SFC-WagaSSS: Because You Guys Are Worth Waaaaay More Than This Blog Entry :)

Hi there. I'm a newbie. I was a fresh CLP grad last August. My attendance wasn't perfect but I managed to get 76.92% of the talks complete. I'm not an active participant but I promise I listened and took to heart what all the speakers and sharers said. Hi. My name is Ayn. And for 4 months, I've been a proud SFC-WagaSSS member.

This year has been a tough ride for me, and up to now I don't exactly remember how the Universe conspired on my joining the community. My work is pure harassment. Not literally, of course. I have client meetings every Friday, for which I have to prepare for operational reports every Thursday night. Out of the 7 days in the week, there's just 14.29% chance that the CLP day's gonna fall on a Thursday. But it did. Great. Oh and by the way, a couple of weeks ago, they moved the client meeting to a Thursday instead. Even greater. :)

So it was a struggle for me to make it by 7:30pm then. I'm a humble commuter, by the way, so I have to compute much, much time (and effort) from Commonwealth to Marikina. But it's just how great God can bring things together, and every Thursday night was a miracle. I might have missed three, but still managed to get out of the CLP alive --- and nourished. :) And for months, thus far, I can pretty say things have changed, or rather, the community has helped me a big, big lot to change the way I see things now. Work is more stressful, but I guess it's the perspective with how you influenced me that made all the difference. And by the way, now I understand why our opening prayer usually starts with "Thank You for fixing our schedules." It's always a miracle indeed.

I know I owe God this great blessing of making me part of this community, and I most definitely am grateful to all of you for being His instrument. So to Ate Ecel, Kuya Jerome, Bro Owen, Ate Den-Den, Ate Tina, Kuya Paul, Ate Jelly, Kuya Migs, Ate Patti, Kuya Ronj, Ate Kim, Ate Rizza, Khaye, (Ate) Cheska, Kuya Remus, Kuya Vitus, Em, Emjay, Marjay, Ate Mich, Ate Anj, Ate Ciela, Ate JC, Ate Milan, Aira, Abi, Jojo, Annie, Rose, Lil, Justine, Cookie, Ate Jen, Ate Rose, Dhin-Dhin, Fem, Blue, Regina, Jackie, Ritchell, Harvey, Jay, and to all the WagaSSS Warriors I have yet to meet: thank you for welcoming me and making me part of this incredibly awesome community of believers. And thank you too for the LSS of worship songs that lasts until, uhhh, the next worship.

But as you said (or warned), this is not at all meant to create a perfect life out of us. To be honest, I've dealt with more problems when I joined the community, kamoteh! LOL. But that doesn't at all make me any jaded. I am unfazed. I love it here because I don't have to be any one, or to compete with anybody just to be someone. I have nothing but His grace. I carry nothing but our mission. :)

Someone shared to me that the Church is a hospital of sinners. I agree, and in our own unique ways we continue to seek for healing and change in the different areas of our lives as servants of God and as citizens of this country. Let's welcome healing and change all together as sisters and brothers. Having said that much now, here's to what has been a great year and an even greater and blessed year ahead. :D

OF ASTERISKS AND ALL THOSE SH*T WE USE TO CENSOR FOUL LANGUAGE

With 62 characters, that's the longest title I've ever put in for a blog entry. And 1.61% of those characters most probably caused some eyebrows raised on me when they saw it sandwiched between S, H, and T. --- that one lovely asterisk.

The social network generation was graced with the privilege to be able to express in an unbelievable speed today those thoughts that bother their curious minds, and the feelings entailed with the everyday experiences of their fast-paced lives. Facebook and Twitter are the best (abused) venues. And oh yeah with my weekend FB check I can see no less than a dozen censored status updates full of @, #, $, %, &, *, and all those characters I can display by pressing Shift + any number. Add to them the famous spelling twists just to make the bad words appear less harmful, but a little bit more conyo --- gagee, effin', demmet, wtf, bee-atch, and all other what-have-yous. 

So what about the use of foul language does people make them feel or think they look cool? I couldn't answer either, but I believe it's not the language that mattered in a particular instance when you feel so strongly about something, but the emotion per se. The words just follow, words that might have been an influence from a generation ahead or a simple product of our environment. And because we are aware that what we say or post can actually offend someone one way or the other, we censor those "generally not acceptable words."

