices. Later on, the bartender placed before each of us a shot glass with layers of liquid. Being the allergic-to-alcohol, non-drinker dork that I am, I had to be explained what was in it. Vodka, Kahlua, Bailey's. It was named something crass I don't feel like typing down right now. Anyway, here's the clincher. The waiter brought a lighter and lit each cocktail on fire. I mean, honestly - allowing a klutz within inches of an open flame indoors? What were these people thinking?!
So, question is: will anyone be surprised if I told them that at one point during the night, a significant portion of my table was on fire? Literally. Blue flame crawling on the table's surface. Someone burning the knuckle of her index finger.
Tell me, that is still considered unexpected, right? Hypothetically. >_<
Looking back now, I guess I should have given them fair warning to not light up mine. I think it should be my civic duty to responsibly inform all unknowing people the hazards of being in my company. As my dear roommate said, anywhere I am is a hard-hat zone.
Now, maybe firesuit-zone, too.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Fallen
Though news of any accident involving myself may not come to most people as "news" but mere "eventualities", I'd just like to mention it right here as a preamble so we can get that over with right away.
I injured myself tonight. I just came from watching a movie with Tal, Karl, and Gary and while walking home just off the Shangri-La curb, I tripped. Tripped on what exactly - I'm still not sure. But I twisted my right ankle, landed on and scraped my left knee, almost ripped my denim at its point of impact, scratched the heels of my hands in my attempt to break the fall.
So instead of walking our way home, we had to take a cab. And when I was getting on it, I took a misstep with the injured foot and almost did a repeat performance. Apparently, I just can't get enough of the concrete. It's not enough that I walk on it. I have to be one with it.
I am adept at falling.
I guess it's natural to acquire a sense of deftness in something you always get to do. And it's not the act itself that I have accumulated skills in. After all, falling is less of something you make happen than something that happens to you. But skills in handling the post-impact.
Here's the thing. Once you've found yourself from an upright walking biped to a sad subhuman who fell on all fours - the first thing you want (or you're likely) to do is to scream expletives in the loudest decibel your lungs can manage. I've encompassed the expletive spectrum from kolehiyala "goshes" to mild euphemisms to outright good old vernacular curses. The devil-pertaining Visayan ones are particularly accessible. The anger and frustration is expected. It's acceptable even if the anger is directed at inanimate objects like crooked floors or uneven carpeting. Also acceptable if you're directing them at yourself. Of all the stupid, thoughtless, careless things to do.
But of course, while superficially satisfying at the particular moment of impact, cursing does not dull the pain. At some point, you just have to stop and pause. Find out where it hurts. Find out if something was broken, torn, or strained. Or all of the above. This self-assessment often requires tentative movements. A lot of wincing also follows, so this is not really a part where poise is a standout presence. It's very probable that there's a trail of mess everywhere. Maybe even blood.
Once you are aware of the damages, you relocate yourself. Assuming that most of the venues of these inelegant occasions happen in open public. So you go and find yourself a quiet corner or a curb where you sit down and try to soothe your pain. Friends, if they are around at the time, can help you. Sometimes you can not fully appreciate their sympathies right then and there - because you're hurting, goshdarnit, and no one will really understand. At least, never totally. But eventually you realize how pathetic-er it is to be pathetic alone than to be pathetic with friends.
There will be a time - unimaginable as it may be - that the pain will subside and you'd be able to consider other things. Still related to the pain, yes, but other things nevertheless. Like your self-esteem. Or its consequential degradation thereof. It occurs to you now how many people have seen you make a fool of yourself. The embarrassment of it all. The implacable awkwardness of vulnerability. What will they think? Poor you. What a klutz. But trust me, unless this was one of those rare hopeless situations - there will always be a little pride and defiance left in you to to question who the hell are they, anyhow.
Hopefully, there remains enough sensibilities for you to get up from that corner, to stand up and leave. Limp painfully if you must, but get a move on and be somewhere else. Because - come on - staying and wallowing in self-pity is just plain inexcusable disservice to one's self. It's not really anyone's fault. Falling is only bad when there's no one to catch you but the cold hard concrete.
I may have taken a figurative turn in all this logorrhea somewhere, I'm not sure. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Don't mind me. I'm just the klutz with liniment on her ankle and betadine on her knee.
I injured myself tonight. I just came from watching a movie with Tal, Karl, and Gary and while walking home just off the Shangri-La curb, I tripped. Tripped on what exactly - I'm still not sure. But I twisted my right ankle, landed on and scraped my left knee, almost ripped my denim at its point of impact, scratched the heels of my hands in my attempt to break the fall.
So instead of walking our way home, we had to take a cab. And when I was getting on it, I took a misstep with the injured foot and almost did a repeat performance. Apparently, I just can't get enough of the concrete. It's not enough that I walk on it. I have to be one with it.
I am adept at falling.
I guess it's natural to acquire a sense of deftness in something you always get to do. And it's not the act itself that I have accumulated skills in. After all, falling is less of something you make happen than something that happens to you. But skills in handling the post-impact.
Here's the thing. Once you've found yourself from an upright walking biped to a sad subhuman who fell on all fours - the first thing you want (or you're likely) to do is to scream expletives in the loudest decibel your lungs can manage. I've encompassed the expletive spectrum from kolehiyala "goshes" to mild euphemisms to outright good old vernacular curses. The devil-pertaining Visayan ones are particularly accessible. The anger and frustration is expected. It's acceptable even if the anger is directed at inanimate objects like crooked floors or uneven carpeting. Also acceptable if you're directing them at yourself. Of all the stupid, thoughtless, careless things to do.
But of course, while superficially satisfying at the particular moment of impact, cursing does not dull the pain. At some point, you just have to stop and pause. Find out where it hurts. Find out if something was broken, torn, or strained. Or all of the above. This self-assessment often requires tentative movements. A lot of wincing also follows, so this is not really a part where poise is a standout presence. It's very probable that there's a trail of mess everywhere. Maybe even blood.
Once you are aware of the damages, you relocate yourself. Assuming that most of the venues of these inelegant occasions happen in open public. So you go and find yourself a quiet corner or a curb where you sit down and try to soothe your pain. Friends, if they are around at the time, can help you. Sometimes you can not fully appreciate their sympathies right then and there - because you're hurting, goshdarnit, and no one will really understand. At least, never totally. But eventually you realize how pathetic-er it is to be pathetic alone than to be pathetic with friends.
There will be a time - unimaginable as it may be - that the pain will subside and you'd be able to consider other things. Still related to the pain, yes, but other things nevertheless. Like your self-esteem. Or its consequential degradation thereof. It occurs to you now how many people have seen you make a fool of yourself. The embarrassment of it all. The implacable awkwardness of vulnerability. What will they think? Poor you. What a klutz. But trust me, unless this was one of those rare hopeless situations - there will always be a little pride and defiance left in you to to question who the hell are they, anyhow.
Hopefully, there remains enough sensibilities for you to get up from that corner, to stand up and leave. Limp painfully if you must, but get a move on and be somewhere else. Because - come on - staying and wallowing in self-pity is just plain inexcusable disservice to one's self. It's not really anyone's fault. Falling is only bad when there's no one to catch you but the cold hard concrete.
I may have taken a figurative turn in all this logorrhea somewhere, I'm not sure. I've always had a poor sense of direction. Don't mind me. I'm just the klutz with liniment on her ankle and betadine on her knee.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Ticked Off
There's a standard phrase that Luz and I say out loud before we (frantically) leave the room in the mornings.
"Money, phone, key."
It's our checklist of the things that we should not leave behind. Sometimes, there are variants of this. Mostly, additional things like "flash disk", "MRT card", "handkerchief". But the core three are the staple ones. It would be such a day's cumbersome complication if one is left behind.
I remember Tago has a good version of this during travelling. But Tago, being himself, calls it "Valuability check!" - which is like a cue for us to ascertain the current location of wallets, cameras, cellphones.
The whole checklist is a good conceptual attempt, in theory. Not necessarily fool-proof, though. Especially in the case of me and my esteemed roommate. Maybe it's because we're often in a hurry to leave. There's something about the MRT - fifteen minutes can sometimes mean a difference of easily getting on the first train or shoving your way just to get into the third.
We're experts in cutting it close. It is like bluffing our ways to our 8 am call time. But you have to give us a little credit. From the Shaw station, we go our separate ways and wave our goodbyes after inserting our tickets in the platform. Luz goes northbound to QC, and I go southbound to Makati. Commuting is bound to leave you a little frazzled and forgetful.
Our friend's sister-in-law - whom we haven't met personally - lives one floor up from us. She knows us, though. As a matter of fact (but not of pride), we're known as the two girls who always forgets something and comes back up into the elevator to get it.
Once we were almost at the village gate before we figured out what we forgot and had to retrace our steps back to our building. Also, it's not unusual to find me waiting for the elevator while putting on earrings, wristwatch, bracelet. It's efficient use of slack time, you've got to admit.
So this morning, I went over the ritual. I paused at the door's threshold and reminded myself out loud. "Money, phone, key." Mentally making tick marks, I went out and headed out into my thursday.
I decided to blog about this because upon arriving at the office this morning, I found out that - of course - I forgot my phone.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Normalcy
She seemed like just another normal kid.
She sat on her bed indian-fashioned, still wearing her jammies. She watched Ice Age with us in the tiny tv screen. She laughed at Sid's antics. She has a dimple on her right cheek that shows whenever she smiles.
Very polite kid, too. Without any prodding from her parents, she offered us candies. She angled the screen towards us so we could see the movie better. She addressed Luz and I as "ate".
As with most ten-year olds, she likes cartoons. Spongebob Squarepants, Jimmy Neutron, Ariel the Little Mermaid. Some other Japanese animations I'm not familiar with.
She told us of her pets and the story behind each of their funny names.
She seemed like just another normal kid. Except for the IV bag of chemo medicine inserted in her vein. And her inch-short hair sticking out in every direction. Her dad stroked her hair and remarked how they should have it fixed. With a small pout, she said, "Kalbo na naman..."
