LitWit Challenge 2.10: The story of your life
The story of your life so far. 1,000 words maximum. We’re not interested in places and dates, we don’t even want to know your name or the title of your favorite song. What we’re after is the feeling that we’ve known you for a long time. Oh and NO ADJECTIVES OR ADVERBS.
Post your entries in Comments. The deadline is Saturday, 8 May 2010 at 11.59 pm.
a collection of short stories by the late John Updike, and novels by Russell Banks and Kathryn Walker.
Got that? The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by the lovely people of National Bookstore.
May 4th, 2010 at 16:47
1. Bilang panganay sa magpipinsan, isa ako sa mga inaasahan. Nasa ibang bansa ang nanay ko, may sarili nang pamilya. Ang tatay ko—na nagkasakit bago umalis ng bansa at ako ang nagpagamot—ay may sariling pamilya na rin. Bagaman nag-aabot sila paminsan-minsan, mahirap namang obligahin pa sila para sa pang-matrikula ng mga pamangkin nila.
Nasa liyebo sitenta na ang edad ng lolo at lola. Bata pa ang karamihan sa mga pinsan ko. Gaya ko noon, hiwalay rin ang mga magulang nila, at mga matatanda namin ang umakong magpalaki. Ang pinsan namang sumunod sa akin, bumuo na ng sariling pamilya. Kahit kasukob pa rin namin siya sa iisang bubong, hindi na rin namin siya puwedeng obligahin pa. O iyon ang nais iparating sa akin ng nanay niya, ang tiyahin ko, nang minsang maningil ako ng pambayad sa tubig.
“Bibili pa iyon ng gatas,” sabi niya.
Nag-aabot naman ako sa lola. Siya pa rin ang namamahala sa bahay. (Sa totoo lang, gusto ko na siyang bansagang Ursula Iguaran. Apat na henerasyon kaming nakatira sa iisang bahay.) Hindi ko minamasama ang pakikibahagi sa responsibilidad. Ang katwiran ko, tulung-tulong akong pinalaki ng mga kamag-anak ko. Panahon naman para ako ang tumulong sa kanila.
Pero aaminin kong may pangamba ako sa nakaambang posibilidad na bilang nag-iisang apo/pamangkin/anak na hindi naman mag-aasawa (iyon lamang uri na may basbas ng estado ang tinutukoy ko rito, siyempre), hindi malayong mag-isa kong akuin ang singkaw ng pagtataguyod sa buong pamilya sa lalong madaling panahon.
2. Noong kasagsagan ng promotion para sa “When I Met You” nina KC at Richard, parati kong naririnig sa jeep ang version ni KC ng kanta ng APO. Noon ko lang na-realize na nakakakilig pala ang kantang iyon, kahit pa kaawa-awa kung tutuusin ang persona: nagkaroon lang siya ng dahilan para umiral noong dumating ang kanyang minamahal. (Puwede namang isiping ang Diyos pala iyon, kahit pa sinasabi sa may bandang dulo ng kanta na magme-“make love” sila buong gabi dahil malay naman natin sa gawaing kultural ng ibang tao, hindi ba. No judgment!)
Sa kilig, nag-download ako ng kopya ng version ni KC at pinakinggan ko nang sunud-sunod na araw. Noong minsang umalis ako kasama ng mga kaibigan, kinanta ko pa yon sa videoke. Wala naman akong partikular na taong kinahuhumalingan noon, pero sa kung anong dahilan, pagkatapos kong kumanta, kilig na kilig ako. Parang totoo ngang may pumuno na sa aking hungkag-na-kabibeng-sarili.
3. Dahil kay KC, madalas ko ring naiisip noon si Sharon. Partikular, iyong Sharon na kahihiwalay lang kay Gabby. Lugmok na lugmok siya noon, sabi nga niya sa isang interview (sa Yes! yata), buti na lang kaibigan niya si Manny Morfe, at ito ang nag-design ng condominium niya. Wala raw kasi siyang pambayad sa propesyonal na interior designer. (Kawawang Shawie!)
Naiisip ko si Sharon na kahihiwalay lang dahil malungkot noon ang personal na buhay niya pero noon din talagang pumutok ang career niya. Ito yung interregnum bago dumating si Kiko. (Oo, dumating din sina Charlie Cojuangco, Richard Gomez at Robin Padilla before Kiko, pero mahalaga ba sila?) Interesanteng salita, ano: interregnum.
4. Sa ngayon, ilang buwan na akong mag-isa, libro lang ang nayayakap sa gabi. Wika nga ni Liwayway Arceo, uhaw ang tigang na lupa.
Pero napapangiti ako sa hangin at bigla-biglang sinasalakay ng warm fuzzy feeling at the slightest provocation—pagtango ng driver ng jeep, pag-abot ng flyer ng ahente ng lupa, pagtitig sa pusang natutulog, pagtapak sa mga nangalaglag na tuyong dahon ng punong hindi ko alam kung anong uri. Ang sabi ng isang kaibigan, ang OA ko raw.
Well.
Iniisip ko na lang ang sinabi ni John Fiske through Michel de Certeau at/o vice versa: “People have to make do with what they have, and everyday life is the art of making do.”
May 5th, 2010 at 20:06
Noong Elementary ako, sa likod ng textbook namin para sa Sibika at Kultura, may drawing ng banga na may mga maliliit na estatwa sa itaas. Nakasulat sa ilalim ng drowing ng banga ang mga salitang “Ang Bangang Manunggul”. Dahil iisa lang ang disenyo ng mga likod na pabalat ng textbook para sa asignatura naming Sibika at Kultura mula Grade 4 hanggang Grade 6, palagi kong nakikita ang drowing na ito.
Isang gabi habang nagkwekwentuhan kami nila K, naalala nya yung isang kwento sa “Shake Rattle and Roll”, tungkol sa undin. Sa kwento kung saan artista si Manilyn Reynes, pinababalik ni Manilyn ang undin sa coleman kung saan nakalagay ang mga itlog ng undin na mukhang sago. “Bumalik ka na sa mga anak mo,” sabi ni Manilyn.
Noong bata ako, mahilig akong magtago sa loob ng aparador tuwing nagtatagu-taguan kami. Kahit ikinagagalit ito ng aming kasambahay dahil nagugulo ang mga nakatiklop na mga damit, tuwang-tuwa ako kapag nagtatago ako sa aparador. Siguro may pantasya lang akong mapupunta ako sa ibang dimensyon sa tuwing nagtatago ako sa aparador, gaya nang nangyari sa mga bata sa “The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe”. Medyo natakot lang ako nung isang araw ni-lock ng kuya ko yung aparador. Naiyak ako dahil hindi ako makalabas. Pagbukas nila ng aparador, tumatagaktak ang pawis ko na humahalo sa luha.
Ang huling beses kong naiyak sa loob ng classroom ay third year high school. Sinuntok ako ng kaklase ko sa mukha dahil aksidente ko syang nabato ng binilog na papel. Nagbabatuhan kasi nung mga panahon na iyon ng mga binilog na papel ang buong klase bilang walang guro at pasaway lang ang klase namin. Sa totoo lang mabait talaga akong estudyante at naasar lang ako kasi binabato nila ako ng papel bilang target ng mga class bully. Dinala ako ng teacher namin na si Ms. Pastor sa clinic. Para tumigil ako sa pag-iyak, sinabihan nya ako na malayo naman daw yun sa bituka. Laking Tondo si Ms. Pastor kaya raw matapang ito pero mabait naman siya sa akin kahit nahuli nya akong may kodigo ng formulas noong exam namin sa Chemistry.
