So is love, so it is

How I loved my life, its details, way down to its simplicity. More often than ever, during my home-away-from-home years in college, I'd wake up at the tickle of sunlight and at the sound of my mind singing my mantra, "Life is ever so beautiful!"

I've always believed it to be, thanks to my family, not for what riches we don't have, but for raising me into someone who believes that life is not so unkind; into someone who believes in chances and change.


I think I miss the mantra. It's like someone inside had been both too loud and too silent at the same time. The melody...of serenity had escaped me, gone with my mastery with the flute. And did I see it coming, that the most wonderful thing in this world would come all the way to rob its own description from me? I didn't.

Almost eight years ago, one fair afternoon in 2004, there was this boy sitting on a high wall that separated the highway from the sea, under the shade of Talisay trees. "If you're doing it, you better get yourself pretty darn ready for pain," he told me.

Scary and true, I knew. But I used to believe in fairy tales, so what I managed was, "But one is the irony of the other. Pain is its irony."

"I thought so too."

I miss the mantra, and how I believed that, "Om shanti, I am a peaceful soul." Because that thing ever so beautiful has suddenly become unfair, or so I thought. It's 'the wonderful' against 'the beautiful', and in the end, life gives in to its ugly curse. Now, this is silence without serenity. What's to be said when you bet your worth and now it's gone?

If sometime someday, I'd happen to see that boy again, I'd tell him, "You were right. It was a necessary irony."

Maybe he'd smile. Maybe he'd shrug.

"But I'd still be praying that one day I could prove you wrong. You know, life is ever so beautiful. So is love, so it is."

Inshallah, those beautiful words would come back to me.

My first wallet was a gift from Santa

Mama and Papa used to lie about Santa in a funny way - that we didn't realize, of course, not until we grew up and learned about what really went on while we dreamt of the white-bearded old fat Santa on his reindeer-driven flying sleigh. They'd tell us, indeed convincingly, to go to bed early because Santa wouldn't drop by if kids stayed awake.

So we went upstairs to bed, leaving our socks pinned on the wall. I would usually ask Papa if he could lend me one because mine were too small, I was thinking they couldn't hold all of Santa's gifts for me.

It was hardest to doze off on Christmas eve. I remember forcing myself to sleep but would sooner find myself sneaking out the mosquito net and peeking through the slice of light at the door. My eyes would search for Papa's sock I borrowed and would find it empty. How sad I was, feeling forgotten by Santa. So I crawled back to bed. My older brother and my older sister both asleep. Maybe.

Early the next morning, we were awakened by Mama's small voice tickling us, rising us up from sleep. She'd say the magic words, Papa behind her, "Puno na ang medyas!" And suddenly, we were more than awake. We'd run downstairs and I'd feel like chasing after my own heartbeat. It brightened my eyes to see the sock bulging irregularly in shape, like my heart perhaps. We were all smiles and "Yehey!"

After pulling our socks off the wall, we'd sit down on the floor, open the socks, and one by one, take each little thing, each of Santa's little gifts out and spread them all on the floor. Sometimes, we'd do barter. But oftentimes, we believed Santa had a long list with him and everything in each one's sock had been listed beforehand. So, no barter.

There was one gift I couldn't forget apart from the dragon egg-shaped chocolates we could buy from the market, just across the street from our little house - the small pink wallet with blue and green flowers all over. It had a mirror, a coin pocket, and a bill pocket. If my memory served me right, it had five "piso" in it.

I remember taking really good care of it. It was with that little pink wallet that I first tried to save up. From my day's allowance consisting of a few coins, I'd see to it to keep safe two pesos in my little wallet. Because at the end of the school day, before Papa would cross the highway to fetch me at the school gate, I'd drop by at the dirty ice cream stall. With Papa holding my left hand, and with a small cone of mango-cheese ice cream, sometimes ube, in my right, I'd cross the street unmindful of everything but my ice cream, to our motorcycle ever as young or old as I.

At home, I'd check my little pink wallet. Sometimes, a "piso" was left. Oftentimes, I would just find myself smiling at the thought of ice cream.

Years later, when I was already in college, and when going home was as seldom as cutting my hair short, Papa and I were having a great time telling stories of our childhood. He was cooking rice for lunch and I was sitting by the table. He told me about Santa. Or "The Santas" and how they'd sneak out the house and to the market to buy the so-called Santa's gifts. Papa told me, there was a store owned by Mama's relatives. They'd buy the gifts there, and ask the owner (Mama's "some kind of aunt") to keep the goods until they'd return by evening. They were afraid we'd accidentally find the goods with my sister always busy arranging things, my brother going in and out for his toys, and me just going around and around. And while we were drifting away with Santa and Rodulf in our dreams, the Santas were sneaking in again to stuff our socks 'til they bulge, deformed.




Then, while listening to Papa and laughing at his stories, I remembered and figured Mama and Papa weren't home on that Christmas eve when I crawled out the mosquito net to peek through the slice of light at the door. Santas at work. Definitely.

*big smiles*

This Christmas of 2011, I got a wallet, purple, and not small anymore. The gift has grown, and it seems to remind me of the length of time - between my little pink wallet and this "lady-ish" purple one. Thanks to Tita Mar, someone I've just met on the same day she gave the purple wallet, sealed for me. :)

And this time, I'll be saving up not for dirty ice cream anymore, but for some gifts for my not-so-old Santas.

The Last Free Ride

Mid-morning of one rainy December day, I was on the bus, on my way home to Manila. I was having a tough time fighting my tears back. The TV program on board was a Filipino movie, – about family, father and son, hating and forgiving, God – totally dramatic and whose goal was solely to squeeze your tear ducts. Of course, I love movies as powerful, as touching, as sensible as that. As dramatic, but not when I’m on a public vehicle, “Goodness gracious!”

I was sitting in the front row, by the window, my vision gazing through the window glass trying hard to ignore the raindrops banging against the glass. They were good at teasing my eyes so I had to look away, tilt my head up, and hold the tears there at the edge of my lower lids.

And just when I succeeded, having brought my head down to face the window glass again, I saw through it such…disturbing sight – a truck, a canter maybe, loaded with more than a dozen cows stamped with big blue numbers, some on their belly sides, some on the upper part of their hind legs. Maybe half of them were facing me, their noses tied to the metal poles enclosing the canter’s car.

Their faces told of acceptance, their eyes of fear. It was weird enough to heed they were actually looking at me. But it was far more disturbing to realize that for a moment or two, there seemed to be a connection – unwanted, untold, automatic, and necessary.

The serenity on their faces betrayed by the fears in their eyes, that I had to see. Death was nearing and becoming inevitable as the wheels ran meter after meter along the asphalt roads of SLEX. And acceptance was a requirement. It suddenly saddened me as the story of a cow’s life came playing in my head. They live without another choice than what people had doomed their lives for. Milk, cheese, death. And then beef.

Creatures deprived of freedom like a clan of aliens long sentenced to perish for having trespassed another world. If sharks could be hammerheads, those cows on the canter were soon to be “hammered heads”.

Now, I’m trying to recall if I’ve seen a cow with happy eyes. *Snort* Most males were mad, most females were snobs, and baby cows were usually at play but not necessarily happy. Or how would I really know? But their looks, I bet, come in unison once they receive their big blue number stamps.

