Few Words For A Friend

For in the end, all that would remain are questions you force yourself to believe have been answered. But not really.

All there is to see would be your smile you force to pull far sideways.
All there is to hear would be your laugh that would never last, unless painstakingly.
All there is to realize now is that you must keep going, whether you run, you walk, or you crawl, no matter how shattered.
Because all you have is a one-way ticket you must waste not.

So, my friend, keep moving. Move on. It's the sanest, most reasonable choice you could make. Forget about everything else, save yourself. Just yourself. For in one time or another, you have to be selfish to be selfless to yourself.

But all you have are questions you force yourself to believe have been answered. Leave them be, you don't have to answer them all, save two: What do I need? What do I want?

Think of just yourself. It's how you move on, even if it feels almost impossible or unbearable. You've got to save your sanity because it's the only thing that matters in the end, after a long way through a consciously-tolerated stupidity. And in the end, it's sanity you'll need to pull yourself back together and give yourself what you deserve.

It' okay. Take your time, and let time take its toll. After all, moving on just too quickly is a drama not worth celebrating. :)

Minus The Plans: Love and Its Whereabouts (1)

Okay, he was right, hehe. We should've checked in at that hotel called The Villas, some two kilometers from the ridge where we stopped for coffee at Starbucks. Then we could've just sinfully indulged ourselves in a relaxing unplanned overnight.

There's no point in fretting now, I know. But it's fun to fret over things really that bad, hehe.

One fine March afternoon, things were a little too 'candid', and I mean spontaneous. It started with me making a not-so-good decision for something which turned out really great after all; and my boyfriend in the mood for some kind of adventure.

We left home at four o'clock in the afternoon when the heat was still a bit scorching. The traffic was heavy right from the start, but we headed out anyway...to someplace we had barely decided. After snaking through a long traffic on his sporty scooter, while trying to figure out at which crossroad were we supposed to turn left, we managed to find Balibago Road and drove fast to Paseo de Sta. Rosa. So it was our first stop where we found not much to do but use the toilet, aside from paying the parking fee. But the walk around was relaxing anyway.

Paseo de Sta. Rosa

Then we moved to Solenad in Nuvali. I loved the landscape, not to mention the ambiance of the square. It was clean, quiet, and decent, just the way I liked it. We took a short walk along the gold-lit pathways lined with generously flowering bougainvillea. I would say there were only a few resto choices in Solenad 1. The good thing was we made the right choice with Kanin Get It!

Kanin Get It! @ Solenad 1, Nuvali

Amen to good food! I had Arroz Ala Cubana in a bowl, and my boyfriend had a sizzling plate of Beef Saplicao. And of course, tall glasses of lemonade for both of us. Indeed, great food yet so affordable at only 150 Php.

Arroz Ala Cubana by Kanin Get It!

Sizzling Beef Salpicao by Kanin Get It!

After dinner, my boyfriend asked if I wanted to sit over a cup of coffee. Oh boy, when did I ever say no to my kind of drug? (hehe) We took another round of strolling perhaps to find a coffee shop. There was Starbucks, and if there were others, that I couldn't remember.

At one point, we were at the confusion of where to find ourselves some coffee, and then only to find out that we've headed out to someplace even farther - Tagaytay!

The scooter ride was fun, scary, liberating, ecstatic, all at the same time! Hmmm...simply put, it was like...

"love on the road!" ;)

@ Solenad 1, Nuvali, Sta. Rosa

P.S. And as to why I was fretting at the start, this story will be continued. Heeee :)

Cello: A New-found Love

One time during my break at work, I was researching about the cello for a reason I could barely recall. Perhaps, it was for...something. Right, I could barely recall.

I found this music video of Steven Sharp Nelson's cello concierto (an orchestral cover) on one of One Republic's hit pieces, Secrets. Then I just fell for the music, period. There started my addiction to the bass sound of the musical instrument. I suddenly missed music and those days when I was deadly in love with it; those days I now want to relive.