When the nurse came to take off her IV, she tried her best to keep still - just grimacing a little when the adhesive stuck to her skin. When we asked if it hurts whenever they stick a needle into her, she shook her head. It's already been over a year, she said, and she's already gotten used to the monthly treatments.
She missed a year of school, though. When she was diagnosed, she almost became a cripple. The nonchalant way she said it was unnerving: "muntik na nga po ako malumpo nung nagkasakit ako nung isang taon."
Another two years of treatment and she could be well again.
Just a little after the credits of Ice Age rolled, she asked her mother if she could take a bath already. We then said our goodbyes to the family.
And as we watched her wave goodbye, she seemed like just another normal kid.
She sat on her bed indian-fashioned, still wearing her jammies. She watched Ice Age with us in the tiny tv screen. She laughed at Sid's antics. She has a dimple on her right cheek that shows whenever she smiles.
Very polite kid, too. Without any prodding from her parents, she offered us candies. She angled the screen towards us so we could see the movie better. She addressed Luz and I as "ate".
As with most ten-year olds, she likes cartoons. Spongebob Squarepants, Jimmy Neutron, Ariel the Little Mermaid. Some other Japanese animations I'm not familiar with.
She told us of her pets and the story behind each of their funny names.
She seemed like just another normal kid. Except for the IV bag of chemo medicine inserted in her vein. And her inch-short hair sticking out in every direction. Her dad stroked her hair and remarked how they should have it fixed. With a small pout, she said, "Kalbo na naman..."
When the nurse came to take off her IV, she tried her best to keep still - just grimacing a little when the adhesive stuck to her skin. When we asked if it hurts whenever they stick a needle into her, she shook her head. It's already been over a year, she said, and she's already gotten used to the monthly treatments.
She missed a year of school, though. When she was diagnosed, she almost became a cripple. The nonchalant way she said it was unnerving: "muntik na nga po ako malumpo nung nagkasakit ako nung isang taon."
Another two years of treatment and she could be well again.
Just a little after the credits of Ice Age rolled, she asked her mother if she could take a bath already. We then said our goodbyes to the family.
And as we watched her wave goodbye, she seemed like just another normal kid.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Flashbacks
I dreamt about my mother the morning of her birthday. In the dream, I was with my brother and sister seated around a small table. We were sharing fond memories of our mother. Retelling stories of personal incidents during her life and our childhood. My mother was not in the dream per se. There was just a sense that if it were a video, her presence was there as an inset. And it was not creepy or mournful or even sad. She was there as if to listen to what we had to say.
And we had so many stories to share about her - even to each other as siblings. Because my mother was a great mother. I've always said that I sincerely wish everyone of my friends have met her. So they'd understand what I mean. A few minutes of talking with her - anyone would've known that she was a special person with a warm and welcoming heart. And maybe if people have known this, they'd understand why losing her has changed me so much inside. I do think that my close friends who have met her understand better why it has been so difficult for me to handle the loss.
You would have loved her, too. You see, we were the kind of children who rushed to go home after school not because our mother ordered us to but because we wanted to spend time with her. We're the kind of children who were envied because our mother read us stories before afternoon naps, sent us stuffed toys in school on Valentine's Day, baked us our own birthday cakes, helped build art projects, taught us calligraphy on weekends. She made us learn and recite nursery rhymes and well-loved poetry by Marlowe, Whitman, Longfellow. She bought me classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women. Also pocket dictionaries.
She was funny, gregarious, intelligent, sociable. My love for reading and writing were her influences. When she read out loud to us, she glided her fingertip along the line she was reading and so even before I actually knew how to read, I was familiar with the "shape" of the word in print. She gave me my first diary when I was eight and encouraged me to write my thoughts everyday. I've always kept a journal ever since - in the forms of juvenile scented notebooks, standard 80-sheet ruled notebooks, of .doc and .txt files, of blog entries, and more recently, a Moleskine.
In the dream, my siblings and I talked around a table. We don't do that anymore, but we used to have them all the time when we were growing up. My mother was the kind of parent who wanted to hear our opinions. The first time we transferred provinces, she all sat us around the table and told us of the many changes and adjustments that we will have to go through during the period. I was ten at the time, seated with the others in the table, asked of my concerns, and treated as an adult. And this happened often because we moved quite a lot.
And even when we were already working, she was the mother who would pick sampaguita flowers from our backyard and put some of the blossoms in my bag so that it'd smell fragrant. In fact, when I was packing my things in Azeus, I saw one of the sampaguita branches she gave me which I kept in a box. I don't know why I kept it. But I'm glad I have the dried up flowers in my treasured possessions. There was also the mask I had to wear when she was already in reverse isolation in ICU. I'm still conflicted whether to keep that one. I find myself constantly in this place where I want to forget but I need to remember.
My mother was also very human - with weaknesses and contradictions. Until the very end, she regretted not being able to give up smoking. And it was one thing that she always asked forgiveness for. To us and in her prayers. I have seen her try to quit all throughout those years. Many, many times. Often dramatic memories when she would ask us to throw out all cigarettes, lighters, ashtrays and she'd end up in tears. Weeks or days or hours later when she couldn't resist the temptation, she'd pick up the habit again.
As a kid, I never understood how hard it could be. Naively, I drew an anti-smoking poster and stuck it on one of the ref magnets complete with text copied from health books about how smoking is bad for the health and with a real cigarette stuck in the center of the paper for added effect. I think it was Papa who took the cigarette from the poster and smoked it. What irony. Yeah, we were a comedic family.
A part of me believes I'm meant to be single forever so I'm not keeping a list anymore of what I am looking for in a person, but if I were - smoking is a deal-breaker for me. I'm not being judgemental or self-righteous. In fact, it's because I'm being selfish. I don't ever want to go through all the magnificently long drawn out pain of losing a loved one because of this habit. I have gone through it with both of my parents. And it felt like you had to helplessly stand and see them kill themselves willingly and hate themselves for it. It is hell and it is as if your heart is wrenched out from chest. No, no. It would have to be somebody else's wife. Somebody else's child. I won't sign up for that all over again.
My mother would disapprove of this notion, I know. She always told me that I had a tendency to be inflexible in a sense that I have no in-betweens. Black and white - no grays. I am stubborn and she was worried that my extreme likes and dislikes would make me miss out on some of the things in life.
The way things stand, I'm set to miss out on a lot of things in life, anyway. Having a wedding where your parents give you away. Or having a family with a mother to guide you in raising a child. And a more trivial thing: my new office emphasizes on work-life-balance and they have these family day activities every now and then where you bring... well, family. I absolutely dread it. Because I can't bring anyone. Just yesterday, I had to call up an aunt I haven't spoken with for years just to ask if she could confirm my information to the bank where I was opening an account. It was funny and awkward and just utterly pathetic.
One of things my siblings and I talked about is that during those times when we were all living apart from each other - and it was not very unusual that our family of five were in five different cities at the same time - home was always where our mother was. Home was not a fixed city or even a tangible house. Home was where my mother can listen about our day, give us a hug, talk to us, let us know how much we were loved. And no matter where we're coming from - a toxic semester in college or a long day at work - we all knew where home was. Or who home was.
And it still stands true. We'll all be going home someday to where she is. In the meantime, I'm trying to live my life with intention. So I could have something worthwhile to tell her when I see her again.
Happy birthday, Mama.
And we had so many stories to share about her - even to each other as siblings. Because my mother was a great mother. I've always said that I sincerely wish everyone of my friends have met her. So they'd understand what I mean. A few minutes of talking with her - anyone would've known that she was a special person with a warm and welcoming heart. And maybe if people have known this, they'd understand why losing her has changed me so much inside. I do think that my close friends who have met her understand better why it has been so difficult for me to handle the loss.
You would have loved her, too. You see, we were the kind of children who rushed to go home after school not because our mother ordered us to but because we wanted to spend time with her. We're the kind of children who were envied because our mother read us stories before afternoon naps, sent us stuffed toys in school on Valentine's Day, baked us our own birthday cakes, helped build art projects, taught us calligraphy on weekends. She made us learn and recite nursery rhymes and well-loved poetry by Marlowe, Whitman, Longfellow. She bought me classic books like Wuthering Heights and Little Women. Also pocket dictionaries.
She was funny, gregarious, intelligent, sociable. My love for reading and writing were her influences. When she read out loud to us, she glided her fingertip along the line she was reading and so even before I actually knew how to read, I was familiar with the "shape" of the word in print. She gave me my first diary when I was eight and encouraged me to write my thoughts everyday. I've always kept a journal ever since - in the forms of juvenile scented notebooks, standard 80-sheet ruled notebooks, of .doc and .txt files, of blog entries, and more recently, a Moleskine.
In the dream, my siblings and I talked around a table. We don't do that anymore, but we used to have them all the time when we were growing up. My mother was the kind of parent who wanted to hear our opinions. The first time we transferred provinces, she all sat us around the table and told us of the many changes and adjustments that we will have to go through during the period. I was ten at the time, seated with the others in the table, asked of my concerns, and treated as an adult. And this happened often because we moved quite a lot.
And even when we were already working, she was the mother who would pick sampaguita flowers from our backyard and put some of the blossoms in my bag so that it'd smell fragrant. In fact, when I was packing my things in Azeus, I saw one of the sampaguita branches she gave me which I kept in a box. I don't know why I kept it. But I'm glad I have the dried up flowers in my treasured possessions. There was also the mask I had to wear when she was already in reverse isolation in ICU. I'm still conflicted whether to keep that one. I find myself constantly in this place where I want to forget but I need to remember.
My mother was also very human - with weaknesses and contradictions. Until the very end, she regretted not being able to give up smoking. And it was one thing that she always asked forgiveness for. To us and in her prayers. I have seen her try to quit all throughout those years. Many, many times. Often dramatic memories when she would ask us to throw out all cigarettes, lighters, ashtrays and she'd end up in tears. Weeks or days or hours later when she couldn't resist the temptation, she'd pick up the habit again.