And sooner or later, the baby cows would discover what they are for. Their destiny decided, agreed on; their future told, death scheduled.

From a human perspective, their struggles might have been cut short. Planning and worrying about the future are not necessary. Making money is not a problem. Making a living is not a thing to deal with every single day. Zendagi migzara, life goes on, with only whatever is available, until the hammer’s concluding blow.

Then, as my bus finally took over the canter, I had this reply to the cows’ parting message. At the end of your free ride, you will find your purpose. We humans, have our endless roads to go. So please don’t make me feel guilty. Taco’s my favorite.

And once again, I had to tilt my head up and hold them steady. Weird.

One Fam-tastic Dinner

It was no ordinary weekend because my parents came here all the way from Cebu, thanks to Cebu Pacific's Piso Fare Promo and of course to my sister for booking their flight!

October 22, Saturday, it rained...food! Say pancit canton sandwich for a morning snack; crispy pata, shrimp, sinigang, and nilaga for lunch; pizza and soda, and pandan ice candy for an afternoon snack. Food, food, and more food down to the day's main event - family dinner at Barbara's.

At the end of a long ride from Biñan, Laguna to Manila, past a breath-taking sunset we've watched from Roxas Boulevard, I was still - errr - so full. But who would say no to good food? Nay, not me.

Barbara's is located across the San Agustin Church in Intramuros. Like all other infrastructures in the place, the building where Barbara's could be found tells a lot about the Spanish regime, about Spanish architecture. Brick walls, crystal chandeliers, carpeted staircase, huge mirrors bordered by gold-painted brass meticulously carved with fancy floral designs; doors, windows, and walls all standing with the resemblance of Spanish taste.

We got Tabe 14, not really the best one since a wooden pillar blocked our view of their small stage. But good enough though, we were near the buffet table and the piano anyway. The smell of good food was right there!

In no more than 15 minutes, the buffet started. I snaked my way to the line, holding my huge plate like a child about to receive her slice of chocolate cake. The display was really (and seriously) enticing that all I could think of was satisfaction from good food, but what I had to do was hold it and pick only what I could manage.

I did. Yes, I did pick a little of almost everything in the array. And when I went back to our table, they were all so surprised with the platter I've just made. Funny, Mama and Papa couldn't help asking if I could finish'em all, and it was like I could hear my sister and my brother say, "Seriously?" Maybe the only person who couldn't care so much was my sister's boyfriend because we had almost the same platter, plus extra plates of side veggies. Oh well, you don't refuse to good food.

Fettucini pomodoro, tuna steak, Czech steak, chicken, pork strips, vegetable salad, and oh, rice! And I had coffee jelly for dessert, and the other one I couldn't remember.

Mama had to remind me every now and then to slow down. Papa was just looking at me with a smile that couldn't believe what kind of appetite I had. My sister and her boyfriend cheered for me, while my brother, as always, teased me for eating like a pig.

Then, after about an hour, the cultural show started with a serenade of Spanish music by a small string ensemble. And I wasn't done with my food yet, mind you. Folk dances followed, and maybe it was half way through the entire show when I finally emptied my plate. I felt...victorious. Really. And very full.

Maybe it was a bit "unsophisticated" for a lady in a pretty dress and royal red shoes to empty a pretty huge plate. Somewhat, surprisingly barbaric, in a way.

Well, I thought I had just the right "barbaric" experience at Barbara's. Amen to a whole day of eating! *Burrrrp* :)

A five-star weekend is "Ohhh yeah!"

Unplanned - that made it more exciting! Good thing I brought extra undies in anticipation of my monthly fl*w (excuse me for mentioning). Hehehe.

Because the original plan was that I drop by the hotel, stay for a while there while Celle and I wait until seven PM to meet our friend, Kath, for some kind of  friends' dinner date. I had Chicken Piccata and Garlic Spaghetti of The Old Spaghetti House. Great choice though, great dinner! Especially that it was a treat, thanks to Kath, we finally got a taste of her salary, hahaha.

We were almost through with our platters when Celle got a message from her mom asking if we'd want to spend the night at the hotel because there was a room reserved for her officemate, who was yet to check in late the next day. And who was to say no to an invitation to a five-star weekend?

Outside of sleeping in a luxury room, we were to go swimming in the hotel's pool. Not so big, just too deep. For me and for Celle at least, hahaha! Well, I couldn't really care much 'cause I didn't really get myself dipped into it anyway. Because after the panic-buying right after dinner, buying myself a 2-for-150-Php women's board shorts and a 50-Php white spaghetti top for swimming, the pool personnel told us, "Ma'am, hindi po pwede ang cotton."

Oh.

That left me no choice.

Anyway, I'd like to tell a little about my five-star weekend. There's a fair count of reasons why I enjoyed it a lot, aside from its five-star accommodation, of course. But I'd like to share about the first five.

1. The Lobby. Entering the lobby felt something like instantly being in a different place, maybe somewhere in London, after passing through a glass door. And the people from different races, along with different languages, disoriented me even more. Crap! I'm lost.

But what caught my attention was the architecture and the interior design. I couldn't help but look around and adore the details of the architecture, the marble walls and pillars accessorized with patterns of gold, the palm trees with their trunks looking fake but their fan-like leaves seeming real skirted by brown tips indicating wither. The center pieces made of several rounded rods inserted with pink artificial stargazers (if I'm not mistaken) at their intersections, the huge mirrors and paintings. Everything was luxurious and so classy, I thought I was drooling over the architectural finery.

At first, I had a bit of the feeling of being out of place but as we stayed longer, I managed to ignore the intimidation, and pulled off a five-star behavior without really having to pretend to be someone rich. Say, it's all in the attitude.

2. The toiletries. I'm not familiar with Davi but I instantly liked its products once I got to smell and use its shampoo, conditioner, and shower gel. At the end of each of the two days, I collected the items, including the vanity kits and shower caps because I got so fond of the small bottles and the boxes!

3. Escolta. Food alone was great! There was a long array of food choices from breads and waffles to ice cream. Viands varied from American to Filipino dishes, Filipino to Japanese. The display was actually overwhelming, I had to stop myself from picking too much. So I had little servings of select food items: a some kind of saucy scrambled egg, two strips of bacon, fried chicken, vegetable samosa, ham, morcon, shanghai roll, cordon bleu, plain yogurt, ube ice cream, waffle topped with a scoop of chocolate obsession, assorted Danish, and perhaps some more I couldn't remember now.

All of them so good and even better 'cause I had them all for free!!! Hahaha.

4. The pond. It's right outside Escolta encircling the meditation room near the swimming pool. Medium-sized Japanese kois came near us as we leaned against the low walls of the pond. It actually felt great to sit there watching the kois, some trying hard to entertain us with their tameness (if that's an appropriate word for fish behavior), some maybe too shy, hiding at the back of water hyacinths off our view, and some just ignoring us feeling like royalties who would never have to pay attention to ordinary people. Snobs and bratinellas! The sound of water falling from four jars, which were pieces of the decoration, was calming as if taking you away from the city. Which was just right outside the hotel walls.

Thing is, the pond has one of the most relaxing corners in the whole place.

5. "Good Morning!" Saturday morning was a good one, having been greeted by a stranger, a businessman I guessed. We were walking down the hallway to our room when we met this man, bringing with him some good vibes and sharing some with us, cheerfully greeting, "Good Morning!" Along with a friendly smile! Just so professional.