Then I switched to daydreaming - me in a white silk gown, playing the cello under the midnight moon. Isn't that...overly dramatic? Ugh. Or did I just describe Keri Russell in August Rush? More like that.

But that must be beautiful! Surely as beautiful as the music videos' introductory quote from Beethoven himself:

"Don't only practice art, but force your way to its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the divine."

And as dazed as I was, and for the love of the cello, I say:

"Loving is much like playing the cello. Only when you play it by heart that you get to hear the music it can make."

The Synonyms of Exploration (Sex and other drugs)

One cooling puff from a slim elegant stick of vogue, and then the story begins.

Bring out the beer! That miracle. It wasn’t coincidence that a piece of bread was left out in the rain, and then there was malt. And today, countries savor the pleasure of ice-cold bubble-topped beer, of how many brands, that I don’t know. The Germans loved it one gulp ahead of the rest of the world.

Talk about life, growth, change and the way to it – exploration.

The American Heritage Dictionary® of the English Language, via The Free Online Dictionary defines exploration as “the act or an instance of exploring”. That makes sense; that one called common sense. That’s one thing I hate about dictionaries.

Adventure, analysis, domiciliary visit, dragnet, emprise, enquiry, examination, expedition, forage, frisk, house-search, hunt, hunting, inquiry, inspection, investigation, mission, observation, perquisition, pilgrimage, posse, probe, quest, ransacking, recce, recon, reconnaissance, reconnoiter, reconnoitering, research, review, rummage, scouting, scrutiny, search-and-destroy operation, search, search party, search warrant, searching, stalk, stalking, still hunt, study, survey, turning over.

Did you read all them? I didn’t. I think I just counted. Forty-five synonyms of exploration from freethesaurus.net. And just by looking at them, I can say a lot, but not more than half, are new to me. But that couldn’t make anyone less of a blogger, right?

It amazes me that forty-five words couldn’t explain ‘the word’ in its deepest "social" sense. Or perhaps it’s how subjective each and every word could be.

Trial. This is the word I want to add to the synonyms of exploration. Try, the root word. And it was for this word that I began to notice the inaudible meaning of exploration. As a kid who grew so fond of Astronomy, exploration only meant ‘space exploration’ to me. Until I lost count of the times I’ve heard the line, Try mo lang. And not so long later, I heard it from myself. Then I realized that the meaning was vulgar, only that I had to experience it myself, not only hearing from NASA’s updates; only that I had to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right people; only that I had to decide to give it a “Try”.

Because ignorance is a crime, and so is innocence, in a way or two. If you haven’t experienced, if you haven’t tried, if you haven’t explored, ignorance is synonymous to innocence. But when the right time has come and you don’t decide to try, you are ignorant more than innocent.

But curiosity is danger lurking behind the grandeur of making wisdom; behind the excitement of gaining experience. Curiosity is seductive, beautiful and lustful in a way anyone could barely refuse. And you just caught the word ‘lustful’. Definitely, curiosity ain’t just about sex. It could be sex and other drugs. But of course, there’s even more, like space exploration: if in case you got curious about how long can Earth stand still. That’s curiosity. And then you can watch 2012 again, and think.

Space exploration, that’s one; and the other forty-five synonyms of exploration are all formal, serious,…and boring.

What if exploration means one stick, one puff; one gulp, one glass down; one touch, one kiss, one night of carefree fun, one day of regret; one change either for good or for a day, would you give it a “Try”?

Why not? Or why not think about it?

Someone Just Stole A Kiss!

It's when they are not expected [to happen] that things turn out sweet, maybe sweeter. People love surprises, that's it.

I'm not so into surprises. I may love the thought of being surprised but I don't always find surprises...surprising. Not that I'm mean or rude; not that I'm ungrateful. I just don't always have the right kind of nerve to take in surprises.

But there are exemptions, especially for those little ones I want to call "snap shots". I mean those things that actually happened in utmost three seconds, at which you suddenly wanted time to freeze.