Ang Kodigo ni Hammurabi ay ang mga batas ng Babilonya na inukit sa bato sa utos ng pinuno na si Hammurabi. Kwento ni K, may kilala siyang kaklase na nangongopya sa eksamen. Ang siste, tinanong sa eksamen kung sino ang pinuno na nagpatupad ng kodigo ng mga batas ng Babilonya. Naduling ata ang kaklase nya habang sumisilip sa sagot ng katabi, dahil ang sinulat na sagot ng kaklase niyang iyon ay “Ham o Rabbit.” Hindi ko sigurado kung tama ba ang pagkaaalala ko pero parang ganun yung kwento. Itatanong ko na lang uli kay K para sigurado.
Gusto ko ng mga rabbit. May kilala akong taong ang tawag ko lang sa kanya ay “Rabbit”. Nagdrodrowing ako ng mga rabbit na natutulog o nagsasayaw, tapos kinakalabit ko siya at sinasabing siya iyun. Sana ok siya palagi at sana masaya lang siya.
May 5th, 2010 at 22:59
Susubukan po uli.
——————
One peso and twenty-five cents lang ang pamasahe noon. Araw-araw na puno ng barya ang bulsa ng palda kong asul. Kailangan ko kasi ng maraming coins para maipambayad sa jeepney driver papuntang Valenzuela mula Bulacan. Mas masaya siguro kung si nanay ang kasama ko kasi si lola ang naghahatid sa akin. Ayaw nyang magkita ang nanay at tatay. Baka kasi magkabalikan pa.
Mabilis palang lakarin ang limang-kilometro lalo na kung takot ka sa satanista. Hindi ko rin iniiwan ang tsinelas ko sa labas ng pinto, dun daw kasi pinipili ng satanista ang susunod na biktima.
Gusto kong sumagala. Pero magaling mang-uto ang nanay, sabi nya sayang ang renta sa gown at pa-make up. Buti pang bumili na lang daw ng relo. Pero wala rin naman syang biniling relo para sa akin. Kumain na lang kami sa Tropical Hut at nanood ng sine na bida si Sheryl Cruz, Si Pardina at ang mga duwende. Doon din sila sekretong nagkita ng tatay. Pamilya na uli kami pagkatapos ng pelikula.
Tatlong labada sa loob ng isang araw. Kinakaya ni nanay na labhan lahat yun para may pambaon kinabukasan. Dinalaw ako ni May Ann, papaturo daw sa Math. Gabi na nang matapos kami, harutan kasi ng harutan. Ang nanay tigas pa rin ang kusot, pagod na pero pinipilit para sa isang daang piso. Nagpahatid na si May Ann para umuwi. Sinamahan ko pero ang usapan hanggang kanto lang. Pagdating sa kanto may nag iintay na binatilyo, si Michael ang boypren ng hitad. Sinundan pala kami ng nanay, nahataw tuloy ako ng dos por dos sa unang pagkakataon.
Ang banana-que na kulay ginto, limang piso isang stick na may dalawang saging na nakatuhog. Kung may reyna nang banana-que (at kamote), ako yun. Buti na lang malapit ang pwesto sa toda. Solve na ang pang-baon at may pagkain sobra pa sa tatlong beses. At may pambayad pa sa bumbay, bago tuloy lagi ang banig namin, may bago pa akong payong na hindi bumabaligtad kapag malakas ang hangin tuwing tag-ulan.
Salamat kay bespren Ana, buti na lang may kaya sila sa buhay. May suot akong mamahaling damit at sapatos para sa JS Prom. Yun na ata ang gabing pinakamaganda ako sa paningin ko. Pero hindi rin naman nya ako isinayaw. Galit pa rin kami sa isa’t-isa. Sayang tuloy ang pagkakataon.
Ang glumerulonephritis ay kalaban ng isang batang gustong mag kolehiyo. Hindi ko mapapatawad ang mga araw na inalipin nya ang katawang lupa ko sa pagkalunod sa tubig na hindi kayang itapon ng sistema nang hindi gumagana ang kidney. Nakilala ko kung sino ang mas matikas, ang katawan ko o ang pananampalataya. Hindi na nakakibo ang una. Muntik tuloy na hindi ako makakanta ng ‘hail alma mater’.
Parang hindi na uso ang public school ngayon? Dati naman ang bata basta natutong mag-abakada saling-ket na sa grade 1. Hindi pa man umeedad ng anim ang anak ko, libo-libo na ang ginagastos sa eskwela. Parang nanaginip lang ako, at pag gising ko, mahal na ang tuition fee. Singmahal ng placement fee sa agency. Mas mahal pa sa ticket sa eroplano. Mas mahal pa para hindi ko magawang umuwi tuwing ika-anim na buwan o kahit taon-taon. Hindi na matutustusan ng paglalabada ang tuition sa montesorri. Tulad ng ginagawa ni nanay noon, hindi na pwedeng isang daan lang isang araw ang kita.
Ilang buwan na lang pwede nang magbakasyon, sana makaipon.
May 6th, 2010 at 00:31
Feeling so lonely and depressed, you try to step back and examine yourself with the hopes of finding the root cause of your sadness and how to manage it. Imagine yourself sitting in a movie theater, now showing your life.5.4.3.2.1.
The alarm goes off at 6:00am on your phone (which is 20-minutes advanced on regular time). You press the snooze and bury your face in your pillow wishing it’s the weekend so you don’t have to be up early. After what seemed like a split-second, the alarm went off again. You get up with a heavy heart and go about your daily routine in preparation for work.
You hail a cab, and found none. You glance at your watch in exasperation. Stress is beginning to creep in your system as you’ve already wasted 15 minutes trying to find a cab. You finally found an empty one, and as soon as you were seated, you’re almost convinced you really had to buy your own car. But then you realize that your monthly income is just enough for you to pay the rent and just a little luxury (occasional dinner at posh restos, travel, shopping, hanging out –that’s what you consider luxury). How will you ever afford a car? If you remember correctly, a financial adviser once said that the monthly amortization should only be 30% of your net income. How much are you receiving? How much is the amortization for say, a 500k-worth car? You do the math in your head (you’re an accountant, so you’re good with numbers), and you sink even lower in your taxicab seat. But then you look out the window and see the long queue of people lining up for a jeepney ride to where you’re also going. You look at them with pity and compassion as they get a tan and free foundation, while you’re there comfortably enclosed inside the cab. Just look at the brightside, you tell yourself. At least you can afford a taxi ride.
And then you get to the office. Your mind switched on your auto-pilot to get through the day, because admit it, you’re just soo bored and uninspired to even think about how to add value in your work. You don’t have time for a chit-chat, or rather, you just prefer not to waste time on gossip, because all you want is for the day to end, fast.
As your hands are deftly pounding on your keyboard, you hear that line from an Alanis Morissette song – can blindly-continued fear-induced regurgitated life-denying tradition be overcome? — and then your stomach growled. It’s already 3pm and you still haven’t had your lunch because you were so wrapped up in your own little world. You go to the pantry and eat your lunch alone, because your lunch buddies already took theirs at around 1:30pm. You barely tasted the packed lunch that you bought from the neighborhood carenderia, as your mind is asking again and again, is it really worth it? You tell yourself that you really need to find a new job because you’re just not happy anymore. And you can’t just quit and be a bum because your family in the province depends on you. So you’ve got to find something better, soon. But then, you’ll have to compete with the millions of jobless people out there. Even if you graduated with honors, there will always be someone greater than you. You look at the brightside again – at least you have a job. You belong to a prestigious company where most of your batchmates in college would dream of working for. You try to recall when was the last time you felt truly happy, or at least the time that you laughed so hard. It’s not that long, you tell yourself. You were recharged over the weekend as you just had your usual badminton session and watched Ironman2 with friends. And then you ask yourself, are you truly happy?