Unlimited food, they kept coming up in our room until our tummies had to refuse taking in anything. Maybe it was a good thing Celle's mom brought us red and white wines. We took Domaine Laroche's white. I didn't know what was supposed to be the default reaction of our bodies but good enough it turned out to be a downer at that time. And then, a good sleep.

That's all for the excerpt of my unplanned five-star weekend!

P.S. Later that day when we left the hotel and went home, we learned that Nicholas Sparks was there at The Peninsula spending his weekend over. (Slash wrist! Not even a glimpse of him.)

Still, big thanks to Celle and her mom, for such a great weekend that made me go "Ohhh yeah!" :)

photo courtesy: GROOVENETravel

Love In The Shower

It remains a darn great mystery (and I'm sorry for the cliche). Until now. Unfathomable, as they say.

Why is love so 'effin' hard to understand, even geniuses lose their smarts? I'm not a genius of course, but I thought I had some to lose. Early evening was preparing for the night, not a red sky to shepherd delight. I was lazily taking a shower after such enormous effort to pull myself to the bathroom. There, I caught myself trying to figure something, which in the end, still wouldn't make sense.

Guess I was talking to someone invisible, like the other me, who lives in my head forever. I like her a lot, always busy with productive things like gardening, painting, baking pastries, making high-fashion clothes, all things I wish I should be doing. Just that her world's so very intangible and perhaps too wonderful to be true. Anyway, that's a sidebar.

But I went on asking the other me, "What can you say about this shit?" Love.

Silence. And more of it. And maybe the sound of water from the shower and to the drain. Waiting for an answer to no avail, I started.

Love is that feeling you don't understand, you can't explain, plus all its pointless cliches.

Love is like the ocean too deep. You fall, you're drowned.

(Count this joke in.) Love is like the rosary, full of mysteries. (Because love has to be, at all times, mysterious. Period.)

Love is like strawberries, sweet and sour; coffee, bittersweet.

Love is amazingly all-encompassing.

It's this.

It's that.

It's blah blah blah.

While I went on weaving together all I know about what love is and what it's like, perhaps the other me was pruning her roses and dandelions, so colorful and luscious.

She: Have you come to a conclusion?

Me: Yeah, I think.

She: And?

Me: That there's no way I can understand it.

She: Makes sense.

I shrugged.

She: How much have you got?

Me: Don't know. A lot.

She: And a lot more. --- There's too much about love, dear. Too many truths as there are too many lies.

Me: Meaning?

She: Meaning, you're right.

There's no way you can understand it now. But check this reality facing you. In love, everything is splendid, everything is terrible. Everything is imaginable, everything is impossible. Everything is worth it, everything is unbearable. Everything is a sweet dream and everything is a nightmare. And every single thing can be a truth at the same time a lie. How tricky, how playful!

There are as much "facts" about love as much as the love stories told. Drowning and perhaps saturating. What should we believe in? Which truths apply to us? And in the end, who's there to know?

Me: Amazing, isn't it?

She: Yes, indeed. And may you make sense of it when the right time comes.

Me: Right time?

She: There's a right time for you to conclude what it really is.

Me: Yeah? When I find Mr. Right?

She: Maybe. Maybe not. Far later, I guess. --- I'm afraid, oftentimes than not, love stories go on like they never have to end. Love is a long story, dear. Maybe even longer than life itself.

Me: When's the right time though?

She: When you're old enough to conclude your life. Because you have to contribute to the pool of bewildered philosophies.

Me: And what if in the end I don't have anything to say?

She: Nah. You're one of those love-crazed people who find love so amazing. You must have one.

Me: Or else?

She: Or else, you won't die.

Me: Oh, thank you.

And the sound of water from the shower and to the drain. "Nice dream." *smiles*

Suppose the parallel universe is real

What if it's real? What if a parallel universe does exist? Would we, for a second, think of peeking through the crack?

And if we do, would we find a familiar place? Familiar names of familiar faces? What if we find us watching ourselves? What if it's real? Like a replica but not really as much.

I'm suddenly fond of imagining what could be happening in the parallel universe. Thanks to FRINGE, an American TV series to which I'm paying indulgence to for what amazement it offers me - Science and its ifs.

Science, the unplanned marriage of knowledge and stupidity; where sensibility realizes while stupidity discovers; the home of the sensible and the stupid; my favorite subject. And I'm hoping it doesn't serve to describe me now.

Suppose the parallel universe is real, it would thrill me to make a crack, a way to it, just as the possibility of it triggered the ecstatic state of my mind. It's strange and crazy but it makes sense, doesn't it? Well, for me and for Dr. Walter Bishop (the great scientist in FRINGE; asset of the FBI, disclosing the workings of Fringe Science responsible for every murder case passed to the FBI) at least.

Suppose I made a crack that leads to the parallel universe, I would love to see the other me, watch her, and know her. See her in a different hairdo, maybe a different hair color too. Watch her do things her way. Know her and how she differs from me.

Suppose I could wish for her fate in her universe, I would wish for an entirely new story. Why? So she wouldn't bore me to death watching the same story, which I live. Why? So I wouldn't have to predict what would happen to her, but rather indulge into the excitement of "What's next?" So I wouldn't have to realize the same mistakes and learn the same lessons again and again. Why? So there would be one of us to save our name. Just in case it wouldn't be me.

As for Science itself, I wish the parallel universe does exist. For the sake of imagining the unimaginable, of discovering the undiscovered. Albeit, for now, it's one of the greatest impossibilities ever imagined, ever wished for. But for this parallel universe and all other impossibilities, I take Dr. Bishop's line:

"When you see the impossible, sometimes, you find the truth."

Photo Source: TV Online Episodes

A Thief In The House

Last night. Through the gate. Through the front door. Following me. Up the unlit staircase. Eyes covered by his hair.

Yellow paper. A letter. A thief with a letter. For me. Fear. Courage. Self. And self. One against the other.

The whispers. The silence. The moon against the city lights. The rain against the tears. The thief. Without a gun. Without a dagger.

I saw him. I was awake. When he stole it from me. I cried. And cried. Happy, he did it.

A thief. Who had to leave. Who didn't want to. Who stole my heart away. Who was robbed of his own.

'Cause I was just another thief. Who stole his heart again.

7 Speechless I Love Yous

Just another love language of just another woman in love...

1. Steal a pinch on his nose and kiss it. Ain't that a sweet way to greet him "Good Morning"? - just a cute way to jump-start his day. It might be cuddle time cut short, but a simple gesture can definitely tell a lot, like, "I thank God I have you."

2. Serve him a cup of coffee with a note: Wake up sleepyhead! ;) Who would refuse a cup of coffee served with a sweet playful note? Served by a pair of playful eyes and a playful smile, saying "It's gonna be a long day, honey. Pretty sure you can do it!"

3. Help him dry his hair after bath. Because he's careless at it. So get the towel, dry his hair, wrap the towel around his neck, and what's bad about one quick flirty kiss? Maybe it means something more than flirting. Maybe something like, "I can't tag along. You take care, promise?"

4. If you're guessing he'd be sick after running in the rain, go buy the meds. Always be ready. And once the temperature goes bad, you know you have what he needs. The meds, with a glass of water, means, "I worried while you were out."