Snap shots like this:

In the car, on the way to the bus station, a girl seated to my left leaned on my left arm. Looking too tired, I let her. And then she stuck her face behind my arm like she was smelling my armpit. I looked at her. She straightened up and looked away.

Me: Why are you smelling my armpit? Do I smell bad now?

Girl: No, you don't smell bad. You smell good.

When I wasn't looking at her anymore, she leaned again on me, shyly rested her right hand on my left arm, and smelled me once more.

Me: Are you okay?

Girl: Yeah.

Then she kissed my arm, bowed her head and looked away. She looked so shy, so I kissed her head.

Me: Thank you.

Girl: You're welcome.

Then, I turned to my boyfriend, seated to my right.

Me: Sweet little girl, I have here.

He smiled.

It's when they are not expected when things turn out sweet. It's when they happen quietly and spontaneously, without plans and preparations, that things become really surprising.


And it's when they happen without so much said - as if a child wanting to say or do something but to shy, too nervous to begin with her intention - that things become truly sweet surprises. Sweet snap shots, like my boyfriend's little sister's stolen kiss.

The sweet little girl who stole a kiss, with her big brother. :)

Keepsakes From Our First Hellos

As for my first visit, I got these sweet little keepsakes from two sweet little girls.

A paper purse from Maya, and popsicle stick bookmarks from Ava.

Sunday afternoon was all about playing, chitchatting, and of course, eating.

Turned out I had two new little friends.

I remember a few lines from Ava:

"Maya, don't be shy. She's a friend."

"Oh, you're good at drawing!"

"Are you leaving now?" "No, not yet." "Yaaay!"

"Mickey, can you bring Ate Myles again?"

Later, on the way to the bus station, I asked little Ava:

"D'you wanna keep these (the paper purse and the bookmarks)?"

"You can have'm. When you see them, you'll remember me and Maya."
"Alright." (smiles)

Sweet words make a lovely day! :)

Not fresh. And not so ordinary.

It was a lovely day to begin with. Flowers bloomed at the tickle of soft rainshower, their colors bathing in raindrops and sunbeams. It seemed not so ordinary, but not necessarily extraordinary, with a long line of flower stalls snaking down the grove. If it wasn't the girl carrying a bouquet of reds or whites and colors, it was the guy seeming to not know how to bring the flowers in such a way that no one would notice as if anyone would care.

Oh, right! It was February 14. You know. Lovely day.

Somehow, I knew the day would also be special for me because I had been told; no need to be surprised. But I wasn't up to dressing up like I was to celebrate with everyone else. I put on a plain white shirt, a pair of micro-mini shorts, and red sneakers, which came along with a carefree mood, unmindful how Valentine's Day would go and end.

The day had been planned anyway: we would have to spend it together, period. The details rested in the hands of spontaneity.

But I had to admit that one moment of surprise. He brought flowers for me: four reds, one yellow, all in a basket decorated with three little whites. All made of paper. Origami.

At first, my mind was like, "Flowers? On Valentine's Day? For me? Peculiar." I'm never used to it because I'd never wished for one, because I find the scenario too common, or somehow compulsory. So again I was like, "How do I handle this?"

"How do I handle this sweet piece of art from this man who looks totally masculine with his cigar, and who tries to be a little sweet without having to do so?"... "Stick to the status quo." So all I managed was a "Thank you." And a hug. And a smile that was trying hard to shut that bubbly mind up. Yeah, I heard everything I had to say...in my mind. He didn't have to know. After all, he knows now.

He'd said enough with his artwork, even without the note that was supposed to stick on the other wing of the paper basket: It's not a matter of quantity. It's about the quality of time we spend together. Or something like that though.

Indeed, a surprise happened because I wasn't prepared for that he-got-me-flowers part, and that made my day a threesome of kind: strange, sweet, and special.

And the "flowers"? Not fresh. And not so ordinary. Just the way I like it.

