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

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