5. At midday, send him a smiley. It's such a thrill to imagine him wondering what your smiley could mean. What fun to imagine him staring at his phone, at that one smiley, tilting his head side by side, wondering. And how sweet it is to read his reply "I miss you." Bingo! Just the right words.

6. Meet him by the door and throw a big hug. At the end of his day's work, he's surely worn out. Meeting him by the door could refresh him even just a bit. And a big hug singing, "So glad you're home now."

7. Once he's fast asleep, steal a soft kiss on his forehead and take his embrace. Now you're saying, "I thank God, I'm yours."

Minsan May Isang Epal

Sadyang may mga taong epal. Kadalasan hindi mo maintindihan kung bakit, pero minsan pwede mo namang isiping baka may sakit. O baka may problema. Pagbigyan mo na. Baka nga meron kang mga kaibigan o kabarkada pa na minsan ay nakakairita. Pero it's okay, basta ba attitude n'ya hindi forever waley.

Pero minsan may isang epal. Alam ko kung bakit. Pero kadalasan gusto ko nalang magkunwaring "I know nothing about it", kunwari wala akong alam, kunwari wala akong naintindihan. Pero ano't grabehan ang taglay na ka-epalan? Tila lumelebel sa ka-bitteran. Hindi ko kinikeri, talaga namang nakakalurkey!

Wag na nating ipagpilitan. Ang nakaraan ay nakaraan. Pwede namang maging happy nalang para sa iba, no need to declare yourself the bida. Ang akin lang naman ay payong pangkaibigan. You can put your hands down, kung kilala ka naman na sa town.

Ako'y taong tahimik, di mahilig umimik. Ayokong naiinis pero minsan may isang epal kaya nakawala ang salitang "put'ris!" Kaya tama na please, kapayapaan ang ating nais.

Kalimutan na ang pait, bitiwan na ang sakit. Hold it. And stop it.

Over and undone

Just when you thought it's all over, it would seem otherwise. Nah, not really a bad thing. Rather funny! *smiles*

So, true it is that every story has its own time - to happen and to be told. Oftentimes, they come out when we least expect them, when we are just so unprepared. Very surprising then, like successful surprises. They could make us drop our jaws, raise brows, laugh, cry. Or mute. But I'd go for my favorite reaction: spilling the bad words I've learned from this bad world. *P.I.*

Last night and just this afternoon, I chatted online with two of my friends, and from them I heard stories, which I should have learned before, if only "before" was the right time. But every story knows its time. And they got to me now that I don't have to feel anything, except the joy of being at peace...from the hurts, and in peace with people.

Things have long been over but there were stories that remained untold. And now that I've heard them, I feel rather grateful and glad that by way of listening to them, I've pulled out some spikes of hurts and worries from my friends. Things might have remained undone for a while, but it's all over here, done now, in the name of peace.

Salaam alaykum!

Symbio is Love

Not that I don't like the things happening here, but I just have to kind of frown at the irony between what I once said and what had happened.

I made myself a promise. So decided.

No, I'm not joining any organizations in college. It's fine to be a barbarian, at least sometimes in a lifetime. It's okay to excuse yourself from the crowd.

Little did I know I wasn't really sure about what I said.

I thank God a bunch, and another bunch, and one more bunch, for the talents, skills, heaven-sent gifts He had entrusted to me. Forgive if I couldn't help but smile and feel proud. Amen to my birth! And lol to this. One day, a guy we shall call Nic, asked if I could spare him a few minutes for a quick talk, which I would later find out to have been scripted with the intention of persuading me to join this student organization with a not-so-long name, Symbiosis, The UPLB Biological Society. And I was like...

Yeah! How did you know I was supposed to shift course to BS Biology? But excuse me, I'm a Development Communication student, period.

But that was Nic, one of my big bros in college, so I listened, nodded, smiled. And then listened, nodded, smiled. And then nodded and smiled - a "yes" to his invitation to an orientation program.

So, by late afternoon of August 8, 2008, after class, I went to the venue. Feeling lost. Out of place. Awkwaaaaaard. But that was only at first. How suddenly grateful I was at the sight of familiar faces - DevCom people. "Good thang!"

And time ran fast. One moment I found myself quiet on a chair, and the next thing was I had to congratulate myself for being a new member of Symbiosis...and the new content manager of a web development team. Because a few days after my supposedly-quick talk with Nic, we talked again about wbt. Bravo! Bravo! Amen to my promise! And lol to it.

But now, I'd love to smile at such beautiful irony. Because I'm sure happy with the consequences of my unplanned membership to Symbiosis; happy with what I have become. At first, Symbio was like another school to me. And yes, a training ground for whatever purpose it may serve in the future. I learned a lot and I mean a lot. Though Symbio is an academic organization, I learned about things far bigger than schooling - things maybe even bigger than my bragging rights as a UP student.

Now on my extra semesters in college (as I call them so), things have changed, almost entirely different. I don't have my closest friends with me. I don't have DevCom 'batchmates' to say hi or hello to. I don't even have classmates. But one thing had always stayed the same: I'm far away from home.

But I'm never homeless. There's always a place I can call my home. The people here may not be of my blood, but I'd call them 'brods' and 'sisses', not for the sake of using Symbio's endearment terms; but I'd call them so as they are brothers and sisters to me.

To Symbiosis, The UPLB Biological Society; from Myles with lots of love! *frowns and big smiles*

The Reward For Not Fighting Temptation

It's staring at you. Blankly. Lifelessly. And to spare a life is up to you.

Will you?

Be careful. It's beautiful in your eyes with a smile so innocent and sweet. But wait until you see it laugh. Wait until you see it cry. Then, I leave you two options. Close your eyes or run.

But you will rather run. Its claws, too sharp to miss a vein. Then, your blood will be its drug. You won't want that.

But will you kill those innocent eyes? Will you cut those gentle lips? Will you refuse seduction?

Will you?

You will rather run. Yes, run in a labyrinth, you don't know the way out. Keep runnin'. You must not listen to its lullaby. Else, you'll suddenly find it before you, staring, smiling at you...blankly, lifelessly. Isn't that unforgettable?

The creeps, they're gettin' into your veins. But it's more than ecstasy, hiding horror, leaving the deceit with a lustful indulgence, so wild you want to believe it's true. Are you goin' to run?

Now you don't know. You don't know you're life's been spared. It's not your own anymore. Say goodbye to your friends. You have to leave.

Then, it's a life with it. Do you know where you are? You don't. You just give it a name. Paradise. Heaven. Forever. Everything's new but its blank stare, but its lifeless smile, but its coldest touch. It does like a child not knowing what it wants, like a shadow never having a person.

The creeps, they're getting into your veins, one more time, one more time, and one more time. Will you run? You won't. You can't. There's no labyrinth. All there is is its lullaby, "Please don't leave," with a grip by claws cutting through your bones.

You have been spared. Now there's one option left for you. Close your eyes.... And then, cry.

iamdewberry

Link to my fashion blog --- >> iamdewberry

That would be all. Thank you! HAHA :D

Meet Mokona!