You step out of the office at 5:30pm, feeling so drained. You blink and adjust your eyes to the glare of the afternoon sky and look at the brightside again – at least you can still go home early. Some of your colleagues are working even as late as 4am. And they have to be back at the office again by 8am! Gosh! You walk alone towards Market2 for your jeepney ride back home, passing by Bonifacio High Street and its posh shops you can only visit when on sale.
You think about your life as it is now and in a scale of 1-10 you could give it a 7. It’s pretty okay, but then again, you know you could have so much more. You look up to the sky and ask the one above, is this all there is? I know things will get better, but when? You wished even harder that your life will change in an instant as you looked upon swarms of people waiting for the jeepneys to take them home.
After what seemed like eternity, you’re at the comfort of your rented apartment you’ve considered home for more than 2 years now. You slouch on the couch, turn the radio on and hear the ad of your default station “overworked?underpaid? I don’t mind, work just got easy. 96.3.Wrock.” You try hard to change your mindset but you just can’t help it. The dread of going to work that you felt earlier that day is sneaking up again. And it’s only Tuesday. At that you moment, you so wanted to cry.
May 6th, 2010 at 09:15
Gabrielle_Cecilia: Didn’t I say NO ADJECTIVES OR ADVERBS? Did you think I was kidding? You’ve taken an interesting approach to the challenge but I cannot consider the work if it does not follow basic rules. Rewrite and repost.
May 6th, 2010 at 09:16
Ayie: Maganda, pero may nakalusot na bawal.
May 6th, 2010 at 09:18
Pangngalang Pambalana: Sinabi nang NO ADJECTIVES OR ADVERBS eh. Paano mo sasabihin ang “sana masaya lang siya” na hindi ginagamit ang salitang “masaya”? Pag-isipan.
May 6th, 2010 at 09:20
parlo lover: May nakalusot na ADJECTIVE. Hanapin at patayin, tapos i-sumite ulit.
May 6th, 2010 at 17:23
Kung hindi lang dahil sa cable TV, sa washing machine na may drier, sa plantsa, sa telepono, sa refrigerator, sa kalan, sa microwave oven, sa kuryenteng pwedeng abusuhin hanggang magkasunog at sa friendship nina Batac, Yang at Jon-Jon sa halagang 2000 lang kada buwan, matagal na akong nag-alsabalutan at kinalimutan ang Balara.
Tuwing umaga, pagkatapos mamantal ng balat ko paliligo dahil sa kakukudkod ng dumi ko sa katawan, bubugahan naman ako ng pinaghalong usok at buhangin ng mga nag-uumpugang tricycle, jeep, mga kotse at mga truck na papuntang Katipunan. At kapag napagdesisyunan ko na lang maglakad dahil 48 years bago lumuwag ang traffic, babatiin naman ako sa daan ng tae ng mga asong pagmamay-ari ng mga kapitbahay namin.
Isang beses, umattend ako ng isang house party ng DebSoc, ‘yung debating org ko nung nasa college pa ako. Napansin kong medyo umaalingasaw yung paa ko. Kinabahan ako kase akala ko may athlete’s foot ako, pero nung tingnan ko sa CR, ang paborito kong Crocs™ may tae ng asong nakadikit. Tae pala yung naapakan ko sa Balara nung gabi, akala ko putik lang. Putek.
Hindi ko alam kung bakit may mga naniniwalang kaibigan ng mga tao ang mga aso, at least ‘yung mga aso sa Balara. Gusto ko silang pagbabarilin at isabit sa mga bahay ng mga may-ari nila. O kaya e budburan ng vetsin ang mga pagkain nila. Para isang taktak lang, patay na si Bantay.
Nag-iingat din ako paglalakad sa sidewalk, dahil kung minsan may mga nagmomotor na susulpot mula sa kung saang dimensiyon. Pati sidewalk, gagawing kalsada. Konting mali lang sa pagtabi sa daan at boom, magigising ka na lang sa ospital, katabi ang umiiyak mong ina na hawak-hawak ang kung ano ang natira sa binti mo.
Minsan, kung kasya ang dalawang truck daan, sumasakay ako sa mga jeep na kahit pa sabihin mong “estudyante po” e sisingilin ka pa rin ng ordinary fare. Kung tricycle naman, lalamugin ka munang parang inaasinang duhat bago ka marakating na nagsusuka ng dugo sa klase mo sa UP. Minsan, kapag gustong magpapogi ng driver, kahit nakaupo ka na sa loob e palilipatin ka pa rin sa likod niya kapag may babaeng sumakay.
Minsan, sa mga araw na gusto kong magpakadisente, mag-aayos ako ng buhok tulad ng ginagawa ko tuwing may aabay ako sa kasal o magnininong sa binyag. Kahit kasi magwax ako, hindi agad tumatayo ang buhok ko. Saktong pagsakay sa tricycle, pauupuin ako ng driver sa likod niya. Ang buhok na inayos ko ng bente minutos, guguluhin ng bumubugang hangin sa likuran. Pagbaba sa tricycle, daig ko pa ang sinabunutan ng mga baklang niloko ng mga kelot.
At hindi pa diyan nagtatapos ang mga hamon. Kailangan ko pang malagpasan itong kambingan nina Mang Jimmy. Insulto sa ilong ang panghi ang mga kambing na naiihi sa takot na baka sila na ang susunod na gawing papaitan at kaldereta. Ikaw ba naman ang gurlisan sa lalamunan matapos busugin. Minsan naiisip ko, they’re being betrayed. Kaya kapag tuwing gabi na at napapadpad ako doon, naiisip ko na lang pakawalan ang mga kambing. Parang si Clarice Starling lang sa Silence of the Lambs. Ako naman sa Silence of the Goats. Meee, meee…
Pero hindi lang mga kambing ang naghahasik ng kapanghian. Pati ang mga daanang pinag-iihian ng mga lasenggero sa mga beerhouse. Mas gusto ko silang saksakin sa lalamunan kaysa ang mga kawawang kambing. Gigisingin ka talaga sa umaga ng umaalingasaw na amoy ng tae at ihi. Good luck na lang sa deodorant at pabango mo.
Kanina, habang naglalakad ako pauwi, nagmistulang tinapa ako sa usok ng basurang sinisigaan sa sidewalk. Gusto kong sabihan ang mga nakatambay na may batas laban sa incineration, pero feeling ko mayayabangan lang sila sa akin kasi nagsasalita ako ng English. May mga tao kasing mag-English ka lang akala nila iniinsulto mo na ang pagkatao nila. Kakaligo ko pa lang naman nun. Naisip ko, sigaan ko kaya ang mga bahay nila? Huwag na lang, wala silang malilipatan.
Meron pang mga tambay na hindi ka padadaanin dahil trip lang nilang bumara sa daan. Mapapalakad ka tuloy sa kalsada mismo. Kung kasama ko lang ang hacienderang si Jobet, bibilhin ko sila. Kung magiging presidente ako ng Pilipinas, maglalagay ako ng isang malaking arch sa Balara na may nakalagay na “Work makes one free.” Parang yung nakalagay sa entrance gate ng Auschwitz concentration camp nung Holocaust. Kung tambay ka, babarilin kita ng sniper. Bang bang bang.
Kapag tumira ka sa Balara, bababa talaga ang life expectancy mo. Pero hindi pa rin ako makalipat, kahit na ngayong naka-graduate na ako at naghahanap na lang ng trabaho. Wala pa rin akong nakikitang lugar na mura lang ang rent at maraming amenities. Nung first year ako, dapat sa Xavierville ako tutuloy. Kaso, yung mga roommates ko nakahanap na pala ng place sa (drumroll, please) Krus na Ligas. Lumipat na lang ako pagkatapos ng isang sem nang yayain ako ni JB sa impyernong ito sa lupa.