Sidebar: My favorite part of the day was when he asked me to choose what flowers for his baby sister's bouquet. I made a triple-tone of lavender, pale gold, and white Malaysian mumps. And without a card or a note, but a little prayer, "Hope she likes it."

What A Girl Wants

More than fashion and everything I need to state it; other than a girls circle to count on, I want someone I can trust.

Because I want to tell some crazy little stories about my not-so-short life. The troubles and how I laughed at them; the joys and how I cried for them.

I want to share what I've learned from watching people, friends and strangers, and while things, small and big, happen in their lives and make up their faces. And I want to share what I believe in. Some sane, some silly - things I say about almost everything I see. I want to share how I do things. This way, that way, and the details for some.

Crazy little stories, life lessons, and personal beliefs may not be too much to worry about. But truth of the matter is they will last and grow in amount as long as life can go. I want to share how things were with me, how things are, and how they'll be.

So I want someone I can trust. Someone with whom I can be the way I am, as he is to me, without having to put stories into words, so fabricated. Because 'trusting' ain't just about storytelling and listening...or sharing secrets that are supposed to be kept until they're secrets no more. It's rather about making stories, life stories.

Well, I don't always see the point of trusting, but I realize the point of loving when I start to trust. That's cliche, but unfortunately, not everyone knows it. And not everyone believes it because that's one good cliche on love. People rather say, "You be careful." But I've passed judgment, and now I'm rather careless as if it's needless to keep what I had to learn. In the very first place, what is there to mind? I have who I want, and Amen to that.

One time he asked me, "Bakit ka naniniwala sa'kin?" Simple, "Kasi gusto ko."

Yes, it's what I want.

*I don't speak for all girls, but at least for my kind and for whoever agrees with me. And I'm only a little bit typical.

Boys, Girls, and Chances

Not in all, but undeniably in most relationships, there's this chunk of time called period of infidelity - a word, which literally sounds beautiful, but whose meaning's never been in any way pleasing. It's been there like a curse cast to bring love to damnation. Amen to this scary intangible thing, yes. It could rob anyone of his or her faith, trust, love, and innocence.

Yet, something must have been left to make people reconsider, forgive, and forget like nothing happened. And there are three possibilities as to what happens next.

First, there must be a reason to save the relationship. Second, there would be a way to save the relationship. Third, there could be a chance to save the relationship.

A chance, there could be. Or two. Or three. The fourth would be what enormous effort...and risk. Suicide, they call it.

I'm no pure feminist but let me lay the limelight on my gender, and on the more common situation. If for example, a boy cheats on a girl, what could chances mean?

• If the girl considers a third chance after having been cheated for the second time, she is crazy for the boy. For cases like this, I force myself to believe in this "crazy little thing called love" or this "crazy, stupid love". But no, it's not about the last word. A third chance is just crazy...and stupid.
• If she considers a second chance after being cheated once, she loves the boy. Maybe she believes in second chances, and in "love is sweeter the second time around", and in "one more chance". It's crazy. Okay, not that stupid.
• If she doesn't consider a chance, she loves herself. It ain't crazy; ain't stupid. Just an unforgiving sanity.

Simply something like that. So how many chances would you spare?

Step 1: Wordplay

Because there are things not even your smarts could understand. Not without a pen and a paper, or a screen and a keyboard. Not without the wordplay.

There are times when you want to elaborate, but you couldn't without the wordplay. And there are times when you want to feel for everyone and everything, but only if you've done the wordplay.

Not with your friends, nor your best friend. Not even with someone special. Because you just want to do the repartee and the punning with yourself; because there's this language only you yourself understand.

Then, you find a pen and a paper...or your diary. Or log into a blog account. Scribble. Doodle. Tickle the keys.

It's not that you don't want to talk with other people, and share. It's not that you're too private a person. Well, it could be.

I don't know.

As for me, I write because there are things I don't understand. I write because I want to understand. And the first step to it (as I believe so) is "simply" talking to myself. Simply, the wordplay.