Hi! I'm Mokona Modoki. Call me Moki. I'm Filipino, although I'm not required of citizenship, but simply because I was born in the Philippines. Why my name is Japanese, that I surely know. Mom and dad used to always tell me the story, five times at least. Well, I hope you know the Japanese cartoon series, Tsubasa Chronicles. They got my name from this very cuddly mystical creature, which looked a bit like a piglet and much like a rabbit of unusual roundness, and somehow with some resemblance to Pikachu, the lead pokemon. The creature's name was Mokona! And until now, I still haven't figured out its gender. In happy times, Mokona sounded like a little girl, and in sad times, the other gender. So, it's hard to tell. But all in all, Mokona was a character so "KAWAIIIIII", it became my parents' favorite!

Then, there I was born with such cuteness I couldn't deny. But I'm not my parents' own. Right, I'm adopted. Mom and dad found me somewhere in a building's lobby. And thanks to this cuteness, mom bothered to look at me. They took me home and from then on I had a place to call my home. Dad loved it so much when I lie down stretched out flat on his tummy, and I just loved it when he brushes my hair too. We could both sleep just that way.

Yet, there were two things I was really sorry for. Mom and dad loved carrying me to their bed so I could crawl on soft foam, play with whatever stuffs were on the bed including Lavie, mom's laptop, dad's phone, and their papers and their pens, and all. But I was a baby then and the calls of nature weren't for me to care about. So without warning, I'd pee on their bed. And a little later, I'd poop too. That was disgusting, I knew. But oh boy, what did I know about toilets and holding back! I was really sorry, I swear. Thanks to this cuteness again, my parents didn't have to scold me. They've been so patient with frequent change of bed sheets.

Now, I'm big enough to stay and play alone in my crib. I can eat alone too. Mom and dad would just have to give me food and I'd be alright. I almost like everything, edible or not. Weird, eh? So I strongly believe that I have this eating disorder common in children, called pica. I love nibbling whatever catches my eyes...and nose.

Oh, and I'm a big fan of this medical hypothesis: An apple a day keeps the doctor away. Apples absolutely take me on a high! And parsley too. A few slices of banana is fine with me. And more treats, please!!! And my favorite, with which I'm never sick of --- rabbit pellets! ^^,

Oooppps! Dinner time! Moki here, saying "Mekkyo...aaa...puuuu!!!" ^^,

Color To Taste

I was never a good cook and I could only wish I could be one day. I'd say I'm a good friend of the spoon and the fork, but a mere acquaintance of the ladle. I'm good at eating but I just keep wondering how the cooking was done. Until it occurred to me that, "In life, it happens when all you have are ingredients and utensils. In times of hunger, that seems to always happen."

So there, I cooked. Or I tried. And the little courage paid off!

I was learning, day by day. Now, I cook for lunch. But it seems a little funny and frustrating for me to realize that I always miss the important part - tasting. Well, I'd never want to taste what I could be just cooking yet. It's like taking away from me this so-called 'element of surprise'.

Salt to taste. Sugar to taste. Pepper to taste. And if I could only add: color to taste.

Yes, I paint. And yes, the way I cook has something to do with my hobby - painting. It must have been why I later found enjoyment in cooking, although it was never my thing. It turned out that I just found some new painting materials. And what's amazing is that the output is in 4D! (LOL) I can see it. I can smell it. I can taste it. Most of all, I can eat it.

One Wednesday, I was cooking beef tapa for lunch. I did the instructions said: marinate in Maggi classic seasoning and pepper, and then saute. I waited for the beef tenderloin to turn brownish but it didn't. So I looked for an ingredient to make it brown. Soy sauce! But since I so love the tandem of soy sauce and vinegar, I also poured a little of vinegar. And soy sauce and a little more until the beef looked brownish. Color to taste!

And then, ready to serve...BEEF ADOBO...(LOL!) with mixed veggies!!!

"Sorry naman!" :D

A Birthday Wish

It's not always that I believe in wishes coming true, nor do I often make wishes. At times I do, for the sake of a candle's role to be blown. But oftentimes I don't.

Yesterday was my 22nd birth anniversary (as I prefer to call it so). How many times in a year can one make a wish? Perhaps as many as one wants, and if making wishes is the only good thing one has known so far. As for me, it's "One year, one birthday, one wish, one chance"...and that chance was yesterday.

I could've wished for my thesis to be all done the next day, or to win an Apple iPad in the Modess Angels A Win-Win Promo (LOL!). Or for a dog! But then I thought, "This birthday wish must be a chance - far bigger than to be reserved for an iPad or a dog."

So I said...

Dear Wish,

You be...a successful operation. And may I let you know that I'm letting you take care of one of the best moms in the world and in history.

Important: Don't forget to come true.

Wishing,

Birthday Girl

And I wished not upon a candle, not upon a star, but upon a prayer. Just making sure! :)

To my mom: Your first operation was on the very day I was born by cesarean birth. Now, it's your second and it's scheduled almost on my 22nd birth anniversary, as you've realized. I'm not a threat, don't worry (LOL!). It's just that I'm youngest. And I "mean" a lot! (LOL!)

To ate and kuya: PEACE!!! (HAHAHA)

Photo: My mom, 22 years ago, after my birth :)

Size or length?

Like us, decisions continue to grow until they are killed by another decision, or by fate. Small things need small decisions - what candy to pick. Big things demand big decisions - which house to buy. As simple as that. But what if the thing is either small or big, or neither small nor big? What if it's abstract, like faith and hope? What if it's love? How do we measure that? Are we supposed to be talking size? Or length? Or size? No, not that green mind.

I know of a love story about a guy and a girl. It was a beautiful story of a beautiful love affair, and that's tautology. There were times I might have wished to see myself in a relationship like theirs. Or perhaps to hold a purpose as strong - to kill a lifetime together, to live a lifetime with each other. I might have wished to hear myself confess my certainty to my partner. I might have wished to see myself planning the future, without doubt, or fear. Well, I might have wished to imagine my wedding day. But I've long learned the word, "Cut!" At least, I did try imagining the wedding day of this beautiful couple. Goodness, I was envious like hell!

Not really the longest in love's history. But the way they loved each other, cared for and worried of each other, was like optical illusion. Years overly prolonged. I thought they bought some more years to add to the actual count. And I thought they'd let only a year more before exchanging "I do's" and cheesy smiles, all to be frozen in their wedding photos.

Guy and girl both lived simple lives. No mansions and villas, no cars, no high-profile parties, not even the latest of fashion trends. Just life as it is without the pressures of this what I call social divide. Simply put, I could just recall Pinoy "telenobelas", love stories of simple people in the provinces and barrios. Never anything complicated.

I'd see guy and girl around and just the sight of this lovely pair was enough to produce and reproduce good vibes. It wasn't like they were, or one of them was popular. But I thought they had a fan club, count me in.

It was indeed a love story told by love itself. They had years. Not two. Not three. Now, I'm kind of talking length.

One day, that I didn't know when, a decision was made. And now, I should be talking size. How big must love be to keep the years running, to keep the love alive? If I thought that story was beautiful, that affair was perfect, what more did it need? What slipped through it?

Six years was long but it had nothing to say to please love or to give love a good name. Six years all over in one quick decision. It was quick, so, it might have been a small decision. But it was about this abstract whatever called love. And how people supposed love to be, it should have been something big.

But every decision, big or small, finds its own time to grow, grow bigger. And a decision's chance to grow is always embedded in its making. Until it is killed by another decision, or by a change of mind. Or by fate, if you believe in it.