Siguro ‘pag nagtatrabaho na ako sa isang media corporation o network, magkakaroon na ko ng perang pambili sa mga tambay ng Balara. Hindi ko na sila kailangang barilin at hindi ko na kailangang maglitanya ng mga hinanakit ko. Pero sa ngayon, magtitiis muna ako sa amoy nitong barangay na ‘to.
May 6th, 2010 at 20:15
Okay, sana tama ang nakita kong salitang papatayin.
1. Bilang panganay sa magpipinsan, isa ako sa mga inaasahan. Nasa ibang bansa ang nanay ko, may sarili nang pamilya. Ang tatay ko—na nagkasakit bago umalis ng bansa at ako ang nagpagamot—ay may sariling pamilya na rin. Bagaman nag-aabot sila paminsan-minsan, mahirap namang obligahin pa sila para sa pang-matrikula ng mga pamangkin nila.
Nasa liyebo sitenta na ang edad ng lolo at lola. Bata pa ang karamihan sa mga pinsan ko. Gaya ko noon, hiwalay rin ang mga magulang nila, at mga matatanda namin ang umakong magpalaki. Ang pinsan namang sumunod sa akin, bumuo na ng sariling pamilya. Kahit kasukob pa rin namin siya sa iisang bubong, hindi na rin namin siya puwedeng obligahin pa. O iyon ang nais iparating sa akin ng nanay niya, ang tiyahin ko, nang minsang maningil ako ng pambayad sa tubig.
“Bibili pa iyon ng gatas,” sabi niya.
Nag-aabot naman ako sa lola. Siya pa rin ang namamahala sa bahay. (Sa totoo lang, gusto ko na siyang bansagang Ursula Iguaran. Apat na henerasyon kaming nakatira sa iisang bahay.) Hindi ko minamasama ang pakikibahagi sa responsibilidad. Ang katwiran ko, tulung-tulong akong pinalaki ng mga kamag-anak ko. Panahon naman para ako ang tumulong sa kanila.
Pero aaminin kong may pangamba ako sa nakaambang posibilidad na bilang nag-iisang apo/pamangkin/anak na hindi naman mag-aasawa (iyon lamang uri na may basbas ng estado ang tinutukoy ko rito, siyempre), hindi malayong mag-isa kong akuin ang singkaw ng pagtataguyod sa buong pamilya sa lalong madaling panahon.
2. Noong kasagsagan ng promotion para sa “When I Met You” nina KC at Richard, parati kong naririnig sa jeep ang version ni KC ng kanta ng APO. Noon ko lang na-realize na nakakakilig pala ang kantang iyon, kahit pa kaawa-awa kung tutuusin ang persona: nagkaroon lang siya ng dahilan para umiral noong dumating ang kanyang minamahal. (Puwede namang isiping ang Diyos pala iyon, kahit pa sinasabi sa may bandang dulo ng kanta na magme-“make love” sila buong gabi dahil malay naman natin sa gawaing kultural ng ibang tao, hindi ba. No judgment!)
Sa kilig, nag-download ako ng kopya ng version ni KC at pinakinggan ko nang sunud-sunod na araw. Noong minsang umalis ako kasama ng mga kaibigan, kinanta ko pa yon sa videoke. Wala naman akong partikular na taong kinahuhumalingan noon, pero sa kung anong dahilan, pagkatapos kong kumanta, kilig na kilig ako. Parang totoo ngang may pumuno na sa aking hungkag-na-kabibeng-sarili.
3. Dahil kay KC, madalas ko ring naiisip noon si Sharon. Partikular, iyong Sharon na kahihiwalay lang kay Gabby. Lugmok na lugmok siya noon, sabi nga niya sa isang interview (sa Yes! yata), buti na lang kaibigan niya si Manny Morfe, at ito ang nag-design ng condominium niya. Wala raw kasi siyang pambayad sa propesyonal na interior designer. (Kawawang Shawie!)
Naiisip ko si Sharon na kahihiwalay lang dahil malungkot noon ang personal na buhay niya pero noon din talagang pumutok ang career niya. Ito yung interregnum bago dumating si Kiko. (Oo, dumating din sina Charlie Cojuangco, Richard Gomez at Robin Padilla before Kiko, pero mahalaga ba sila?) Interesanteng salita, ano: interregnum.
4. Sa ngayon, ilang buwan na akong mag-isa, libro lang ang nayayakap sa gabi. Wika nga ni Liwayway Arceo, uhaw ang tigang na lupa.
Pero napapangiti ako sa hangin at bigla-biglang sinasalakay ng warm fuzzy feeling at the slightest provocation—pagtango ng driver ng jeep, pag-abot ng flyer ng ahente ng lupa, pagtitig sa pusang natutulog, pagtapak sa mga nangalaglag na tuyong dahon ng punong hindi ko alam kung anong uri. Ang sabi ng isang kaibigan, hindi siya makapaniwala sa nararamdaman ko.
Well.
Iniisip ko na lang ang sinabi ni John Fiske through Michel de Certeau at/o vice versa: “People have to make do with what they have, and everyday life is the art of making do.”
May 7th, 2010 at 10:08
Has anyone read Dexter Palmer’s The Dream of Perpetual Motion? Am reading it right now and it almost fits the tone of this challenge. Unfortunately, my life is fairly prosaic so I’m sitting this one out. Jessica, I’d just like to thank you for the book recommendations you make in your blog. I have just finished reading Atonement and the reading experience was so mind bending that I have already reserved all the other Ian McEwan titles in our local library. Would you kindly recommend the next McEwan title I should tackle? Thanks again.
May 7th, 2010 at 10:13
oldmaid: Glad you enjoyed Atonement. For the next one I recommend McEwan’s first novel The Cement Garden, which also has child protagonists behaving in disturbing ways. You can see that the author has actually gotten kinder.
May 7th, 2010 at 14:38
Isang Dekada pabalik. Kababasa ko lang ng unang nobela ni Carson McCullers. Ano ba sa tagalog ang ‘angst’?
“Ayoko na po mag-aral, Nay,” wika ko.
“Bakit?”
“Naisip ko kasi wala ding punto, walang kahulugan. Sayang lang.”
“Bakit sayang? Pinipilit nga kitang makatapos para di ka magaya sa akin. Edukasyon lang ang maipapamana ko sa inyong magkakapatid.”
“Ewan ko po. Parang paikot-ikot lang ang buhay, dumadaan lang, parang tayo–nandito ngayon tapos bukas wala na, limot na. Madaming mahirap, madaming masasamang tao. Hindi pantay ang lipunan. Wala naman tayong magawa. Nakakalungkot.”
Umiyak si Nanay at niyakap ako. Bakit naman daw ba ako ganuon at kung ano-ano ang pinoproblema. Hinayaan ko lang siya at di na umimik.
“Ang aga mo namang tumanda,” sabi naman ng titser ko na kaibigan ko din. “Hayaan mo muna, lilipas din yan.”
Ngayon. Paedit-edit ng mga lathalaing teknikal. Nagbabasa, sumusubok ng iilang bagay, patawa-tawa, pangiti-ngiti.
Hayaan mo na.
May 7th, 2010 at 18:09
I have boarded the plane what will take me Massachusetts. I guess that’s the cue for the credits to roll.
When I was a kid, I used to dream about seeing my dad. Putting it to words, he left us without trace. Not a phone number or an address. In my dreams however, I’d see him. He’d be in a boat. He’d be right at our doorsteps. I remembered how, during Christmas, he’d stack me with presents that nobody can see me through it. The scene of him taking me to an amusement park where he’d ride with me on a Ferris wheel, my sleep-overs, his video games, his house, his aquarium, his pet cat, material things that associated him to me keeps on popping up in my dreams. But as I wake up, I’m back to reality. My dad’s not there.