As a kid, I never understood how hard it could be. Naively, I drew an anti-smoking poster and stuck it on one of the ref magnets complete with text copied from health books about how smoking is bad for the health and with a real cigarette stuck in the center of the paper for added effect. I think it was Papa who took the cigarette from the poster and smoked it. What irony. Yeah, we were a comedic family.
A part of me believes I'm meant to be single forever so I'm not keeping a list anymore of what I am looking for in a person, but if I were - smoking is a deal-breaker for me. I'm not being judgemental or self-righteous. In fact, it's because I'm being selfish. I don't ever want to go through all the magnificently long drawn out pain of losing a loved one because of this habit. I have gone through it with both of my parents. And it felt like you had to helplessly stand and see them kill themselves willingly and hate themselves for it. It is hell and it is as if your heart is wrenched out from chest. No, no. It would have to be somebody else's wife. Somebody else's child. I won't sign up for that all over again.
My mother would disapprove of this notion, I know. She always told me that I had a tendency to be inflexible in a sense that I have no in-betweens. Black and white - no grays. I am stubborn and she was worried that my extreme likes and dislikes would make me miss out on some of the things in life.
The way things stand, I'm set to miss out on a lot of things in life, anyway. Having a wedding where your parents give you away. Or having a family with a mother to guide you in raising a child. And a more trivial thing: my new office emphasizes on work-life-balance and they have these family day activities every now and then where you bring... well, family. I absolutely dread it. Because I can't bring anyone. Just yesterday, I had to call up an aunt I haven't spoken with for years just to ask if she could confirm my information to the bank where I was opening an account. It was funny and awkward and just utterly pathetic.
One of things my siblings and I talked about is that during those times when we were all living apart from each other - and it was not very unusual that our family of five were in five different cities at the same time - home was always where our mother was. Home was not a fixed city or even a tangible house. Home was where my mother can listen about our day, give us a hug, talk to us, let us know how much we were loved. And no matter where we're coming from - a toxic semester in college or a long day at work - we all knew where home was. Or who home was.
And it still stands true. We'll all be going home someday to where she is. In the meantime, I'm trying to live my life with intention. So I could have something worthwhile to tell her when I see her again.
Happy birthday, Mama.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Transubstantiation
I've heard a very interesting story today. A true one at that. Juicier than any of the showbiz tsismis. More incredible than any of the Ripley stories.
So a long time ago, there's this wife with a womanizing husband. What else is new, right? But this happened a really long time ago so instead of seeking annulment on the grounds of psychological incapacity or hiring a private investigator to follow him around - the wife instead consulted a Jewish sorceress to ask what to do.
So in keeping with her weirdness, the sorceress asks for a consecrated host in payment for a magical potion that will supposedly help the wife. A consecrated host - well, you know - it's the same host we get at communion. So the wife heard mass and after receiving communion, she removed the Host from her mouth and kept it in a knot in her veil. Just then, the Host began to bleed profusely. It bled so heavily that people thought that she was really, really sick. Or with a very deep wound or something. So she freaked out - naturally - and went home. She placed the wrapped Host in a wooden chest where she kept her clean linens.
When her philandering husband came home, he discovered the secret of the hidden Host because the chest was all lit up. Just absolutely beaming with brilliant light. In fact, it was so bright that it illuminated their whole house! The parish heard about the incident and after a couple of years, the Church recognized it as a legitimate miracle.
Amazing, huh?
But I just wanted to share what the priest reminded everyone - that physical miracles like that is not what people really need to see. The miracle that people - especially unbelieving ones are looking for, is the miracle of change in the lives of those who claim to follow Christ.
It's been mentioned that those who go to Church and openly pray but live un-Christian lives are so much worse than those who do not go to Church at all. Because they convince people that the Church does not change lives. But just breed a bunch of hypocrites. People shouldn't go to mass because they feel like they're being good. People should go to mass because they want to be good.
And that rang true in my head. Because I try not to miss mass not because I feel like I'm being better than those who don't go. But because I feel I need it more than others.
So what was the lesson from this Sunday's homily? Apart from the miracle of change in our lives - steer clear of sorcery when addressing marital problems.
So a long time ago, there's this wife with a womanizing husband. What else is new, right? But this happened a really long time ago so instead of seeking annulment on the grounds of psychological incapacity or hiring a private investigator to follow him around - the wife instead consulted a Jewish sorceress to ask what to do.
So in keeping with her weirdness, the sorceress asks for a consecrated host in payment for a magical potion that will supposedly help the wife. A consecrated host - well, you know - it's the same host we get at communion. So the wife heard mass and after receiving communion, she removed the Host from her mouth and kept it in a knot in her veil. Just then, the Host began to bleed profusely. It bled so heavily that people thought that she was really, really sick. Or with a very deep wound or something. So she freaked out - naturally - and went home. She placed the wrapped Host in a wooden chest where she kept her clean linens.
When her philandering husband came home, he discovered the secret of the hidden Host because the chest was all lit up. Just absolutely beaming with brilliant light. In fact, it was so bright that it illuminated their whole house! The parish heard about the incident and after a couple of years, the Church recognized it as a legitimate miracle.
Amazing, huh?
But I just wanted to share what the priest reminded everyone - that physical miracles like that is not what people really need to see. The miracle that people - especially unbelieving ones are looking for, is the miracle of change in the lives of those who claim to follow Christ.
It's been mentioned that those who go to Church and openly pray but live un-Christian lives are so much worse than those who do not go to Church at all. Because they convince people that the Church does not change lives. But just breed a bunch of hypocrites. People shouldn't go to mass because they feel like they're being good. People should go to mass because they want to be good.
And that rang true in my head. Because I try not to miss mass not because I feel like I'm being better than those who don't go. But because I feel I need it more than others.
So what was the lesson from this Sunday's homily? Apart from the miracle of change in our lives - steer clear of sorcery when addressing marital problems.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Torrents (the non-digital kind)
I feel a little guilty for enjoying the heavy rains of this week. I know a lot of people find it bothersome - those who live in easily flooded areas, those who commute and find it inconvenient to wait for public transport in the downpour (I will be part of this demographic again soon enough). I'm sorry and I do empathize, but I couldn't help but feel gleeful over spending my bum days in the gloomy overcast of the indoors.
It is possible that I might be a hermitic, nocturnal creature in a previous life (if one subscribes to the belief of reincarnation, that is). I like being alone, being in the dark. In addition, I've always loved the heavy rains. A lot of people find this fact about me weird and most of them don't hesitate to let me know.
In college, when I have the room all to myself if I got off early from class - I turn off the lights, shut the door, and close the curtains - thereby keeping out all sunlight, noise, and movement. My roommates would find me in this state and would ask me what the heck I was doing sulking in the dark. One compared me to Anne Rice's vampires.
My current roommate, who usually shares my eccentricities, conceded that I was far too advanced in my dislike for socialization (and light) than her. Read: she thinks hanging an opaque curtain is a good idea, but closing it the whole way through is inadvisable and bordering on suffocating.
In my personality interview with Azeus, Miss Nettie asked me if I had any concern working late nights. I remember telling her that I actually preferred working when it's already dark and quiet, without sunlight. Those exact words. She laughed but she must've thought I was an absolute wacko. She was nice about it, though.
I'll be digressing a bit, but I just had to mention a little bit about my tech interview with Sir Spens - since we're on the topic anyway and I've been thinking lately a lot of how I started with my first company after my resignation. The way it went back then, you were given a problem to solve in a couple of minutes and you have to write the solution in a piece of paper. You can use any programming language or just even the pseudocode. You have to explain to the interviewer your logic. When asked "Is there a better way of doing this?" Without thinking and neglecting the hold on my sarcasm, I told him, "Well, I'm sure there is. But this is what I've come up with given the time."
I'm sure no one else remembers that incident but I've always fantasized of going back to that moment and answering that question with a little subtlety and tact. I still can't believe I got in after my seemingly disastrous qualifying interviews.
Anyway, fast forward to the present.
Just today, I woke up early and wanted to pick up where I left off on my reading. The morning light was taking a backseat to the cloudy skies and since my sister was still sleeping soundly, I couldn't turn on the light. I ended up rummaging through the shelves for my flashlight and used it for reading. A friend suggested I used a headlamp next time. Very interesting suggestion - one that I might follow. I'm still halfway through "The Time Traveler's Wife", by the way. It gets interesting once you get past the weird sense of pedophilia in the early parts.
I got the chance to do other indoor things lately. I watch movies, make origami, and follow recipes. I made something named 'Layered Cookie Cake'. It's made of raisin bread, cream, crushed chocolate cookies, and fruit cocktail. It didn't turn out to be much. Insubstantial mush. I also tried some writing. Like this entry. Oh, look. I can reuse the same adjective phrase for this: Insubstantial mush.
It is possible that I might be a hermitic, nocturnal creature in a previous life (if one subscribes to the belief of reincarnation, that is). I like being alone, being in the dark. In addition, I've always loved the heavy rains. A lot of people find this fact about me weird and most of them don't hesitate to let me know.
In college, when I have the room all to myself if I got off early from class - I turn off the lights, shut the door, and close the curtains - thereby keeping out all sunlight, noise, and movement. My roommates would find me in this state and would ask me what the heck I was doing sulking in the dark. One compared me to Anne Rice's vampires.
My current roommate, who usually shares my eccentricities, conceded that I was far too advanced in my dislike for socialization (and light) than her. Read: she thinks hanging an opaque curtain is a good idea, but closing it the whole way through is inadvisable and bordering on suffocating.
In my personality interview with Azeus, Miss Nettie asked me if I had any concern working late nights. I remember telling her that I actually preferred working when it's already dark and quiet, without sunlight. Those exact words. She laughed but she must've thought I was an absolute wacko. She was nice about it, though.