We, people, always seek the right decision. But the thing is, every decision becomes right at the moment it is passed. Wrong ones come out later. Because it is only during its growth, when a decision can be judged. And when judgment is passed, it's either you have to come fighting against the dreaded word - regret, or you're safe and then you go on.

With all that, best wishes to guy and girl.

(*whistles*) Hey! Big fan (over here).

photo: superstock

The Story Of My College Life Part 2

Taking baths three times a day was the most that happened in my second year in college. And Bordo Burgers! And silogs. Darn, it used to rain graces coming straight from...the kitchen! (*grin*)

(Silence)

Anyway, college life was almost entirely new since that afternoon I left Men's Dorm, except that I was still a UPLB student and a DevCom major. And I was still the girl who loved wearing jeans and shirts; who never cared about her hair; who spoke in soft voice; who ate with "princess-y" etiquette; who never enjoyed drinking water; coffee-lover; frustrated singer; frustrated guitarist; frustrated "shopaholic" and a lot lot more. And of course, I was still far away from home, so I was still the girl who had been missing her mom and dad.

SKADOOSH! Don't call me "poor little girl", I swear I enjoyed the freedom. "Give me liberty. Or give me death." Right, brother? Oh, that's another thing: I was still the baby sister who was a big fan of her brother and her sister. Just the way they write!

And importantly, I was still with one of my first roommates. (*smiles*) Thanks to you, Boy! So, after all, life wasn't entirely new.

I was most serious with my schooling during my second year in college, believe me. School girl, yes! "Who's the pro?" "Yes? Anything?"

Kidding. I couldn't be any happier for myself whenever friends told me how down-to-earth I was for being able to hold back the cockalorum, keeping the big news behind my throat, and never caring to spill'em out at all. Oh dear friends, how would you know? You weren't friends with my parents. They endured all of my bragging. I drowned them in my loud ways of self-glorification and left them no option but adore their little daughter more and more. Yeah, classical conditioning, right Ivan P.? It worked for me in a way like I was a puppy always begging for bones that sound crunchy, like an audience's applause every time I took a bite. But that was all okay. I worked all that for self-fulfillment, anyway. And to make my parents happy, more than proud, was the big part of that so-called self-fulfillment.

Back in first year, I almost lost myself to Math. D*mn those numbers! And x. And y! I'd rather watch old Pinoy action movies like "Papunta Ka Pa Lang, Pabalik Na Ako" than an hour with college algebra.

(Silence)

Oh, I see! I see. I've never known what I'm allergic with. Not until now. College algebra (*scratching hand*). College algebra (*scratching right leg*). Oh, amen to that!

I hated Math because it hated me. That was my way of paying obedience to the golden rule: "Do not do unto others what you don't want others do unto you." But of course I ended up in no fair game. I had to clip up my nose while pouring out a glassful of love potion into my mouth so I'd fall for Mr. Math because I had to. Else, I'd fail ECON 11, STAT1, and my thesis. Summed up, that would be...failing my college education. So, I placed the bulk of my attention to ECON 11, and I kind of enjoyed my choice. I could only count the times I failed to review previous discussions or do advance reading before going to my ECON class. Like...one or two. Three at maximum. No, I'm not a braggart.

It often felt awkward entering a huge lecture hall where everyone was a stranger. Well, at least later on I got to talk with my groupmates in the recitation class. "Hi!" "Hello!" "Here's your part. Answer numbers 2 and 3. Then we meet up on Wednesday afternoon, after class. Alright?" And one more thing was that our professors prepared seating arrangements so I didn't have to worry and bother anyone asking if someone was sitting in this and that chair. Good enough.

Thanks to the love potion, I passed my exams in the lecture class, and my exercises in the recitation class. I thought I just made a good deal with ECON 11. At the end of the semester, guess what! I got a...2.0. Told you I'm not a braggart. With a flat 2.0? Nah, never mind. But I swear that flat 2.0 was precious, like piso to make for my jeepney fare, saving me from walking my way home. And working hard for it made me look like a pro! (*lol*)

It was a long year then. Things happened. I made a lot of new friends; a lot of new favorites including Bordo Burgers and silogs; lots and lots of sleepless nights, bad hair days, eye bags...and courage...and then -SKADOOSH!- good grades.

That year, I was able to actually see and operate an audio console. I mean, an old audio console. And it was extraordinary feeling I had after I got my 'corrected but uncorrected' DJ's spiel with a flattering combo remarks of flat 1.0 and "Very good!" on it. No, I'm not bragging my FLAT 1.0 and my "VERY GOOD!" Anyway, in that broadcasting class, we were each given an hour to air our music program. I compiled like eight Disney songs and went on air, with a medium pack of Holy Kettle Corn, until my signing off as the hour's DJ. That was a lot of fun, I swear to that old audio console! So, I thought I could join the jocks. Unluckily, when it was my turn to audition: D*mn words! Why are you guys so little? -_- C'mon, grow big, let me read you... -_-

But I just immediately got over it. I just thought it wasn't written in my fate. Perhaps. Or...

"Dear Fate,
Can I just mind my own life, and you mind yours?"

That same year, I almost auditioned for official membership in SJ or Street Jazz, a famous dance group in the university. But even sooner than my second practice session with an SJ friend, I decided not to. It would require me to stay at the Baker Hall until 10:00 PM everyday. That was a no-no. ECON 11 was my thing.

Although I didn't find myself in SJ's late night practice sessions, I caught myself at free fall, my back landing flat on my bed, shoes untied, after an extraneous warm up and an evening-long dance rehearsal for the Loyalty Day. Cramps. And cramps. And cramps. But they paid off! The rehearsals made a good stretch to my muscles and refreshed my dance moves. I regained my winning poise, which made me look like I was on high profile.

Dancing was definitely my thing!!! Despite the paralyzing cramps, the several rehearsals and the final performance during the celebration of the UPLB Loyalty Day 2007 surely took me on a high. I was there. I danced. Front line. At first, I had to repeat it to myself that I was placed at the front because I was small. But no, it wasn't that. The next thing I knew was that I had to stop my ears from flapping, 'cause I just heard the assistant DI said to our DI: I want her in front and in the middle. She's effortlessly graceful. And then, I died of liver enlargement and suffocation in flattery. (*lol*)

In December, I danced again, that time for my college's presentation in the UPLB Faculty Follies. After the program, I went out for dinner with the other performers and a few of our college instructors. At the resto, one of our college instructors was invited by his Japanese friend to his table, and not long he came back to our table with his Japanese friend next to him.

Suddenly, this Japanese man pointed at me and said: You. You. It's you! Surprisingly, I saw myself on the screen of his laptop. It was a medium shot of me during the dance performance. Surprised, I just smiled, speechless.


I'm getting lots of flashbacks now. But this is already going too long so I should cut it here. All the rest of my 2007-2008 remain in here ---> <3 (*wink*)

Running Through Chapters

Of all the characters, who are to stay...until the last page?

Cliche is that, life is like a book, running through chapters. Words written, and then they happen. Words read, and then the story seems real. But of course, life is far more exciting, without question, and with all the fun, all the pain never surreal. Just real. Where would authors take their stories from? Life, of course. Or death. Somehow.