I stopped dreaming of him. Instead of sulking over the fact that he is gone, I tried to overcome it. I matured without issues. I graduated from school with honors. I cultivated talents I didn’t know I was capable of. I earned friends who shaped me into who I am now. I have a job that pays the rent. These things I have accomplished so when the time comes that I wake up and he’s there, he’ll be overwhelmed of how I have become.
The story of my life began when that day came. My dad was waking me up. I found myself in a hotel in Los Angeles where he stayed with his wife to meet me and my sister. He was telling me that I could stay in bed or join them in Universal Studios. I stood up and said I wouldn’t miss it.
Pasig and Cainta were submerged in water as the typhoon Ondoy rampaged. As citizens were rushing to save their belongings and fighting for their lives, I was at work. We were allowed access to the internet so we could get updates about the situation. I opened Facebook to find my sister telling me to open my account in Friendster. I have not opened it but my sister insisted. In my inbox, there was a message of a man claiming to be my father.
I was introduced to my grandmother. My grandmother said if my grandfather was alive, we would be like peas-in-a-pod. I look like my dad. We both have hitch-hiker’s thumb. Our hairs are brushed to the side. We prefer going out in t-shirts and shorts. We cover our mouths when we laugh. We have the passion for the art of writing. We love pasta. My stepmother said that my smile is like my dad’s only if he could smile. My dad’s teeth succumbed to the effects of a condition called Hiatus Hernia.
On our way to the park, my dad was recollecting events that happened when he was stationed in the Philippines. He used to be in the Air Force. These I remembered. He took me to the dentist in Clark Air Base against the will of my mother. She thinks my dad was plotting to take me with him. He took me to the dentist because he wanted me to have choppers unlike his. He took me to have my photos taken for my I.D. This document will grant me access to the base. He didn’t like the fact that I was suffering from separation anxiety. I retaliated. He intimidated me! It showed in the photos, he said.
I found myself greeting my dad’s cats as we arrive to San Diego from Los Angeles. It doesn’t take a genius to see that they liked me. This surprised my folks. My dad agreed when I claimed that they must have mistaken me from someone they knew. I joked whether his pets are cats and if they are, what was he feeding them? From my point of view, they look like raccoons hiding in cat’s clothing. He laughed with his hands covering his mouth.
He gave me a ride around town before he let me off at the airport. I was about to see my aunt living in Massachusetts. I didn’t bother asking my dad why he left us. I see him in me. Thus, the question has been answered before it was asked. Does this mean I am not going to heaven?
After checking my luggage in, we gave each other a hug. We weren’t crying. We’re done with the drama. The embrace was there so we can have a dialogue muffled from the world around us. We don’t want people overhearing what we have to say to each other. This is us. Between us. Father and son.
May 8th, 2010 at 00:34
Start of Day
6am: Will wake up to the sound of the celphone’s alarm, and will check if someone sent out a text – system outage, absences, pending reports and your boss’ usual ritual – awarding ceremony sa umaga
And will get ready for work…
7am: will depart from the house en route to the office
8am (-ish but usually past 8) will arrive at the fully airconditioned office, tumatagkatak ang pawis, will read and answer email, reports will analyze and interpret past day’s reports etc
8:30 quick bfast sa pantry with the team, magbbuo ng action plan for the day, kmustahan ng mga past performances – then coffee, yosi then cr
9:30 operations call – will review and discover the whys and then the hows and then will challenge the performance comparing it to yesterday’s, will set target, email, reports
10am emails and reports and coaching
10:30 another call; whys hows what to do next, action planning
11am quick yosi, coffee, coaching
11:30 emails reports coaching MBWA – management by walking around
12:30 client call (then quick yosi after)
1:30 another call (then coffee or yosi)
2pm intraday check, what have we accomplished so far against our set target for the day
2:30 late lunch then coffee then yosi
3pm emails coaching check reports and deliverables until end of day 5pm (with quick cr breaks and yosi or coffee)
5pm (-ish or most of the time later) en route back to home
6pm TV, internet, dinner, books
9pm SLEEP
EOD
My Life
(Pinilit kong simplehan sa abot ng aking makakaya para maintindihan ng mga non call center or non BPO readers but I could always write my actual daily sked or even TIM time in motion)
May 8th, 2010 at 02:35
The story of my life has been consistent with surprises and decisions done after consulting a dice. If it says 5, I’ll go for 6. Most of the time it’s like that – plus or minus 1. Always playing safe with no one to blame. I was the child parents want their kids to be. Sports, academics, manners, personality – I was the dream. I guess way back people thought (or wished) I was an android.
However, being exposed to gamma, my brain began to process in hypermode. Things looked different to me now. I began searching for something more. I searched for surprises and meaning. After college, I just don’t want to be part of the whole bureaucracy of things. The whole eight to five in buildings? Not yet.
I don my sunglasses and walk outside with my backpack with loads of clothes and stuff inside. There are still a lot of places to visit, a lot of experiences to taste, a lot of adventures to remember. Sunscreen, be my friend until people learn how to appreciate earth.
Now I see it. The sand between my toes and the dog running down the beach. Ah, life. This peace and beauty youth doesn’t afford. I need this rush, with the waves crashing down on me and the sun baking me with its warmth.
So far, I still got my education going with nature as my teacher. I know I still got a lot to learn and I believe the wind is pointing my future.
May 8th, 2010 at 12:56
My Life in REM Sleep
Benjamin_of _12
This year, May 4 falls on a Tuesday.
It’s not noon yet and I am baking from the heat.
—–
I can see all my years etched in my index shining with sweat. At 37, I am self-employed at last. Please leave all its connotations to the ether of your imagination. I refuse to hear another of HR’s 360-degree. Ok, so I may have unhitched myself from being a factor of production but I have remained a capitalist—in hibernation.
Mac is superior to that charlatan and its clones, I am quite aware. And I also have no problem suspending disbelief that it originates from the Delta Quadrant. Still, I run my Mac Book on XP. There. Defilement. I can’t be expected to purge my system of all eighteen years of assimilation. Redmond is fused with my flesh.
—–
I can breathe the heat from the roof.
Nate asks me for the nth time when his mom’s coming. While cooling my head with bimpo, I answer that she’ll be back from her check-up. Satisfied, he crosses his legs. Why can’t I cross my legs just like that? He goes back to the LocoRoco on his grip and the Disney channel.
—–
You remember our apartment in Binondo? Room 402.
Summers there were the same. 3M ovens made of tin over a stovetop. I miss 3M’s version of Hawaiian pizza: Del Monte tidbits, quickmelt and ham.
Also, no elevators meant we had to sweat through five flights carrying the textbooks strapped to the trailer with elastics.
As I recall, we did not have TV as well. To enjoy Saturday Fun Machine, we knocked on Room 403. Our doors faced each other. So Mrs. L obliged us by opening their door and tuning to RPN 9. Then we sit in the hall.
We had one consolation: the Super Friends came with gulaman stained and sweetened with arnibal, gratis et amore. We had but one irritation, though: curiosity from Room 405.
I realized, early on, that the universe is dual, or schizoid. I realized too why the Electrolux ditty resonated in me!
—–
Nate complains about the heat. I’m sweating but I ignore him. He turns the AC on. Good luck! It’s due for repair. The Santol tree at the back of the house doesn’t have the foliage to provide sunblock.
—–
Didn’t someone say that to become immortal you have to plant a tree, sire a child or write a book?