I'll be digressing a bit, but I just had to mention a little bit about my tech interview with Sir Spens - since we're on the topic anyway and I've been thinking lately a lot of how I started with my first company after my resignation. The way it went back then, you were given a problem to solve in a couple of minutes and you have to write the solution in a piece of paper. You can use any programming language or just even the pseudocode. You have to explain to the interviewer your logic. When asked "Is there a better way of doing this?" Without thinking and neglecting the hold on my sarcasm, I told him, "Well, I'm sure there is. But this is what I've come up with given the time."
I'm sure no one else remembers that incident but I've always fantasized of going back to that moment and answering that question with a little subtlety and tact. I still can't believe I got in after my seemingly disastrous qualifying interviews.
Anyway, fast forward to the present.
Just today, I woke up early and wanted to pick up where I left off on my reading. The morning light was taking a backseat to the cloudy skies and since my sister was still sleeping soundly, I couldn't turn on the light. I ended up rummaging through the shelves for my flashlight and used it for reading. A friend suggested I used a headlamp next time. Very interesting suggestion - one that I might follow. I'm still halfway through "The Time Traveler's Wife", by the way. It gets interesting once you get past the weird sense of pedophilia in the early parts.
I got the chance to do other indoor things lately. I watch movies, make origami, and follow recipes. I made something named 'Layered Cookie Cake'. It's made of raisin bread, cream, crushed chocolate cookies, and fruit cocktail. It didn't turn out to be much. Insubstantial mush. I also tried some writing. Like this entry. Oh, look. I can reuse the same adjective phrase for this: Insubstantial mush.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
I owe fries.
I lost a bet today. Not really a bet. It's a result of my initial gullibility and subsequent skepticism.
Dens claimed that McDo has introduced a new menu item called McPorkchops. He said it's like porkchops covered with the same breading of Chicken McNuggets and served with the same sauce options, i.e. barbecue, honey mustard, sweet and sour.
Since I haven't been to McDo in a while and I don't have popular tv channels, I don't get to view many ads and it was very likely that I missed this new menu from McDo.
Eventually, Dens admitted that he was just pulling my leg and told me that actually it was Jollibee that has a new 39ers meal. Calamares. And it was so convincing the way he told me about how meager the serving is. Six or seven rings of squid, he said. The name escaped him - probably not jollycalamares or jollysquid.
And I have to admit, I almost bought the story. >_<
Finally, he told me about the new french fries size of McDonald's. The small one is still small, the old large is the new medium, and the new large is a very large serving. I said I wouldn't fall for it a third time. And agreed to treat him to three supersized fries.
I can't decide whether Dens is just smooth or I'm just easily duped. Whichever the case may be, I have to pay up with unhealthy carbohydrates.
Dens claimed that McDo has introduced a new menu item called McPorkchops. He said it's like porkchops covered with the same breading of Chicken McNuggets and served with the same sauce options, i.e. barbecue, honey mustard, sweet and sour.
Since I haven't been to McDo in a while and I don't have popular tv channels, I don't get to view many ads and it was very likely that I missed this new menu from McDo.
Eventually, Dens admitted that he was just pulling my leg and told me that actually it was Jollibee that has a new 39ers meal. Calamares. And it was so convincing the way he told me about how meager the serving is. Six or seven rings of squid, he said. The name escaped him - probably not jollycalamares or jollysquid.
And I have to admit, I almost bought the story. >_<
Finally, he told me about the new french fries size of McDonald's. The small one is still small, the old large is the new medium, and the new large is a very large serving. I said I wouldn't fall for it a third time. And agreed to treat him to three supersized fries.
I can't decide whether Dens is just smooth or I'm just easily duped. Whichever the case may be, I have to pay up with unhealthy carbohydrates.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mothers' Day
On Sunday afternoons, I try to sleep. Sometimes during those moments I am about to transition from sleep to consciousness, I sense my mother's presence. I am dreaming, of course. I know it. But I feel comforted to imagine that she is seated at the base of my bed, watching television like she used to. I actually leave the TV on while I sleep so I could feel less alone.
For the past couple of weeks, advertisers have capitalized on the approach of Mothers' Day. And every print, radio, or tv ad of mother and child remind me of how much I miss my own mother.
I used to get her something every year. I guess I totally bought all the advertising pitches. When I was in high school, I'd save up on allowance and buy her roses from one of the flower stands behind our campus. Those that sell for P50 or so. In college, I also get her cake. The year I did summer OJT, I sent her a collection of CDs of piano instrumentals. And when I eventually got employed, I usually got her kitchen gadgets which she really liked.
My mother was a very appreciative and affectionate person. She'd hug me whenever I brought her anything. Even if it's just MacChicken sandwich takeouts. But well, all mothers are that way, I guess. You just get home in time before the heavy rain pours and they're thrilled. You just offer to do the dishes after dinner and they're happy. Mothers are easy to please that way. In fact, you just have to be. And you're loved.
There's a part of me that could never shrug off the feeling that I could've given her more while she was still around. Came home earlier. Took her to a vacation. Done more, said more.
But now the cards and CDs are dusting in a corner of a cabinet and the appliances are placed back in their boxes for storage. And today seems less special for me. Like last Christmas or New Year. All other occasions or long weekends. I try to cope with sleeping and the drone of television in the background.
Enough of that. Just please do me a favor and hug your mothers for me. Thanks.
For the past couple of weeks, advertisers have capitalized on the approach of Mothers' Day. And every print, radio, or tv ad of mother and child remind me of how much I miss my own mother.
I used to get her something every year. I guess I totally bought all the advertising pitches. When I was in high school, I'd save up on allowance and buy her roses from one of the flower stands behind our campus. Those that sell for P50 or so. In college, I also get her cake. The year I did summer OJT, I sent her a collection of CDs of piano instrumentals. And when I eventually got employed, I usually got her kitchen gadgets which she really liked.
My mother was a very appreciative and affectionate person. She'd hug me whenever I brought her anything. Even if it's just MacChicken sandwich takeouts. But well, all mothers are that way, I guess. You just get home in time before the heavy rain pours and they're thrilled. You just offer to do the dishes after dinner and they're happy. Mothers are easy to please that way. In fact, you just have to be. And you're loved.
There's a part of me that could never shrug off the feeling that I could've given her more while she was still around. Came home earlier. Took her to a vacation. Done more, said more.
But now the cards and CDs are dusting in a corner of a cabinet and the appliances are placed back in their boxes for storage. And today seems less special for me. Like last Christmas or New Year. All other occasions or long weekends. I try to cope with sleeping and the drone of television in the background.
Enough of that. Just please do me a favor and hug your mothers for me. Thanks.
Thursday, May 07, 2009
Surf and Sniff
My colds has progressively worsened the past couple of hours. Or regressively, I should say. Yesterday morning, I just had a sore throat and a manageable sniffles. Today, I'm a full-blown, wheezing, snotty-nosed, raspy-voiced, sick person. And what a pretty picture to paint for all you wonderful people in this beautiful morning. Sorry, enough of grossing you out.
I only managed three hours of uncomfortable sleep. The rest of the time, of course, was spent on the internet. Yeah, I know, I know. Did I think that I could surf my way into sleep? I just have the lame excuse that there was nothing else better to do. And if you want some tips on doing nothing on the Internet, welcome to the club.
Traveller IQ Challenge
I spent a solid hour playing the Flash game Traveler IQ Challenge. It's a very simple game of identifying in the world map the city capital or famous place shown to you. You just click the map and it automatically computes how many miles you are from the actual location. I was never very good in Geography, but I know the general (very general) area of most countries.
I got pretty adept at zoning on the European countries bunched up together. I have a lot of trouble with the African and South American continents, though. I know if a country belongs to either one, but they're big masses of whole continents!
Sometimes, I'd guess way off and the distance computing window would flash a wisecracking comment: "This is Earth. You know that, right?" or "Holy geez - You're terrible!" What a smart aleck.
I reached level 6, which is midway of the range. Maybe I'll try it again later and see if I can do better.
tell me what you believe now
I also stumbled upon this website that lets people complete the sentence: "Right now I believe ---." They post anyone's answer and you can just refresh your browser to view a different one each time. It's uncensored so you may come across loads of senseless twaddle - but sometimes you can find an interesting post every now and then.
"Right now I believe that I may have HIV, but that life is beautiful anyways."
"Right now I believe this website has poor spam detection. This message has been posted 137 times. "
"Right now I believe facebook took my life."
And we segue to...
Facebook
I spend some time browsing through my friends' Facebook status and wondering about the results of quizzes they posted. It's funny how we all get amused with all those personality tests that attempt to sum us up through the answers we provide in a series of questions.
And the Mafia Wars - what the heck is happening in that part of the online world? People are exchanging Jack of Hearts and Poker Chips and Orange Trees and Sheep. Oh, wait. That's for Farm Town. And the Farm Town - what the heck is happening in that part of the online world?
Last weekend, at a children's party I attended, someone nonchalantly apologized for attacking me. As I had zero recollection of being mauled in the recent past, I responded with a puzzled look. It turns out, the victim was my Facebook vampire character or something - which I didn't even know I had. Go figure.
I have been contemplating whether to create my own Pick Five list. I was considering "Five Blogs You Follow", but the available options are too limited. In any case, my answers would be: Karina's Buried in Cliches, Jason Mraz's Freshess Factor Five Thousand, Chico Garcia's Strange Fruit, Rye's The Lead Character Chronicles, and Bo Sanchez's Practical Soulfood.
Twitter
It's true. Sometimes all you need to say can be said in 140 characters or less. (So unlike this blog that has been dragging you all around needlessly.) Twitter is the venue for those wit in brevity. And! It also gives you the chance to "follow" the thoughts of well-known people like Neil Gaiman and John Mayer. And I had no idea Rob Thomas is very opinionated.
I am not sure if Plurk is better than Twitter, and frankly, I'm not too keen in finding out. Technology can be stressful if you let it overwhelm you. Look at me - (sarcasm alert!) I have simplified it to this: my blog entries in Multiply are cross-posted to my Blogspot account which is cross-posted to my Facebook. My Twitter auto-updates my Facebook status, too.