Characters abound in books. They're elements giving life to every page while taking the readers to a breathtaking ride to the playful mind of the author. But of course, life is far more exciting, without question, as characters are countless and oftentimes...very unpredictable.

As for this book I'm reading, I'm now in a chapter where the cast is beginning to change. Just a bit. Or just a lot. I wonder what would happen to this crazy circle of girlfriends. Are they to stay until the last page? Well, maybe. Maybe not.

Kayla's from Greenville, Mandy's from Gothenburg. Oddie and Demi are both from Georgetown. Cait's from Gainesville, Kim's from Gallivare, and Farrah's from Gambell. All in all, they come from the G World, so they're called the G Girls. G World? Pfff, I mean, some places starting with G.

There's one thing common in these girls (except Demi) aside from letter G. They're in the same university - University of Pennsylvania, one of the oldest universities in America, said to be "a place to pursue knowledge beyond traditional boundaries" [1]. Besides that, they're all in UPENN's Annenberg School for Communication. Yeah, "comm" people, learning the art and science of human communication.

So what's three years compared with all those years you had with your good old friends? Count from kindergarten or prep, to high school graduation. But things change. "What matters" changes. And the matters change. Age, changed personality, changed attitude, new environment, brand new experiences, what else? Perhaps, these were some of the things that started to matter at the moment our ladies realized that all they had were each other.

Nah, that's overreacting! Of course, they had a lot of other friends besides fellow G girls. But, I suppose there was at least a reason to justify the overreacting - the candle-lit night, told in chapter 20.

The candle-lit night, as the girls called it, just happened out of the blue. It wasn't that there was power-off. They purposely switched the lights off and lit a candle, placed it at the middle of the table, where they sat around. Sat around and talk.

Whoever spilled first, I couldn't remember. The evening session went on like a peer evaluation, or a firing line. Well, it proceeded through the mechanics of CSC (constructive self-criticism) sessions. A name was called and she had to sit at the edge of the table where the candle stood. And then the firing line brought it on. Everyone had to say her say about the subject on post - likes and dislikes.

It rained smiles that night, both full and hesitant. Laughs and a lot of it. The OMG's and the bad words...and the...speechlessness were like seasonings. And of course, the drops, which tried hard not to lose grip from the crimson eyes, and which failed to do so.

Kayla was never so courageous to tell the big things about herself until she met Cait, who was never less than a confidante to everyone of them. Kayla's story was..."huge"! Huge? Yes, huge, everyone could hardly contain it. Oddie went on with the little stories of her little experiments, plus her little frustrations, if boys and love were two little things. As for Demi, she's youngest. So, she had not much to share yet, at least, about being in college and the life attached to it. Oh, but L4D!

Cait, at that time, was almost as young as Demi in terms of experience. I mean experiment. I mean...in terms of...things. But she was actually older than Demi. So, she settled at telling about her happiness and madness with the girls. Kim had a little secret too. Not that she was once a drug addict. And although Farrah wasn't there, she gave up her secret later on, during the girls' slumber party where alcohol was substitute to water.

And Mandy? Well, Mandy has to keep on reading, so she could answer that question at the top. (*smiles*)

Info:

[1] Penn University of Pennsylvania

photo: The Institute of International Studies, UC Berkeley

The Whys And The Lies

A man who doesn't have at least a "Why?" is barely aware of anything.

Now, let's run around the bush.

One day, I had to be the irony of a fine weather. I was informed of my grandfather's death. He died of old age. Perhaps. And not having to experience the devilish rage of 2012 was some sort of sweet consolation. At least, he's now safe.

Grandpa was a happy old man with a broken smile that was never so discontented despite a simple life. Or...how would I know? He loved to sing his songs of forgotten genre, songs I never heard from their original singers, never from anyone else but grandpa. He loved telling stories, both true and silly...or shtiy. And if I seemed to believe all them, he'd enjoy giggling in his chair plus a couple of those broken smiles. Well, I suppose he loved keeping me guessing what to believe in and what not to. In a way, he was a playful man who'd mock you in your face in a way so discreet you'd think it was pure joke. And then he'd give you a broken smile.

When I was younger, I mean way way younger, I used to sit next to grandpa to listen to his outdated songs, most of which were serenades; sit next to grandpa to watch him draw a buffalo standing in man's upright position, after I'd asked him to draw me a boy. I knew there was something wrong probably because it didn't look so right. But, it was grandpa.

And then, after a long ado, I'd ask my whys and then he'd tell his lies. So there I was sitting beside the old man whose best comrade happened to be a wooden cane wrapped in black rubber at its curve to keep his grip tight. I enjoyed asking him so many questions because I wanted to hear stories of his olden times, as if it was Mr. Walt Disney storytelling about the tales of the Disney World. But it was different. It was grandpa.

So many questions, I couldn't remember how many I've asked; how many why's. That curiosity of a kid, yes; that what everybody used to never run out of - "Why?" And what did I know if what I was listening to was a truth or a lie? Or did I care?

Perhaps, what mattered was that my whys made me hours of stories, needless to know whether they were true or just some products of that man's creativity...and boredom...and age?

...

Oh! But there's one story - one story that never satisfied me.

Since the time I came to understand that grandpa was suffering from a severe fracture on his limbs and knees, noticing the cane and how it worked for him, I've started to wonder what on earth happened to him. I became so observant on each of his steps, out from his room to his chair, which was always waiting for him outside the house.

One day, out of whatever, I took the courage to ask, "Lolo, why can't you walk?" (exaggerating his condition), "What happened?" And then, the story started to roll.

Grandpa said he met an accident when he was a bit younger. He said he was riding a bike down a hill when a rock took the front wheel down, throwing him off the bike and hard to and against the ground. He rolled, though. And rolled. And rolled. And yeah, maybe for one last time.

Hearing that, I recalled one of his favorite songs, which said: "Naligid, naligid...didto sa bakilid"...la la la la la. In English, this means, "(Subject) rolled and rolled...there, down the slope". Realizing that made the twist. So, was he storytelling...or retuning a song, scraping the instrumental off the piece?

Grandpa, as he was to me, was a talking puzzle. His stories, almost all were open-ended, uncategorized, their natures, I'd say, always undecided. Sometimes, I thought that he assumed that I only wanted to hear stories of "once upon a time", but no. I was a kid, yes, but I actually wanted to hear the real story of his broken knees. Or was it too painful for him to recall how it felt to have to take his fate, which took perhaps half of what happiness was left of him?

However, there are times when I couldn't help but wonder why grandpa always smiled at the narra tree standing opposite our house. Until now I wonder what kept him smiling, despite a life that he was never able to tame; a life that was almost antonymous to what some words say about it; a life that was more of a lie than a life itself.

Well, lies are born not only of words. Looks are deceiving. Beauty is convincing. A smile is...elusive. And a broken smile of a happy old man, which was by birth, a twin of a tear hanging in the corner of an eye is a question I should have asked.

Yeah, right. Perhaps, a lie is one face of a story sometimes sweeter than the raw and real. Lies hurt, back and forth. But as for grandpa, I wouldn't get mad if he'd told me sweet silly stories, never true, to get me over with my why's.

And now that he couldn't do anything about what life has to be, I wish it was all curiosity I had, not awareness so to make me ask why. I wish his broken smiles weren't some of his sweet lies. Otherwise, I'd have to desperately justify that, a man who can't "tell" at least a single lie...is out of place.