"You happy? Yeah, scary. Scary? You know, happy beginnings. They're cliches. So what? D'you really have to care about how you started? People say... Ain't about what they say. Right. So, you love him? Next question. Whaaat? Not now, please. Besides, do you really need to ask that? Yes. No, you don't. Oh, yes, you love him now. Be careful what you believe in, baby. I might believe so too."

Forbidden Note

I'm happy, and I know why.

And yes, I know it's cliche for a start, but this is too real, too guiltless to be denied. I'm yet another love-crazed human being, again engaged into believing all the wonders of this something amazing. Maybe it's scary but it's worth the tell. And it's worth all the smiles I can wear.

Fate is not mine to decide on. Not ours. But as someone who praises the stories of time, I'll let time tell...and just live at the moment. Live at the moment, unmindful of what's next, and like nothing has to end.

Because nothing has to end, if you believe so, too. But I'm not asking for forever, because it might not be enough in the first place.

But if you stay, then I'll thank God every day.

U-Turn

I was driving along the highway, one like EDSA yet a little more organized but not any more peaceful. Perhaps I was in real hurry, there was no time to care about speed-check road cameras, and I was fast enough at 120 kph. Did I worry about time? Or about my life? Or about meeting an accident with another reckless driver? I didn't know. Whatever was on my mind, it was certainly uncertain.

I was driving. Straight. Fast. Safe. Perhaps.

Then. A stare from a pair of small brown eyes, both quiet and playful, new and familiar, serene and loud. And maybe I smiled at them. Maybe.

I heard wheels screeching. In the right rear-view mirror, a dark gray sports car was dashing behind me. Although the highway was busy, the gray car was too much in a hurry to slow down. Was it chasing after me? Or did I even bother to care?

There. I was alone on the rooftop with this stranger, who seemed to have known me long, or too well. What was with my eyes, my neck, my hands; with my skin; with my kind of fashion? And how come I felt safe in the way this stranger brushed my hair with his fingers?

The gray car was right behind me, and then, next to me on my right. Then, at one quick steer, it veered to the left banging against my black, pushing my direction to the left and around, exactly at a U-turn slot.

All at once, my vision was a blur, my thoughts was a syntax error. That reckless driver took me on a U-turn with him, whether I wanted it or not. And now that I'm driving back to an old direction...

The next thing I know: I'm loving the way this stranger plays the guitar, the way his small brown eyes look at me, and the way he made such a little accident of driving me to a U-turn.

The next thing I'm wishing for: May the accident be meant.

Sinulog in Cebu

Drumbeats fill the air. Colors paint the city. Dancers and drummers flood the city streets. Prayers rise with the smoke from the candle flames. A million smiles bloom everywhere. Viva Pit Señor! Sinulog is here.

Usually on the third Sunday of January every year, Cebu extravagantly celebrates its grandest festival, Sinulog. It is a day-long celebration famous for its showcase of Sinulog dances and chants. For years now, the grandeur of the Sinulog festival has caught the attention of many other countries around the world. People from all other continents visit Cebu City not only to watch the performances, but more importantly, to experience Sinulog itself.

Sinulog is celebrated in honor of Cebu’s patron, Señor Sto. Niño, the Holy Child. All the dancing, the singing, chanting and praising are dedicated to the Sto. Niño. History has it that the Sto. Niño was a baptismal gift from Spain handed by Magellan to Hara Amihan, later named Queen Juana. Centuries past, a huge fire destroyed the building that housed the Sto. Niño. Everything was burned down to ashes, save for the statue of the Sto. Niño, whose face was burned black but whose clothes and cape remained untouched by fire. The name of the festival—Sinulog—was derived from the word “sinunog” which means “burned” and refers to the blackened face of the Sto. Niño.

It was for that miracle that Queen Juana’s Sto. Niño statue became sacred and holy. People started believing in the divinity of the Sto. Niño. From then on, the devotion to the Holy Child has grown so fast that Cebu suddenly became an island of the Sto. Niño’s devotees. 