The thing is, I think there's a problem with the Multiply-Blogspot cross-posting tool. And I don't want to reconfigure the settings because there's a chance that I will spam all of you when the system reposts all of my six years' worth of blogs. You don't want that to happen, trust me. A barrage of angsty, immature, and whiny blogs from my old self is the last thing you want in your inbox.
Hmm, I guess my personality's been pretty consistent these past few years.
I'm off to wallow in my state of wooziness, people. The discarded tissues are starting to form a new landform here in the apartment. I wish you a virus-free day. And if anyone needs me, I'll just be around - guessing which part of Russia the Battle of Stalingrad took place.
I only managed three hours of uncomfortable sleep. The rest of the time, of course, was spent on the internet. Yeah, I know, I know. Did I think that I could surf my way into sleep? I just have the lame excuse that there was nothing else better to do. And if you want some tips on doing nothing on the Internet, welcome to the club.
Traveller IQ Challenge
I spent a solid hour playing the Flash game Traveler IQ Challenge. It's a very simple game of identifying in the world map the city capital or famous place shown to you. You just click the map and it automatically computes how many miles you are from the actual location. I was never very good in Geography, but I know the general (very general) area of most countries.
I got pretty adept at zoning on the European countries bunched up together. I have a lot of trouble with the African and South American continents, though. I know if a country belongs to either one, but they're big masses of whole continents!
Sometimes, I'd guess way off and the distance computing window would flash a wisecracking comment: "This is Earth. You know that, right?" or "Holy geez - You're terrible!" What a smart aleck.
I reached level 6, which is midway of the range. Maybe I'll try it again later and see if I can do better.
tell me what you believe now
I also stumbled upon this website that lets people complete the sentence: "Right now I believe ---." They post anyone's answer and you can just refresh your browser to view a different one each time. It's uncensored so you may come across loads of senseless twaddle - but sometimes you can find an interesting post every now and then.
"Right now I believe that I may have HIV, but that life is beautiful anyways."
"Right now I believe this website has poor spam detection. This message has been posted 137 times. "
"Right now I believe facebook took my life."
And we segue to...
I spend some time browsing through my friends' Facebook status and wondering about the results of quizzes they posted. It's funny how we all get amused with all those personality tests that attempt to sum us up through the answers we provide in a series of questions.
And the Mafia Wars - what the heck is happening in that part of the online world? People are exchanging Jack of Hearts and Poker Chips and Orange Trees and Sheep. Oh, wait. That's for Farm Town. And the Farm Town - what the heck is happening in that part of the online world?
Last weekend, at a children's party I attended, someone nonchalantly apologized for attacking me. As I had zero recollection of being mauled in the recent past, I responded with a puzzled look. It turns out, the victim was my Facebook vampire character or something - which I didn't even know I had. Go figure.
I have been contemplating whether to create my own Pick Five list. I was considering "Five Blogs You Follow", but the available options are too limited. In any case, my answers would be: Karina's Buried in Cliches, Jason Mraz's Freshess Factor Five Thousand, Chico Garcia's Strange Fruit, Rye's The Lead Character Chronicles, and Bo Sanchez's Practical Soulfood.
It's true. Sometimes all you need to say can be said in 140 characters or less. (So unlike this blog that has been dragging you all around needlessly.) Twitter is the venue for those wit in brevity. And! It also gives you the chance to "follow" the thoughts of well-known people like Neil Gaiman and John Mayer. And I had no idea Rob Thomas is very opinionated.
I am not sure if Plurk is better than Twitter, and frankly, I'm not too keen in finding out. Technology can be stressful if you let it overwhelm you. Look at me - (sarcasm alert!) I have simplified it to this: my blog entries in Multiply are cross-posted to my Blogspot account which is cross-posted to my Facebook. My Twitter auto-updates my Facebook status, too.
The thing is, I think there's a problem with the Multiply-Blogspot cross-posting tool. And I don't want to reconfigure the settings because there's a chance that I will spam all of you when the system reposts all of my six years' worth of blogs. You don't want that to happen, trust me. A barrage of angsty, immature, and whiny blogs from my old self is the last thing you want in your inbox.
Hmm, I guess my personality's been pretty consistent these past few years.
I'm off to wallow in my state of wooziness, people. The discarded tissues are starting to form a new landform here in the apartment. I wish you a virus-free day. And if anyone needs me, I'll just be around - guessing which part of Russia the Battle of Stalingrad took place.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Bunny-Ears Knot
I find that I talk to myself more often lately. I talk to myself out loud - that's not a new quirk. I've been doing it since I was a child. The frequency of it now is what is I find notable.
You see, I have this notion of the afterlife. When we're done here and we get there - wherever that is for each of us - there's a film showing of your life. For everyone to see. We're in this great big hall with a screen much, much bigger than ten iMaxes put together. It's not going to be length of your lifetime, I'm imagining. Just a montage of important events. You know the videos they play after an American Idol gets voted off? That kind. Or an episode of E! True Hollywood Stories.
Maybe there'd also be video collections of special moments. Some voice-over will be saying, "... In her lifetime, so-and-so is known for her klutziness..." - then rolls a video of slips, skids, knee-scrapings, glass-breaking (very familiar actions to me, I must admit). It'd be just like a rip-off of America's Funniest Videos. I watched too much TV in my lifetime, too. You can always tell from all my references. I'll write a whole book about this notion, I swear. As early as now, I'm accepting advanced reservations.
Anyway. I was thinking that when they play my video, there'd also be a specific section dedicated just for the times I talked out loud to myself and then maybe a glimpse of the reaction of the people around me. The period of the past few months will be a wealthy resource for these clips of my life. Maybe because I'm by myself more often now. Alone by circumstances, and lately, also by choice. It's ironic to think that I'm not talkative when I'm around people, but relatively chatty when I'm by myself.
When I watch television, I applaud, swear, and let out acerbic comments whenever appropriate. Who says it isn't interactive? I draw the line at shadowboxing when watching Pacquiao, though. That was something only my mother did. I also think out loud when I write. I'm murmuring now as I type this. When I walk alone, I think of character monologues, dialogues, multi-logues - those I make up on my own and those that I want to say to people and those that I like from books or movies. I find it tricky to write conversations. I don't want them to seem trite and contrived. People do not talk tritely or contrively. So I'm learning how to do that by saying it out loud before writing them down.
My roommate is used to it by now. But Luz talks to herself a whole lot, too. Especially when she's studying. At least, my loud thinking mostly pop culture. Hers can be too medical to make any sense. So it's fair game at the apartment.
At work, though, I still get ribbed when I talk to my monitor. My loud "What is wrong with you?!" remark has been replied with, "So ano? What is wrong with it daw?" I also have my share of "ffO" moments accompanied with "You've got to be kidding me!" I sometimes get asked if I was still ok. I guess burying your head in your hands, digging the heels of your hands in your eyes, and yes, talking to one's self are not very good indications of wellness.
This afternoon, I got to hear mass at the Antipolo Cathedral. I had to go home to get some stuff from the house. Just two things actually: my sleeping bag and a couple of DVDs. I didn't stay long at our empty house. Couldn't. I get so overwhelmed with the emptiness of the living room, the dining table, my parents' bedroom. Too much that I almost couldn't breathe. And so, I don't stay long.
Yes, I go on talking to myself and to the memories of people in my head. Meanwhile, I try to act normally as I could and do normal things. I think about this during mass as I watch a kid in front of me arduously attempting to tie her shoes. It was during the Prayers of the Faithful. And guilty as charged, I got distracted from listening to the petitions. The mass was in Tagalog which I'm not used to. In any case, the toddler caught my attention. The shoelaces of her high-cut sneakers were loose and with her uncoordinated fingers were trying to tie them together. I hung on to her every failed attempt and her perseverance to not give up, rooting for her to finally pull it off. And when she did, I caught myself saying out loud, "Good job!" I discreetly look around somewhat embarrassed.
For the record, though, I'm not going crazy. I just feel compelled to mention that.
You see, I have this notion of the afterlife. When we're done here and we get there - wherever that is for each of us - there's a film showing of your life. For everyone to see. We're in this great big hall with a screen much, much bigger than ten iMaxes put together. It's not going to be length of your lifetime, I'm imagining. Just a montage of important events. You know the videos they play after an American Idol gets voted off? That kind. Or an episode of E! True Hollywood Stories.
Maybe there'd also be video collections of special moments. Some voice-over will be saying, "... In her lifetime, so-and-so is known for her klutziness..." - then rolls a video of slips, skids, knee-scrapings, glass-breaking (very familiar actions to me, I must admit). It'd be just like a rip-off of America's Funniest Videos. I watched too much TV in my lifetime, too. You can always tell from all my references. I'll write a whole book about this notion, I swear. As early as now, I'm accepting advanced reservations.
Anyway. I was thinking that when they play my video, there'd also be a specific section dedicated just for the times I talked out loud to myself and then maybe a glimpse of the reaction of the people around me. The period of the past few months will be a wealthy resource for these clips of my life. Maybe because I'm by myself more often now. Alone by circumstances, and lately, also by choice. It's ironic to think that I'm not talkative when I'm around people, but relatively chatty when I'm by myself.
When I watch television, I applaud, swear, and let out acerbic comments whenever appropriate. Who says it isn't interactive? I draw the line at shadowboxing when watching Pacquiao, though. That was something only my mother did. I also think out loud when I write. I'm murmuring now as I type this. When I walk alone, I think of character monologues, dialogues, multi-logues - those I make up on my own and those that I want to say to people and those that I like from books or movies. I find it tricky to write conversations. I don't want them to seem trite and contrived. People do not talk tritely or contrively. So I'm learning how to do that by saying it out loud before writing them down.
My roommate is used to it by now. But Luz talks to herself a whole lot, too. Especially when she's studying. At least, my loud thinking mostly pop culture. Hers can be too medical to make any sense. So it's fair game at the apartment.