My grandpa has become Zeus

"Do you know why there are thunderstorms?...Whenever you hear thunder, it means that the dinosaurs up in the skies are fighting, throwing giant rocks at each other. That's why you hear those loud booming sounds that scare you off."

I didn't know its title. It wasn't from a storybook authored by somebody known for children's stories. But it was indeed my favorite. Yes, my favorite! It was told by my grandfather.

How I fell for the story, that I loved recalling it over and over again. How I got fond of imagining dinos becoming true, waking up, alive and angry at every drop of the loud sounds. Deafening. Earsplitting. But grandpa's story was too amazing for me to be so scared. Instead, I listened and counted, listened and smiled.

One time, it came to my interest to research on how to measure the distance of thunderstorms from the Earth's crust. And bingo! I found the answer in my favorite Grolier Q&A encyclopedia. I simply had to count seconds between thunders. If I'm not mistaken, the most frequent count (mode) would be divided into a number which I couldn't remember (either 3 or 8, I think), then the result would be in kilometers.

Of course, I did further readings on thunderstorms. That made quite a lot of information. Objective. But no scientific fact could replace my grandpa's dreamy fiction in my head. My apologies to the great Sir Benjamin Franklin.

Perhaps because that sweet silly story had settled at a place far safer than my head. Perhaps it went along with its storyteller.

Today, grandpa concluded his lifetime of 'earthy' experience. What could he have said about it? I wonder. I wish he was able to write it down. Doubt that. He would rather write three digits.

That story I love the most, it's not going to die with its storyteller, as the skies won't run out of thunderstorms. That story of the thunderstorm and the dinosaurs, it remains as the lifeline between my childhood and my present, and my childhood and my future. After all, what's so bad with being fixated to my childhood through a sweet silly story?

It's never really so sad. As long as I can hear thunder, I'd know grandpa's never too far, just a few kilometers away from the Earth's crust.

How I'd love to imagine that my grandpa has become Zeus! It's crazy. But isn't it cute? (*big smile*)

To my favorite storyteller, bon voyage, happy old man!

photo: clipartpal

"Nangangapa"

8 x 12 " (20 x 30 cm)

Acrylic

First attempt on canvas...

A gift for my sister on her 25th birthday!

You have a gift from heaven: Ash

What could be better than a birthday made sacred? March 09. Wednesday. Birthday.

Ash Wednesday. It's the first day in the season of Lent. As found in the earliest copies of the Gregorian Sacramentary probably as old as the 8th century, Ash Wednesday was originally called dies cinerum or "day of ashes". In ancient practice, people bathed in ashes and dressed themselves in sackcloth, a very rough material though. The essence of the outer manifestation was to signify inner repentance and mourning. The celebration is universal in most of Christendom, including Catholics, Lutherans, Methodists, Presbyterians, and Anglicans.

For that, Ash Wednesday is a solemn matter and to talk about it all throughout this post, having to mention "repentance" "repentance" "repentance" "repentance" "repentance" "repent" "repent" "repent" "repent" "repent"...is to kill a birthday celebrant. (*lol*)

Today is March 09, not March 08; and "blogger" it's for you to correct your dates. It's my friend's birthday!

Say hello to aging, Kathleen Kamus! I'm right next. Or not.

To tell much about Kat is to tire myself. She's 23!

Alright, "para sa pagkakaibigan". (*lol*)

That we only need two things in this life: hydrogen and stupidity. I believe this "hypothesis"(which sounds somehow true and practical, at least for me) for a conversation which runs between me and Kat; between us and our cups of coffee; between ends of a story of stupidity.

But what's stupidity if it's now just a story we can laugh at? Time died, we never cared about it. We kept talking, debating, agreeing, blaming, praising, laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing and laughing. This is default. Oh, happy friends! And I just laughed at the thought that we never tire of telling the same stories again and again. Goodness gracious!

One thing I love about being with Kat - that I don't have to keep searching for words to defend my side because it's either she understands, without me having to explain, or I don't have to make an effort to defend because she decides that I'm wrong. And we laugh. And then we take a sip of coffee. This is a usual plot.

Another - she cares...in so many different ways. And if I'd have to pick a word for Kat, it's "true". She tells you when you look sort of or very outlandish; when you already look like a mad witch with your unshaved brows; when it seems your feet have had too much of sunbathing; when you're losing your figure to fatness (*ehm*) and all else. And this she can't miss: she tells you when you're stupid.

So what's with Ash Wednesday that blesses my friend's birthday? Well, I leave it at that. It's for my friend to tell...or write.

Here's to our favorite elements, hydrogen and stupidity! You'll always be my stupid friend and you know that. (*lol*)

I LOVE YOU!

From DewBerry with love

Information on Ash Wednesday: Dr. Richard P. Bucher, The History and Meaning of Ash Wednesday

Trial and Error

"Thumb Dance"

"The Midnight Trail"

Thanks to DA: deviantART.

The Poker Face @ 21

The minute we were born, a curse awaited to escort us while we made our exit from the womb and out to the world. It was the curse of age, of aging, of growing old.

But a curse might not be forever a curse. Aging is a threat to all of us, especially to those who hate wrinkles a lot.

But when life grows more and more beautiful at every turn of the pages, aging becomes a moment of blossoming; age becomes a gift.

I know I'm not alone at claiming a beautiful life. Many people do have wonderful lives, and we call it "wonderful" from our own different perspectives.

And as much as I believe that mine is so wonderful, I know there are much reasons to believe so. God. Family. Friends. And a lot more.

Friends, random people you meet at random places and time...in random circumstances. You wouldn't even care at first who are to stay, who are to leave. Until, for random reasons you couldn't not care. You learn to love them without doubt of the future, without fear, without hesitation, without anything withheld. 'Cause in the very first place, you wouldn't even notice that you're beginning to care.

Princess Fatima. Call her "Faye". Well, "fayetot" (at times). She was one of these once-random people I met, and now I'm afraid I couldn't remember how we first met. Forgive. (*lol*)

It's always her strength...that's not even a bit obvious at the sight of her poker face. I mean happy face. (*lol* I love you Fayetot!) Just you wait until she spills the stories, and then you have forever to wait for your turn. That's alright, you can laugh with her anyway...or LAUGH AT her. (*hahaha*)

Laugh at her for being "supremely" talkative. Laugh at her funny expressions. Laugh at her corny jokes, you couldn't follow at times. ( :P ) Laugh at her fat cheeks (I love you!!! :D ) Laugh at her panicky moments, at her violent reactions, and...sometimes, just sometimes, at her being speechless and clueless. And often, she just didn't hear it and then expect a funny poker face of a stereotype librarian. (*lol*)

Seriously now.

To Faye: A lot have changed, we all know that. The Ramos apartment was "a big thing". But for sure, we have more than what it takes to keep a lasting friendship. Or at least we believe so (*hahaha*).

Now, as you turn over to page 21, what do we know of what could happen next? We're only characters in this book that we never wrote. Only The Author knows. Least of all, we can wish. But most of all, we can pray.

My gift for you is neither solid, nor liquid, nor gas. *Tentenenen!* And oh, it's a secret: for me to keep, for you to find out within a period of a lifetime.

From DewBerry with love.

(NOTE: Today is February 23, 2011.)