In 2003, I was tasked to bring our business unit on a field trip at the La Mesa watershed. About 30 or so people planted 50 seedlings. The forest, tagged with serial numbers, carried only the firm’s name. The drones were mere subsets of the collective, I suppose.
I planted three species of trees behind the Santol last week. We now have Chico, Pomelo and Ilang-ilang in our backyard. That should cure the deficiency of the first attempt at immortality.
As for the other two means, I would need to discern.
Just February and March last year, I sat through ten or so sessions of evangelization in a Catholic adult formation. After the catechist spoke of Israel’s salvation history, e.g., prophets, Pharaoh, pestilences, Passover, Promised Land, et cetera, she asked me in which episodes I could see myself.
It took all of five minutes. I then said I believe I was still in Egypt. Was I waiting for a Levite who’ll apparate through the network of burning brambles?
A rethink may be in order.
In the past months, the rhythm of time and space has been so syncopated by the supernatural. The surreal has collided with my universe and ripped its coherence and equilibrium. I could, in effect, be inhabiting a quantum singularity.
For instance, three years ago, my doctor noted, “surgically absent,” after an ultrasound showed the excision of my gallbladder. I thought that was the end of my pain. No more stones meant no more abrasives inside me. But in January last year, I lost volumes thanks to a reprise of gastritis, which plagued me for an entire month! The steroids quelled the conundrum but also woke me up at 3 AM with cravings for Spam. Three months.
A friend suggested needle therapy from a Chinese Franciscan nun. She was from Beijing but she studied Traditional Chinese Medicine in the US and was sent on here in Manila by the Order. My sleep, at least, obeyed a semblance of pattern.
Then in August, Seven, my Labrador, died bleeding after a neighbor on a Civic run over her. Yeah, she felt remorse although she said that it was difficult to see brown at night. She even offered to pray over Seven to my mother’s incomprehension. The Evangelical did more injury to the Catholic than her tort ever could. Oh, and she also sent Julie’s ensaymadas the following day. The holocaust of cheese, butter and bread, some of which I ate, of course, did not atone for her faults. It did not resurrect my dead bitch.
The two pianos, the Yamaha and the Grotrian-Steinweg, and the library were next in Godot’s laundry list. Ondoy choked the keys, hammer mechanisms and strings with effluents. The storm, in addition, blighted my Calvin and Hobbes collection, Sandman installments, Narnia Chronicles, photos, graduate notes, textbooks and music scores with detritus from the estero.
For days, I tried to shut out the carnage from my sight. And, to help me cope with bereavement, I trained as a PGMA scholar and logged 100 hours in a Web Page Design course. Megamall was indeed a refuge at the center of the universe.
The Yamaha, fresh from three months in the abattoir, still sings its tale of surviving that vomit. Its timbre has mellowed, however. The Grotrian, the books, the notes and the scores, however, are a different matter. Post-Ondoy, the sight of books drying with the pages falling apart from the spines invoked my pain. The proton pump inhibitors helped ease the tempest in the gut but I still lost the books in the end.
Then yet again in November one morning, Ben, my other Labrador, escaped to the subdivision streets. Another neighbor, this time in a Pajero, backed up over him. I thought he would survive because he was able to limp his way home. But after three days in the hospital and another three weeks of wailing under pain relievers and steroids, we had to put him down. The Vets wept!
Euthanol made Ben’s eyes dry. I noticed because I could not break his stare as he walked away from me.
I also remembered Karenin’s smile.
Ben is buried with his Seven near the Santol tree.
—–
Nate tires of the PSP and asks me again why his mom’s taking a long time. I say I’ve no idea. We’ll just have to wait for her, I add.
He returns to Phineas and Ferb. I hear the title sequence go,
“There’s 104 days of summer vacation
And school comes along just to end it
So the annual problem for our generation
Is finding a good way to spend it
Like maybe…
Building a rocket
Or fighting a mummy
Or climbing up the Eiffel Tower
Discovering something that doesn’t exist (Hey!)
Or giving a monkey a shower
Surfing tidal waves
Creating nanobots
Or locating Frankenstein’s brain (It’s over here!)….”
—–
Perhaps, I am in a cycle of purification. And, just maybe, I’m meant to dance through Israel’s forty years in the wilderness which is populated by riddles: freedom, providence, sin, chastisement, metanoia, recidivism and then back again.
Oh, I bought a guitar. An appendage that I can haul on my back is safer, just in case I need to flee Egypt anew. I haven’t given up on my Grotrian yet. I still couldn’t bear to euthanize the hammers and keys and bury them with my departed children beside the Santol tree.
—–
Nate remains glued to the chaos of animation. Disney characters and Black Holes are kindreds. Both phenomena, I think, still only thrive in theory.
—–
I did mention that I no longer practice tax law in a firm, no? When I’m asked, I say I’m a freelancer on 104 days of Sabbatical.
Meanwhile, I’m a student again. Tomorrow, Wednesday, and on Fridays, I will wrestle arpeggios out of my guitar. I think I’ll tuck in a classical piece I was able to dry after Ondoy in the case sleeve. It’s worth a try in the guitar.
The dance in the wilderness may soon draw to a close. I am certain the universe abhors disequilibrium. I can guess it will concede, at least, a sight of what my teacher promised: a recital under the shade of Acacia in Abelardo.
—oOo—
PS: Apologies. I tried to trim this. It still breached the 1000-word limit.
May 8th, 2010 at 13:37
I spotted some violations. Will resubmit. Thanks.
May 8th, 2010 at 15:43
[edited]
Grade 1 ako nung nag-aral ako mag-swimming sa Milo Sports Clinic sa Ultra. Hindi ako natutong mag-swimming. Nung nag-excursion kami sa Laguna, habang nagtatampisaw ako sa swimming pool, akala ko ay malulunod na ako nang dumulas sa kamay ko ang gamit kong salbabida. Doon ako natutong mag-swimming. (Hindi ko na maalala kung freestyle ba yun o bobbing. Ang naaalala ko lang ay tubig at mga bubbles sa mukha ko. Buti na lang wala pang liwanag mula satunnel.) May mga bagay talaga na hindi kailangang ituro sayo para matutunan mo. Tulad ng kung gaano nakakahiyang malunod sa isang swimming pool kahit na may gamit kang salbabida.
Grade 3 ako nung nag-singing lessons ako sa Center for Pop Music Philippines nung bumisita sila sa eskwelahan namin isang summer. Sabi ni Teacher, ang tamang pagkanta daw ay ang kumanta galing sa diaphragm, hindi galing sa throat. Kinanta ko nun yung The Greatest Love of All at My Favorite Things galing sa diaphragm; naabot ko naman. Pero pagkatapos ng labing-dalawang taon, kinanta ko ang Alone ni Heart,Luha ng Aegis at You Oughtta Know ni Alanis sa videoke galing sa ikabuturan ng puso at esophagus ko, at laging above 90 ang iskor ko. May mga kanta talagang dina-diaphragm, tino-throat at ini-esophagus. At may mga kantang iniiyak na lang, sabay next song please.
Grade 6 ako nung napadaan kami ni Mama sa isang stall sa Robinson’s Galleria. May isang mama na nag-do-drowing ng mukha ng artista. Pagbalik namin, nag-enroll ako sa kanya ng painting. Nung natapos na ang sessions ko, naipinta ko ang kapatid at pinsan ko. At hindi lang yun, kamukha pa nila. (Nakasabit ngayon sa bahay; hindi na nila kamukha ngayon.) Ngayon, hindi na ako marunong mag- painting. May mga bagay talaga na makakalimutan mo kahit gusto mo mang maalala uli, at may mga bagay na maaalala mo kahit kailan, kahit ayaw mo nang alalahanin.