At work, though, I still get ribbed when I talk to my monitor. My loud "What is wrong with you?!" remark has been replied with, "So ano? What is wrong with it daw?" I also have my share of "ffO" moments accompanied with "You've got to be kidding me!" I sometimes get asked if I was still ok. I guess burying your head in your hands, digging the heels of your hands in your eyes, and yes, talking to one's self are not very good indications of wellness.
This afternoon, I got to hear mass at the Antipolo Cathedral. I had to go home to get some stuff from the house. Just two things actually: my sleeping bag and a couple of DVDs. I didn't stay long at our empty house. Couldn't. I get so overwhelmed with the emptiness of the living room, the dining table, my parents' bedroom. Too much that I almost couldn't breathe. And so, I don't stay long.
Yes, I go on talking to myself and to the memories of people in my head. Meanwhile, I try to act normally as I could and do normal things. I think about this during mass as I watch a kid in front of me arduously attempting to tie her shoes. It was during the Prayers of the Faithful. And guilty as charged, I got distracted from listening to the petitions. The mass was in Tagalog which I'm not used to. In any case, the toddler caught my attention. The shoelaces of her high-cut sneakers were loose and with her uncoordinated fingers were trying to tie them together. I hung on to her every failed attempt and her perseverance to not give up, rooting for her to finally pull it off. And when she did, I caught myself saying out loud, "Good job!" I discreetly look around somewhat embarrassed.
For the record, though, I'm not going crazy. I just feel compelled to mention that.
Friday, March 27, 2009
"No, they're not overalls."
It was Monday when I met her. Ok, "meet" might be the wrong verb to use. Let's try that again. It was Monday when she weirded me out.
Typical day. I entered the building through the Pearl Drive entrance. I rushed to the elevators when I saw one of the green lights blinking. I missed it by two seconds and I swore under my breath. I'm a very tense person. Tension and the elevators at my office building do not go well together. And swearing is a natural byproduct of such unfortunate combination.
Anyway, I was waiting for the next upward elevator when a girl suddenly addressed me. I probably have ignored her the first few times she spoke. I have a very limited peripheral vision - not really optical in nature, I just don't care much for what's happening around me. So I am apologizing in advance to everyone whom I will unintentionally ignore. I have tapahoho.
So this girl started asking about the jacket which I was carrying over one arm. She actually asked if it was overalls. You know - the work clothes of those who do heavy manual labor. Yes, it's bright orange, but really - I come off as the type who needs to bring overalls to work?
I politely told her that no, it was just my company jacket. And then she started off with a series of questions that made that exchange one of the weirdest I ever had with a total stranger.
---
Where do you work?
I pointed to the embroidery in my jacket.
She pronounced it weirdly.
I spelled it out for her.
What is the nature of your work?
I'm a software developer.
IT company, too?
Yes.
[Elevator door opens and we both get in.]
She rattles on about how she works for an IT company on the 32nd floor. They have offices on other floors of the building, as well. Some other details of her office I don't recall now.
I nod.
Which floor is your office?
28th.
How many years have you been working there?
Almost four.
Pretty long.
Yeah.
What is your name?
Cecil.
Do you have a business card?
No, none on hand right then.
She whips out her phone and hands it to me. If I can just input my number, please.
I was soooo tempted to input a fake number, but I couldn't get myself to lie. So I obligingly typed in my number.
She spelled out my name. Is that correct?
Sure, anything works.
[Elevator stops at my floor and doors open]
I'll text you, she says.
Ahm, ok.
[I step out.]
Nice to meet you, she calls out.
[Elevator door closes behind me]
What the heck was that.
---
I suppose it is expected that some of the people whom I've told this story to thought it was a pretty dumb idea to give out all those personal details. I don't know, I guess I believe in the goodness of every person. Or it was just too early in the morning that I wasn't really sure of what was happening. I plead guilty to gullibility due to sleep deprivation.
The rest of that day passed by without a word from my elevator acquaintance. I thought it was something that I could already just charge to experience. But very late Tuesday night, while I was talking on the phone with my friend Luz, another call beeped in from an unregistered number. I put Luz on hold and answered it.
---
Hi. Cecil?
Hmm, yeah. Who is this?
It's Abigail. We met recently.
[long pause] Who?
Abigail. We work in the same building. We met last Monday.
Oh.
Don't you remember?
I think I remember. From the elevator, right?
Yes, in the elevator. Is this a bad time? Can you talk now?
Actually, I have my friend on hold in the other line.
Oh, I see. Can I call you back? Can you text me so I can call you back?
Ah, sure.
Ok, thanks!
[End call, activate Luz's line]
Luuuuuz! The weird girl from the elevator just called! What does she want from me?!
---
I'm betting it's sales. She's in IT, but she sidelines in sales. Somewhat unlikely, but possible. Or she's in IT, but sidelines in derangement. More plausible.
Abigail, if you're out there in blogosphere: I already have life insurance. I'm not interested in buying or selling. And just to cover all possible bases: I'm not interested in a cult movement. Nor phone pals and textmates. I'm also straight and have no lesbian tendencies.
Typical day. I entered the building through the Pearl Drive entrance. I rushed to the elevators when I saw one of the green lights blinking. I missed it by two seconds and I swore under my breath. I'm a very tense person. Tension and the elevators at my office building do not go well together. And swearing is a natural byproduct of such unfortunate combination.
Anyway, I was waiting for the next upward elevator when a girl suddenly addressed me. I probably have ignored her the first few times she spoke. I have a very limited peripheral vision - not really optical in nature, I just don't care much for what's happening around me. So I am apologizing in advance to everyone whom I will unintentionally ignore. I have tapahoho.
So this girl started asking about the jacket which I was carrying over one arm. She actually asked if it was overalls. You know - the work clothes of those who do heavy manual labor. Yes, it's bright orange, but really - I come off as the type who needs to bring overalls to work?
I politely told her that no, it was just my company jacket. And then she started off with a series of questions that made that exchange one of the weirdest I ever had with a total stranger.
---
Where do you work?
I pointed to the embroidery in my jacket.
She pronounced it weirdly.
I spelled it out for her.
What is the nature of your work?
I'm a software developer.
IT company, too?
Yes.
[Elevator door opens and we both get in.]
She rattles on about how she works for an IT company on the 32nd floor. They have offices on other floors of the building, as well. Some other details of her office I don't recall now.
I nod.
Which floor is your office?
28th.
How many years have you been working there?
Almost four.
Pretty long.
Yeah.
What is your name?
Cecil.
Do you have a business card?
No, none on hand right then.
She whips out her phone and hands it to me. If I can just input my number, please.
I was soooo tempted to input a fake number, but I couldn't get myself to lie. So I obligingly typed in my number.
She spelled out my name. Is that correct?
Sure, anything works.
[Elevator stops at my floor and doors open]
I'll text you, she says.
Ahm, ok.
[I step out.]
Nice to meet you, she calls out.
[Elevator door closes behind me]
What the heck was that.
---
I suppose it is expected that some of the people whom I've told this story to thought it was a pretty dumb idea to give out all those personal details. I don't know, I guess I believe in the goodness of every person. Or it was just too early in the morning that I wasn't really sure of what was happening. I plead guilty to gullibility due to sleep deprivation.
The rest of that day passed by without a word from my elevator acquaintance. I thought it was something that I could already just charge to experience. But very late Tuesday night, while I was talking on the phone with my friend Luz, another call beeped in from an unregistered number. I put Luz on hold and answered it.
---
Hi. Cecil?
Hmm, yeah. Who is this?
It's Abigail. We met recently.
[long pause] Who?
Abigail. We work in the same building. We met last Monday.
Oh.
Don't you remember?
I think I remember. From the elevator, right?
Yes, in the elevator. Is this a bad time? Can you talk now?
Actually, I have my friend on hold in the other line.
Oh, I see. Can I call you back? Can you text me so I can call you back?
Ah, sure.
Ok, thanks!
[End call, activate Luz's line]
Luuuuuz! The weird girl from the elevator just called! What does she want from me?!
---
I'm betting it's sales. She's in IT, but she sidelines in sales. Somewhat unlikely, but possible. Or she's in IT, but sidelines in derangement. More plausible.
Abigail, if you're out there in blogosphere: I already have life insurance. I'm not interested in buying or selling. And just to cover all possible bases: I'm not interested in a cult movement. Nor phone pals and textmates. I'm also straight and have no lesbian tendencies.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Stairwell Existentialism
I found myself sitting alone in the office building's 26th floor stairwell this afternoon. Two floors up, I've already logged the required hours of effort. There were still things to do, yes, but I had to breathe. Not that stairwell air is much better. But at least it was quieter. And unoccupied.
Staring at that heavy fire exit door, I pondered on the meaning of life, death, afterlife (and afterdeath?). That morning, I was at the hospital for a followup consultation. I didn't have a tumor, the doctor concluded based from the test results. Although she considered that possibility two Saturdays ago. Honestly, I was ready for however it would turn out. Morbidity comes naturally to me, and I discover that it's something that people do not readily welcome about me. So I'll just leave it at that.
A part of me believes that maybe I'm really ill. I have a resident headache that dials up into a migraine and dials down to a dull throb, depending on where I am and what I'm doing. But it's always there, lurking. And there's also the lethargy I can't seem to shake off.
Maybe all this is brought about by the fact that I've not been having real meals. Sandwich bites taken in between keystrokes and mouse clicks do not seem to pass off as lunch. Nor do instant noodles pass off as breakfast.
I used to come home to dinner of real food. I'm crazy for starting with this line of thought and I know I'd just regret it later when I'm reduced to a lump of sad excuse for a human being. But I used to come home to a home. True, I used to commute for hours. But when I arrive, there will be a place setting for me at the dining table. My mother would reheat my dinner, slice me a piece of fruit, sit with me at the table and ask me about my day. A few years back when I was part of one of those high-pressured projects, I started to cry halfway through my dinner out of sheer exhaustion. My mother got so worried over me and started crying with me. She said that if she could take my burden for herself, she would. I was just so guilt-ridden for making her cry that I didn't remember what I said or if I even said anything in reply.