Today, however, the popularity of the Sinulog festival has been accounted more for its cultural relevance than its story of religion and history. It is now rather associated with dancing to the drumbeats and colorful costumes, chants, and, “Viva Pit Señor!” Not everyone might have known the miracle—less remembered may be—but the devotion to the Sto. Niño, the Holy Child, remains the unifying reason why Cebuanos celebrate Sinulog such that it seems to be a royal tradition ever to be celebrated and lived by.

On the day of Sinulog, city roads are closed. Cars, buses, trucks, tricycles and other public vehicles are replaced with a long snaking crowd of dancers and drummers dressed in full-colored costumes. These costumes widely vary from the Spanish-inspired Filipiniana and baro’t saya to the native’s bahag and tapis. Headdresses can be crowns of flowers, embroidered bonnets, head-fitted pearl shapkas, or a crown of feathers arranged like a peacock’s tail. Some dancers wear elegant shoes, some slip on colorful flip-flops, and some dance along the city streets barefooted. Props differ from one contingent to another, respective of the specialty products of their provinces. There are dancers carrying baskets and bouquets of flowers, colorful hankies, umbrellas and fans, candles tied with ribbons, and palmeras. Others bring colorful brooms, bilao painted with flowers or letters from VIVA PIT SEÑOR, fish nets, bangka and paddles, bamboo poles and more other products of the Philippine provinces.

There is also a long parade of van and truck-driven floats featuring the livelihood of the provinces, the functions of government units and NGO’s, or the products of companies and industries. Local and national government officials, and local and international celebrities can be seen waving their hellos from the lavishly decorated floats.

From dawn to midnight, the swarm of people, locals and foreigners wearing Sinulog t-shirts, is endless. The day of Sinulog is, in fact, a traffic-free day because people walk the streets, cars left parked at home. It is customary that people visit the Basilica de Sto. Niño, the church where the miraculous statue of the Holy Child is safely housed. People light candles, some fly balloons, to go up alongside their prayers.

Once ready to hit the crazy streets, people hurry over to the small stalls where they get their arms tattooed, their hands, necks and ankles drawn with henna art, and their faces painted with colorful stripes. While others, who don’t have extra pennies, run to their dirty kitchen, grab a piece of charcoal to paint their faces black like “sinunog”. The blackening is inevitable anyway. Unless it is raining, no one escapes the torrid kiss of the tropical sun.

Even before midday, the Cebu Sports Complex is already jam-packed with a huge noisy crowd of spectators. People usually bring their lunch and dinner packs to the main event’s venue so to never lose their spaces amidst the busy swarm. One important reminder is to have mobile phones fully charged and loaded. And then pray for network signal. Forget about your mp3 playlist, or else, you miss more than half of the fun!

Once the main event’s hosts call for a start, the rest of the day is going to be an endless debate between the drums and the thunderous cheering of the crowd. Contingents run to the big stage, dance to the foot-stomping drumbeat, do their dramatized chants all with grace, sing their praises while giving birth to countless smiles. Somewhere in every dance performance, the huge audience sings with the performers, “Sinulog! HA! Mo-siyagit ug kusog, HA! Pit Señor! Pit Señor! Kitang tanan mag-saulog!” And the singing never stops.

And in every Sinulog dance performed by each and every contingent, it is almost automatic that people’s eyes find their way to the lead dancer, the one carrying the main character of the festival. Because Sinulog is not only about the fun from the dancing, the singing, or the colorful costumes and the deafening beat of the drums. The hearts of the devotees always search for the Holy Child, the Sto. Niño, amidst the busy dancing and the loud singing, amidst the graceful praise.

The day ends with fireworks bursting high up in the midnight sky alongside the booming of Sinulog songs in quadro speakers. But the singing goes on, the three words of the day remain: VIVA PIT SEÑOR!

Photo courtesy:

http://scribbledlines.com/?p=344

http://www.facecebu.net/2010/12/sinulog-festival-2011.html

http://www.certified-cebu.com/the-grand-sinulog-festival-of-cebu.html