College na ako nung nag-aral ako mag-gitara sa Yamaha sa Megamall. Marunong naman akong mag-gitara, pero Line to Heaven lang ng Introvoys at Leaving on a Jetplane, na ang chords ay parehong D-A-G-A lang. Sa Yamaha, tinuro sa akin ang kung paano tumipa at kung ano’ng chords ang katumbas ng string sa fret. Ngayon, wala na akong maalala sa mga yun, pero saulo ko pa rin ang chords ng Line to Heaven kahit nakapikit. Kahit kailan, ang walang tatalo sa guro na kung tawagin ay experience. At Jingle Magazine.
Apat na taon matapos kong kunin ang pinakahuli kong lessons, hindi pa rin ako nadala sa pagkamalas ko sa pagkuha ng mga ganun. Gusto ko pa rin kumuha ng pottery classes kay Ugu Bigyan sa Tiaong, ng glassblowing classes sa Katipunan, ng painting classes sa Vargas Museum, at kahit ng streetdance classes sa kung saang studio. May mga bagay na kailangang gustuhing matutunan para matutunan, at may mga bagay ding kahit hindi mo man matutunan hanggang dulo, siguradong may matutunan ka pa ring iba.
Tulad ng it’s the thought that counts.#
May 8th, 2010 at 17:53
My Life in REM Sleep
Benjamin_of _12
Today is May 4, 2010, which falls on a Tuesday. It’s 11:10 am and I’m baking from the heat. I’m writing this confession on a Mac, which is the color of my id.
——
I see all my years etched in my index shining with sweat. At 37, I’m my own boss. So I’m unplugged from the matrix of production. But I have remained a capitalist—in hibernation.
I’m aware that Mac is a Q Continuum compared to that protozoan and its clones. And suspending disbelief that it originates from the Delta Quadrant is no hurdle. Still, my Mac Book runs on XP. Defilement, you say. Well, my system can’t be purged of all eighteen years of assimilation. Redmond is fused with my flesh.
—–
I breathe the heat from the roof.
Nate asks when his mom’s coming. While cooling my head with bimpo, I answer that she’ll be back from her check-up. Satisfied, he goes back to the LocoRoco on his grip and, Disney channel.
—–
Remember our apartment in Recto? Room 402.
Summers there simulated 3M ovens made of tin placed over a burning stovetop. I miss 3M’s pizza: Del Monte tidbits, quickmelt and ham.
Also, no elevators meant we sweat through five flights carrying the textbooks strapped with elastics to the trailer.
We didn’t have TV. To enjoy Saturday Fun Machine entailed knocking on Room 403. Our doors faced each other. So Mrs. L obliged by opening theirs and tuning to RPN 9. Then we sit in the hall.
We had a bonus: the Super Friends came with gulaman stained and sweetened with arnibal. Because the universe demanded balance, one thorn was the contempt from Room 405.
I realized, early on, that the universe is a schizoid. And the Electrolux ditty did resonate in me!
—–
Nate complains about the heat. I ignore him. He turns the AC on. Good luck! It’s due for repair. The Santol tree at the back doesn’t have the foliage to block the sun.
—–
Wasn’t it that to be immortal you have to plant a tree, sire a child or write a book?
In 2003, I brought our business unit on a field trip to the La Mesa watershed. About 30 of us planted 50 seedlings. The forest, tagged with serial numbers, carried only the firm’s name. Drones were considered subsets of the collective, I suppose.
I planted a Chico, a Pomelo and an Ilang-Ilang behind the Santol. That should cure the deficiency of the attempt at immortality. As for the other two means, I need to discern.
Just March of 2009, I sat through ten sessions of evangelization. After the catechist spoke of Israel’s salvation history, e.g., prophets, pestilences, Passover, Promised Land, et cetera, she asked in which episodes I could see myself.
Five minutes. Then I said I believe I was still in Egypt. Waiting for a Levite who’ll apparate through the network of burning brambles?
A rethink of metaphors may be in order.
2009 saw the supernatural collide with my universe, rip its coherence and equilibrium, and syncopate the rhythm of space and time. I could, in effect, be inhabiting a quantum singularity!
For example, my doctor noted, “surgically absent,” after an ultrasound showed the excision of my gallbladder. I thought that ended my pain. No more stones meant no more abrasives in my guts. But in January, I lost volumes thanks to a reprise of gastritis. The steroids quelled the conundrum but also woke me up at 3 AM craving for Spam. Three months of plague!
A friend suggested acupuncture from a nun in Beijing who studied Traditional Chinese Medicine in the US. She was sent here by the Franciscan Order. My sleep, at least, obeyed a semblance of pattern.
Then August came. Seven, my Labrador, bled to death after a Civic run over her. Yeah, the neighbor felt remorse although she complained that brown was hard to see at night. She even offered to pray over Seven. My mother couldn’t comprehend this. She also sent Julie’s ensaymadas the following day. The holocaust of cheese, butter and bread, some of which I ate, of course, did not atone for her tort. It did not resurrect my dead bitch.
The two pianos, the Yamaha and the Grotrian-Steinweg, and the library went next in Godot’s laundry list. Ondoy choked the keys, hammer mechanisms and strings with effluents. The storm, in addition, blighted my Calvin and Hobbes collection, Sandman installments, Narnia Chronicles, photos, graduate notes, textbooks and music scores with detritus from the estero.
For days, I tried to shut out the carnage. Post-Ondoy, the sight of books drying with the pages falling apart from the spines invoked my pain. The proton pump inhibitors helped ease the tempest in my belly. I still lost the books in the end.
To cope with bereavement, I logged 100 hours in a Web Page Design course as a scholar of PGMA. Megamall became my refuge at the center of the universe under duress.
The Yamaha, after three months in the abattoir, can sing its tale of surviving the vomit. Its timbre has mellowed.
In November, Ben, my other Labrador, escaped to the streets at 6 AM. Another neighbor backed up over him in his Pajero. I thought he’d survive as he was able to limp his way home. Three days in the hospital and another three weeks of wailing under pain relievers could not fix him. I decided to put him down. The Vets wept!
Euthanol parched Ben’s eyes. I noticed because I could not break his stare as he walked from me.
I remembered Karenin’s smile.
Ben’s buried with his Seven near the Santol tree. Goodbye Ben.
—–
Nate tires of the PSP and asks about his mom. I say we’ll just have to wait for her.
He returns to Phineas and Ferb. I hear the title sequence….“There’s 104 days of summer vacation… Discovering something that doesn’t exist… Surfing tidal waves… Creating nanobots….”
—–
I am, perhaps, in a cycle of purification. And, just maybe, I’m meant to dance through Israel’s wilderness. A desert populated by its riddles of freedom, providence, sin, chastisement, metanoia, recidivism and then back.
Oh, I bought a guitar. An appendage I can haul on my back will be safe if I need to flee Egypt. No, I haven’t given up my Grotrian. I can’t bear to euthanize and bury it with my departed beside the Santol tree.
——
Nate’s possessed by the mayhem of animation.
Disney characters and Black Holes are siblings. Both phenomena, I think, cannot thrive outside of chaos.
—–
I did mention that I no longer practice law in a firm, no? When I’m asked, I say I’m a freelancer on 104 days of Sabbatical.
I dropped music from my curriculum in college. But on Wednesdays and Fridays, I wrestle arpeggios out of my guitar. My blood quickens at the thought of drills and lessons.
I’ll tuck a Bach salvaged from Ondoy in the case sleeve. A Prelude’s worth an attempt in the guitar.
The dance and riddles in the wilderness may be winding down. I’m certain the universe abhors disequilibrium. It will concede, at least, a sight of what my teacher promised: a recital in June under the shade of Acacia in Abelardo Hall.