When I get "home" now and if I feel like eating, I bring takeout which I eat on my bed. And of course, because I am me, I spill ice tea and hot sauce on my bedsheets every now and then. Lately though, I just eat Knick Knacks or Pretzels. Or lychee-flavored nata de coco jelly. Sometimes, I just skip all the attempts and try to sleep. And of course, sleep is a luxury that my messed up mind cannot afford so easily.
Going back to that stairwell this afternoon, I was going over all these past experiences in my head and going totally existential. The fact is, I don't want to invite everyone to my sadness. It's bad enough that I'm lousy company and I reek of depression poorly camouflaged in an air of fake indifference. I don't expect people to understand - that's just asking for too much, I think. I don't even get the situation myself.
But one's thoughts can only go too far sitting on a stairwell. At some point, there are real-life things to address two floors up.
Staring at that heavy fire exit door, I pondered on the meaning of life, death, afterlife (and afterdeath?). That morning, I was at the hospital for a followup consultation. I didn't have a tumor, the doctor concluded based from the test results. Although she considered that possibility two Saturdays ago. Honestly, I was ready for however it would turn out. Morbidity comes naturally to me, and I discover that it's something that people do not readily welcome about me. So I'll just leave it at that.
A part of me believes that maybe I'm really ill. I have a resident headache that dials up into a migraine and dials down to a dull throb, depending on where I am and what I'm doing. But it's always there, lurking. And there's also the lethargy I can't seem to shake off.
Maybe all this is brought about by the fact that I've not been having real meals. Sandwich bites taken in between keystrokes and mouse clicks do not seem to pass off as lunch. Nor do instant noodles pass off as breakfast.
I used to come home to dinner of real food. I'm crazy for starting with this line of thought and I know I'd just regret it later when I'm reduced to a lump of sad excuse for a human being. But I used to come home to a home. True, I used to commute for hours. But when I arrive, there will be a place setting for me at the dining table. My mother would reheat my dinner, slice me a piece of fruit, sit with me at the table and ask me about my day. A few years back when I was part of one of those high-pressured projects, I started to cry halfway through my dinner out of sheer exhaustion. My mother got so worried over me and started crying with me. She said that if she could take my burden for herself, she would. I was just so guilt-ridden for making her cry that I didn't remember what I said or if I even said anything in reply.
When I get "home" now and if I feel like eating, I bring takeout which I eat on my bed. And of course, because I am me, I spill ice tea and hot sauce on my bedsheets every now and then. Lately though, I just eat Knick Knacks or Pretzels. Or lychee-flavored nata de coco jelly. Sometimes, I just skip all the attempts and try to sleep. And of course, sleep is a luxury that my messed up mind cannot afford so easily.
Going back to that stairwell this afternoon, I was going over all these past experiences in my head and going totally existential. The fact is, I don't want to invite everyone to my sadness. It's bad enough that I'm lousy company and I reek of depression poorly camouflaged in an air of fake indifference. I don't expect people to understand - that's just asking for too much, I think. I don't even get the situation myself.
But one's thoughts can only go too far sitting on a stairwell. At some point, there are real-life things to address two floors up.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
September 25, 1974
I went to Pampanga last Wednesday - to the same house my grandparents lived in, the same house I grew up as a kid, and the same house that my aunt still lives in. While there, I got to browse through stacks of old photographs. My grandmother was a schoolteacher and there were class pictures from as far back as 1950. I realize that her grade school pupils are now senior citizens.
There was also my father's copy of "Cardinal & Gold", Mapua's official college yearbook. He earned his engineering degree from there, staying longer that the usual five years. Lola said that there was a time when he wouldn't attend classes because he'd just play chess the whole day at the bleachers. My grandparents pulled him out until he promised them to take his studies more seriously. But chess, you know? What a way to slack of on your studies. Not drugs, not alcohol. Chess. In a way, that was so characteristic of Papa.
The hairstyles and the horn-rimmed glasses of the students are so 1960s. And of course, there weren't any IT courses then yet. And it was the former President Marcos who wrote the congratulatory message. Anyway, I browsed through the pages until I reached the Mechanical Engineering department. And right near the end part of it (alphabetical, naturally) was my father's picture and below it - very austere - was his name, hometown, and a membership of his course's org. Nothing else. But I would've been more surprised if he joined other extra-curricular activities. He was a very reserved person. Kept a low-profile and never cared much for other people's company. Which explains the fascination for quiet and analytical games like chess.
An important find of that day were my parents' wedding pictures. They had their civil wedding in Surigao in 1974. My mother's side of the family were from Aglipayan Church, my father's - Roman Catholic. Thus, the civil ceremony. But they had the other trimmings of a traditional wedding in the reception.
Looking through those pictures were difficult, yes, but I wanted to keep that happy memory of my parents with me. So I slid a picture off the album and inserted it into the book I carry around in my backpack. Aptly, the book is "Migrations to Solitude" given to me by Jayjay. He gave it to me because I seriously considered resigning to a quiet life in service. I like being alone and I find being around a lot of people very uncomfortable. I guess I take after my dad in that way.
Sadly though, I never really got very proficient in chess.
There was also my father's copy of "Cardinal & Gold", Mapua's official college yearbook. He earned his engineering degree from there, staying longer that the usual five years. Lola said that there was a time when he wouldn't attend classes because he'd just play chess the whole day at the bleachers. My grandparents pulled him out until he promised them to take his studies more seriously. But chess, you know? What a way to slack of on your studies. Not drugs, not alcohol. Chess. In a way, that was so characteristic of Papa.
The hairstyles and the horn-rimmed glasses of the students are so 1960s. And of course, there weren't any IT courses then yet. And it was the former President Marcos who wrote the congratulatory message. Anyway, I browsed through the pages until I reached the Mechanical Engineering department. And right near the end part of it (alphabetical, naturally) was my father's picture and below it - very austere - was his name, hometown, and a membership of his course's org. Nothing else. But I would've been more surprised if he joined other extra-curricular activities. He was a very reserved person. Kept a low-profile and never cared much for other people's company. Which explains the fascination for quiet and analytical games like chess.
An important find of that day were my parents' wedding pictures. They had their civil wedding in Surigao in 1974. My mother's side of the family were from Aglipayan Church, my father's - Roman Catholic. Thus, the civil ceremony. But they had the other trimmings of a traditional wedding in the reception.
Looking through those pictures were difficult, yes, but I wanted to keep that happy memory of my parents with me. So I slid a picture off the album and inserted it into the book I carry around in my backpack. Aptly, the book is "Migrations to Solitude" given to me by Jayjay. He gave it to me because I seriously considered resigning to a quiet life in service. I like being alone and I find being around a lot of people very uncomfortable. I guess I take after my dad in that way.
Sadly though, I never really got very proficient in chess.
One Art by Elizabeth Bishop
One Art
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
by Elizabeth Bishop
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Sectioning
Do you still remember your section names in school?
My friends and I were having dinner at Shakey's when we started testing the pens I just bought by writing down our names in the paper place mats. I buy pens needlessly, by the way. Just for the heck of having them. Just those that write well, not necessarily expensive ones.
Anyway, Luz was saying that if I wrote down my full name when I was a kid in school, it wouldn't fit in the width of the grade-one blue-red-blue-lined pad paper. Because we had nothing much else to do while waiting for our food, we tried to write my long name, repeating it again and again until we were satisfied that we got the right blue-to-blue height.
So the conclusion was: my name can fit in the grade one paper. But only barely. If I had to place the date or my section on the right portion, I'd be writing on the armchair. Thus began the spontaneous recalling of our section names since preschool. Here are mine:
Prep:
Senior Casa - Beige
Grade school:
I - Blue
II - Blue
III - Red
IV - Red
V - Green
VI - St. Paul
High School:
I - Archimedes
II - Darwin
III - Avogadro
IV - Einstein
You can tell from the sections the times when I switched schools. Luz didn't recall much of her elementary. Her high school sections are:
I - Opal
II - Sampaguita
III - Strontium
IV - Gluon
She did better in remembering her advisers' names, though. I could only recall three or four. If I have any classmates out there reading this, drop me a line if you still remember their names.
Try to recall your section names and class advisers to see if you did better than us. I'm starting to believe that we are just getting too old to retain these memories. And I'm blogging about it because the harder I try to fall asleep, the more awake I become.
So insomnia, you win.
My friends and I were having dinner at Shakey's when we started testing the pens I just bought by writing down our names in the paper place mats. I buy pens needlessly, by the way. Just for the heck of having them. Just those that write well, not necessarily expensive ones.
Anyway, Luz was saying that if I wrote down my full name when I was a kid in school, it wouldn't fit in the width of the grade-one blue-red-blue-lined pad paper. Because we had nothing much else to do while waiting for our food, we tried to write my long name, repeating it again and again until we were satisfied that we got the right blue-to-blue height.
So the conclusion was: my name can fit in the grade one paper. But only barely. If I had to place the date or my section on the right portion, I'd be writing on the armchair. Thus began the spontaneous recalling of our section names since preschool. Here are mine:
Prep:
Senior Casa - Beige
Grade school:
I - Blue
II - Blue
III - Red
IV - Red
V - Green
VI - St. Paul
High School:
I - Archimedes
II - Darwin
III - Avogadro
IV - Einstein
You can tell from the sections the times when I switched schools. Luz didn't recall much of her elementary. Her high school sections are:
I - Opal
II - Sampaguita
III - Strontium
IV - Gluon
She did better in remembering her advisers' names, though. I could only recall three or four. If I have any classmates out there reading this, drop me a line if you still remember their names.
Try to recall your section names and class advisers to see if you did better than us. I'm starting to believe that we are just getting too old to retain these memories. And I'm blogging about it because the harder I try to fall asleep, the more awake I become.