—oOo—
May 8th, 2010 at 18:10
I looked like a kid about to be circumcised. I knew what was coming, and I couldn’t sleep thinking about it.
I did my research, of course, and what I learned came from second years who wanted to scare me. “You’ll cry. You’ll choke. And you’ll smell like hell.”
Now was the time of reckoning. Outside the door I lined up with the others, like in kindergarten. Some were already sniffing. Others were talking. And I saw a few muttering what looked like prayers—for the living, not the dead.
“Let’s check if we’ve got everything,” I told my groupmates.
“We have the scalpels, the Kocher, and the Kelly,” said Marvyn.
“And the petroleum jelly?”
“Right here in the bag. And here are the tissue paper, Lysol, and gloves,” said Ching, picking them up like toys.
We were jolted when the signal was sounded. We were about to begin the ritual that would change our lives.
“Let’s go.” My voice croaked in apprehension.
We were assigned to Table 7. The body was covered in layers: first, an overlay made of plastic, and underneath, gauzes that made it look like a mummy.
A priest came by to bless the bodies, sprinkling water from a container and spewing incense all over the place. It was a relief because the formalin was beginning to make me cry.
We were then called on to peel away the covers, and like the blind given sight, we couldn’t believe what we saw. The dead. As we stared at it—at her—our heartbeats skipped a beat. Her skin had the consistency of a tocino; her fingernails were tarnished with dirt; but her expression looked like she was a mother of three, taking a siesta after an eat-all-you-can. I gave her the name, Big Bertha.
“Peel the skin away,” said the professor, demonstrating it to us with a patience like Mother Teresa’s. “Remember, your cadavers are your patients.”
We followed his instructions, outlining the incisions in the arm, thorax, abdomen, and legs. With scalpels, we did our cuts, then removed the skin off. The challenge was taking away the fat—because Bertha had layers of it—from the muscle which we weren’t supposed to tear. This was a task that demanded both the mental and physical. We were sweating like pigs.
We would learn that both her lungs had three lobes, that her gallbladder was a mess, that her heart was muscular, and that her gluteus maximus was eaten up by worms. Knowing these things about her gave us a connection which was almost like friendship, but not quite. While taking out her muscles, we wondered, “what was she like when she was alive?”
I wish I had known her, but she never visited me in my dreams.
May 8th, 2010 at 22:35
I moved out of my mother’s apartment four years ago because I fell in love with a boy. The kid’s of legal age, yes, but there’s a seven year difference. I didn’t think there was chemistry at first, but I had the economics, and he had the anatomy. And that was enough because love is blind. And because I piss and shit cliches that I need to export the excess.
My siblings didn’t like him one bit. There was nothing in his constitution that they appreciated. To them, he was this alcoholic who was with me for the refreshment that I can afford. They never spoke to him, never acknowledged him, and they took down notes which they read, over the phone, to my mother. I’m not sure if they embellished their reports in one way or another, but my mother was not exaggerating when she asked me to leave. This love affair will not answer; I have a younger brother who will ask questions. She explained it to me with words that concealed her disappointment, but it was there, and I felt it more than I heard it.
I left because, at twenty five, I’m old enough to become my own man. Or woman. Or whatever.
A bulk of the twenty thousand pesos I had in my savings account covered a month’s advance and deposit for this two storey apartment. The rest were invested in a rice cooker, a stand fan, glasses, plates, a knife set, the rest of the kitchen utensils, some pillows, four weeks worth of groceries, some books and magazines for literature, a wall clock, and a deck of UNO cards. The latter answered for what entertainment we indulged ourselves in for the first few days of our independence. And I got me a credit card which solved the television set problem, the refrigerator problem, the work clothes problem, and the lifetime of debt problem.
I found out that independence is its own educational institution. And allow me to mention this in passing: God bless the rice cooker and the can opener. We didn’t expect to sustain ourselves on nothing more than rice and canned goods for the first two weeks, and these implements had more employment in them than a rosary did.
Four years later, and my family has extended to include a cat and a row of plants. We’re still together, and, trust me when I say this, I piss and shit accommodation when his mother comes to visit. I don’t think she’s that sold with the way things are as far as her “bunso” is concerned, but I am just as convinced that there isn’t a chance in hell our roles as live in partners will work the other way around. He does all the housework, and my technical support pays all the bills. Which now includes Skycable Gold. He just can’t beat that, oh hell no, but I still love him for the boob that he is.
My siblings love his macaroni soup, and they report that to my mother. She might have come to terms with her son’s lover; she now sends him toiletries every two months or so. I’m still paying off my credit card debt, but I have adjusted to living from paycheck to paycheck that I suspect I can pay it off sometime this year.
May 8th, 2010 at 22:39
Anlakas maka-nose bleed ng challenge na to Ma’am. Parang pagkain ng balut na walang asin!
May 9th, 2010 at 00:00
You are awake to water the plants in your balcony before going to work. You curse yourself for failing to rise at dawn in spite of your cell phone alarm.
You like to think that you are the bougainvillea. It has been yearning for water for – has it been weeks? Your friend told you that it loves to be punished. “Punish it and it will bloom,” he insisted. “Make it thirsty,” he added. The thought fascinates you: how punishment can make something flourish.
You brag to your friends: “Night after night, I spit at the bougainvillea. I kick it. I curse it. I vomit upon it. I strangle it so it can bloom and bloom and bloom.” They laugh.
It occurs to you that if the bougainvillea were a man he would be a king who does not possess a centavo, who keeps fasting, who has sustained bruises from brawl after brawl but everyone can tell that he is king.
You doubt if you could endure what the bougainvillea has to go through and still thrive.
Are you these dendrobiums? No flowers remain on their stems. Now they look like sugarcanes. You have pruned their stalks. That was months ago. You are waiting for them to bloom. “Forever,” you fear.
They remind you of a diva. A prima ballerina who is dancing the dance of her life. Will she be able to duplicate that pirouette? She makes the audience hold their breath. “Yes,” they rejoice. She can do it in this performance. “But what about the succeeding performance?” they wonder.
“Can’t afford to leave clients in that state,” you reflect. Or else you’ll get fired. But does your work give them as much pleasure as these orchids give you?
Now you’re hydrangea is drinking glasses of water. For days it was still wearing the vestment of a priest performing Lenten Mass. One day it craned its neck to kiss the sun like a lover who has reunited with her beloved. That is why the edges of its robes have become like the earth. Now it wilts. No trace of its pride is left.
You have loved like this hydrangea.
May 9th, 2010 at 00:20
I was born in the year writer Arthur C. Clarke came out as a bisexual, when the Space Shuttle Challenger disintegrated, when the Human Genome project began, when the laptop computer was invented, and when the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Station exploded.
At ten, while I was watching Batibot and cutting my own bangs, cows were slaughtered to prevent mad cow disease, Prince Charles and Princess Diana divorced, Ebay and Ask Jeeves found their place on the Web, and Dolly the sheep was cloned.
At twenty, while I was studying in the university and eating potato chips for breakfast, Saddam Hussein was hanged, North Korea tested its nuclear weapons, songs purchased from Apple iTunes reached a billion, and Pluto was downgraded from a planet to a dwarf.
And now, the year hasn’t ended, but earthquakes have flattened cities, Toyota has recalled its cars, Dubai’s Burj Khalifa was opened, and Iceland’s Eyjafjallajokull erupted and forced airports to cease operations.
I haven’t reached thirty, but I feel like I’ve lived for eons. And if that’s the case, my mom said that makes her a dinosaur.
May 10th, 2010 at 09:27
Benjamin_of_12: That’s 1,209 words.
May 10th, 2010 at 09:28
christinemacaraig: Well-written, but where are you in this piece?