So insomnia, you win.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Palabok
There was a pair of ambulant merienda vendors at the office today. Two women stationed just outside the hallway where they hawked camote, saging, nilagang mais, and palabok. Ah, palabok. For those of you who do not know (and probably don't want to), palabok is my favorite kind of pancit. I associate it with the warmth of my childhood.
When we were growing up, we bought homemade palabok from a maglalako who passed by our house almost every afternoon. Her name was Dang Maring - "dang" being the Kapampangan form of "ale". She was a middle-aged woman and her hair was always tied up in a bun. The sight of her walking down the street with a basket full of merienda was a source of pleasure in those slow afternoons after school.
She also sold ukoy - the crispy, deep-fried patty made from grated papaya/squash and shrimps - which we dipped in spicy vinegar with lots of black pepper. And sampelot - a very thick version of guinataan.
But the bestseller in our household was Dang Maring's palabok. I haven't had it since I was a kid and I could be remembering it a little differently from how it actually was. But I recall the palabok's perfectly cooked noodles, the sauce with just the right consistency, just the right color, and just the right amount. I remember that it also had a few chopped kamias on it, which added zest.
My parents would buy us each our own portion and would get a few extra in case one of us wanted another serving. We'd all sit around in the dining room, our afternoon merienda transferred to plates and we downed them with glasses of Eight o' Clock instant orange juice.
I was already in college when Mama tried to make her own palabok recipe, and after several trials, she finally got it together. During Christmases, we'd assemble bilaos of our own palabok to give to relatives. What I loved about Mama's palabok is that she let us assemble our own plates. As much shrimps as I'd like and as little green onions. From her, I also took the habit of always trying out the palabok of a new restaurant or fastfood or foodstall when it is in the menu. Some would be good, but some would turn out to be too soggy, too runny, too orange-y. Once, we also went on an early morning palabok hunt which I wrote about
Today's palabok at the office was passable - at least for the P25 standard. It had tofu instead of the shrimps that I am used to and its color was a tiny tad too orange. I'm thinking of what the hex value of my ideal palabok color is, but that would be taking it a bit too far.
At the very least, it provided me a trip to memory lane - the happier side(walk) of it.
When we were growing up, we bought homemade palabok from a maglalako who passed by our house almost every afternoon. Her name was Dang Maring - "dang" being the Kapampangan form of "ale". She was a middle-aged woman and her hair was always tied up in a bun. The sight of her walking down the street with a basket full of merienda was a source of pleasure in those slow afternoons after school.
She also sold ukoy - the crispy, deep-fried patty made from grated papaya/squash and shrimps - which we dipped in spicy vinegar with lots of black pepper. And sampelot - a very thick version of guinataan.
But the bestseller in our household was Dang Maring's palabok. I haven't had it since I was a kid and I could be remembering it a little differently from how it actually was. But I recall the palabok's perfectly cooked noodles, the sauce with just the right consistency, just the right color, and just the right amount. I remember that it also had a few chopped kamias on it, which added zest.
My parents would buy us each our own portion and would get a few extra in case one of us wanted another serving. We'd all sit around in the dining room, our afternoon merienda transferred to plates and we downed them with glasses of Eight o' Clock instant orange juice.
I was already in college when Mama tried to make her own palabok recipe, and after several trials, she finally got it together. During Christmases, we'd assemble bilaos of our own palabok to give to relatives. What I loved about Mama's palabok is that she let us assemble our own plates. As much shrimps as I'd like and as little green onions. From her, I also took the habit of always trying out the palabok of a new restaurant or fastfood or foodstall when it is in the menu. Some would be good, but some would turn out to be too soggy, too runny, too orange-y. Once, we also went on an early morning palabok hunt which I wrote about
Today's palabok at the office was passable - at least for the P25 standard. It had tofu instead of the shrimps that I am used to and its color was a tiny tad too orange. I'm thinking of what the hex value of my ideal palabok color is, but that would be taking it a bit too far.
At the very least, it provided me a trip to memory lane - the happier side(walk) of it.
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
Sell Me Sleep
Wouldn't it be so great if you could buy sleep?
Think about it. Two hours' worth of sleep at your nearest convenience store. Or if you really pulled out an all-nighter - a full eight hours.
Sleep is something that caffeine can only hope to imitate as a replacement. Nothing beats uninterrupted hours on a comfortable bed, subdued lights, eyes closed, mind drifting off to somewhere where there's no worry or pain. (Or Java Exceptions and unupdated tasklists.)
Oh, I'd be a fan of bottled sleep. Or capsuled sleep - whatever. I'd have them handy all the time. I've been struggling with sleep. You have no idea how hard I have to try to silence my mind just long enough to let rest settle in.
The Sandman is slacking off with me. He'd better shape up. Or else he'd be facing the financial crisis unemployed.
Think about it. Two hours' worth of sleep at your nearest convenience store. Or if you really pulled out an all-nighter - a full eight hours.
Sleep is something that caffeine can only hope to imitate as a replacement. Nothing beats uninterrupted hours on a comfortable bed, subdued lights, eyes closed, mind drifting off to somewhere where there's no worry or pain. (Or Java Exceptions and unupdated tasklists.)
Oh, I'd be a fan of bottled sleep. Or capsuled sleep - whatever. I'd have them handy all the time. I've been struggling with sleep. You have no idea how hard I have to try to silence my mind just long enough to let rest settle in.
The Sandman is slacking off with me. He'd better shape up. Or else he'd be facing the financial crisis unemployed.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Tutay
I retreated myself in an obscure corner - away from the unfamiliar faces, the even more unfamiliar dialect chatter, the dried watermelon seeds, cupcakes, coffee, and stacks of non-biodegradable styrofoam cups.
In solitude, I hoped to distance myself from the past few hours that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden.
The little girl sought me. Maybe she was bored with her company. Or maybe she felt sorry for me, sitting by myself in the far bench. Whatever her reason is, she was not put off by my seeming aloofness.
She offered me a Zest-O, which I declined. She proceeded to insert the straw into the previously offered juice, apparently claiming it for herself. She crossed her legs, indian-fashioned. We talked for a while - the only lengthy and significant conversation I've had during the day.
Her name is Haira Jean. Or Tutay. She explained the uncommon nickname even before I got the chance to ask. She only knows that her aunts started calling her that when she was four and it stuck. I considered maybe it could be a child's mispronunciation of "Tatay". Amazingly, we share the same surname. Her father is a distant cousin of sorts. Another one of those relatives I do not know about. Her siblings are also initialled HJ. Hazel Joy. Harvey John. And other HJ's.
She is in the second grade; has been ranked top five both in the first and second grading period. The third grading period results has not come out yet, so she doesn't know yet how she fared. She wears a key around her neck. She tells me it's their classroom key and she was the assigned keeper because she comes to school early at 630 am everyday.
On February 21, she will receive the sacrament of confirmation and she asks if I'll be in town by then. "Kumpil" are still big deals in the small predominantly Catholic towns. She's part of the children choir and participates in the church activities for kids.
She was not satisfied in just answering all my questions. She wanted to ask me some herself.
How old am I? Twenty-seven.
Am I married? No.
Do I live nearby? I used to, but I now live in Manila.
How did I get there? I took a bus and two jeepney rides.
How much was the fare? Offhandedly, around P120. (When she asked for each ride's specific fare, she told me it was actually P119.)
Do I have any brothers or sisters? Yes, but they weren't around.
Where's my mother? She died last October.
Her eyes widened in apparent concern. She glanced at the well-lit focus point in the center of the room - the flowers, the candles, the framed photograph of my late father on top of the ornately carved hardwood casket. "Ibig sabihin wala ka nang magulang?"
The realization washed over me. I nodded and told her, "Wala na."
Suddenly, she did not seem like the tiny eight year old talking to the adult. She was the good-hearted person sympathizing with an orphan.
I close my eyes, seeking rest from the past few months that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden
In solitude, I hoped to distance myself from the past few hours that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden.
The little girl sought me. Maybe she was bored with her company. Or maybe she felt sorry for me, sitting by myself in the far bench. Whatever her reason is, she was not put off by my seeming aloofness.
She offered me a Zest-O, which I declined. She proceeded to insert the straw into the previously offered juice, apparently claiming it for herself. She crossed her legs, indian-fashioned. We talked for a while - the only lengthy and significant conversation I've had during the day.
Her name is Haira Jean. Or Tutay. She explained the uncommon nickname even before I got the chance to ask. She only knows that her aunts started calling her that when she was four and it stuck. I considered maybe it could be a child's mispronunciation of "Tatay". Amazingly, we share the same surname. Her father is a distant cousin of sorts. Another one of those relatives I do not know about. Her siblings are also initialled HJ. Hazel Joy. Harvey John. And other HJ's.
She is in the second grade; has been ranked top five both in the first and second grading period. The third grading period results has not come out yet, so she doesn't know yet how she fared. She wears a key around her neck. She tells me it's their classroom key and she was the assigned keeper because she comes to school early at 630 am everyday.
On February 21, she will receive the sacrament of confirmation and she asks if I'll be in town by then. "Kumpil" are still big deals in the small predominantly Catholic towns. She's part of the children choir and participates in the church activities for kids.
She was not satisfied in just answering all my questions. She wanted to ask me some herself.
How old am I? Twenty-seven.
Am I married? No.
Do I live nearby? I used to, but I now live in Manila.
How did I get there? I took a bus and two jeepney rides.
How much was the fare? Offhandedly, around P120. (When she asked for each ride's specific fare, she told me it was actually P119.)
Do I have any brothers or sisters? Yes, but they weren't around.
Where's my mother? She died last October.
Her eyes widened in apparent concern. She glanced at the well-lit focus point in the center of the room - the flowers, the candles, the framed photograph of my late father on top of the ornately carved hardwood casket. "Ibig sabihin wala ka nang magulang?"
The realization washed over me. I nodded and told her, "Wala na."
Suddenly, she did not seem like the tiny eight year old talking to the adult. She was the good-hearted person sympathizing with an orphan.
I close my eyes, seeking rest from the past few months that have magnified seemingly into years and weighed down on me like a necessary burden
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