Censorship. Ah, the beauty of it all. That other unfathomable side of language, that side most people would not dare get to the abyss of. But there's one thing about censoring your bad words that I don't exactly get. If you rather think it can offend someone, why use foul language in the first place? Sounding cool isn't exactly cool, if how you want to achieve it is by simply copying how other people from other cultures talk. And censoring them isn't cool either --- that's cowardice. If you want to say bad words, stand up to your expressions, freak.

I'm not a clean slate after all, and there are times I'd really, really like to at least write them just to express a bad feeling. But influence is a huge part of our expressions. From the time I joined the SFC community I can say I managed to cut a huge part of bad language, because I simply don't hear it from my sistahs and brothas. Although my frequent use of "freak" has yet to be addressed. Feelings are part of our being human, but how we express them is actually a challenge to prove we are indeed human beings, raised with breed and intellect. 

Influence someone today. If you've heard or seen one censored bad language, just do your part and give them a slap on the face. #

theage.com.au

28, YARDLINE!

A month ago, one of my most important life projects just ended with a failure. If you can recall from one of my entries last may titled "Six Months to Live," I told you it was actually my dream to die at age 24. But I successfully stepped through the line, celebrated my 25th birthday with amazing people, and still, I'm alive at this point. Wounded but not dying. Scarred but not dead. Emo, haha.

So since that project has long ceased, I was thinking what next gimmick to pull-off. I honestly still believe it's cool to die young. I'm now 25. So if we do some integral calculations in relation to the inexplicable biological sensation we call 'gut feel', where

I arrived at the conclusion that my new target is... ja-ran! Twenty-eight. Wala lang. Feeling ko lang kasi 29 is too old to die, and within three years I can still die with a Masteral degree if I decide to do it full time. Astig sa derivation di ba? :)

Alright, for people who are taking my words literally, cut the crap. What I'm trying to say is, you really never, never know. So do what you love doing NOW, freaks! Okay, I was talking to myself there. But you get the point. I know I don't have stupid readers. Sooo, let's just talk about this again three years from now, shall we. If I cross the line once more, I'd probably owe you a doctoral degree or a writing stint in NYT the next time. Haha. :D

LIFE IS A FAIR TRADE

This year has been crazy, and I know a lot of people will definitely agree. From national news to the most personal hullabaloos, I know all of us has had a really tough ride in 2012. So before every blogger posts their year-end thingamajig, I'd like to take a foot forward and say my piece. I won't say much, don't worry.

I'll just bore the heck out of you if I say so much cuentos so let me try to get it pretty straight this time. If you're going to ask me the most important thing I learned this year and say it in 5 words, all I have to tell you is, life is a fair trade, and there are three things why.

1. You have to pay for what you want to get --- They say the best things in life are free. True, but those are for abstract happy feelings you'd never want to miss out on especially when you know you're not getting any younger. But the fact is, hardwork (sometimes) is everything. When I get to hear stories of struggle and pain from people, I never fail to tell them how much I envy their experience. Not for being a masochist, of course, but because these bad moments have become their springboards for success. There's not any instant formula to any achievement. It entails sacrifice. It will always ask from you a good price.

2. You have to negotiate for the best deals --- You can't have the best of both worlds, or, you can't serve two masters. We live in an era when we want to do just about everything our brains can think of, and there are very thin demarcation lines today when we talk about certain aspects of our lives. But the truth is, we have to choose most of the time. Grabbing the opportunity is one, but commitment to your craft is another.

3. No return, no exchange --- When we arrive at a decision, there's simply no room for regret. Impossible sometimes as it may seem, you just have to keep on, keep up, and remember that this path is what you have chosen and you have to stand by it no matter what. Again, no matter what. That's why any decision we must make should have been well thought of, well-discerned, and well prayed for. But know, too, that decision-making is one, but setting your expectations is another.

So you be the judge if life indeed's a fair trade. What do you think? I'd love to hear from you. :D

fairtradesource.org

HIATUS

And that's quite literal. The author will be inactive for quite a while (well, that's just from the time you finish reading this 'til November 18th) to give way to a very important project. So please pray for (and bear with) me. Gracias, amigas. :D

Indie-writer

(TODAY IS) NOT ONE OF THOSE DAYS

There are days when nothing's going right --- when everything I do is a mess, and no matter how hard I keep up, things will find its own way to be wrong. As if it's alive. At least for that day.

But today, it's not one of those days.

There are days when I'm self-absorbed. --- when I'm firm that no one else's needs will ever be more important than mine. Days when I think my dreams are bigger than anybody else's.

But today, it's not one of those days.

There are days when I want to give up --- when I realize my own targets were unrealistically set and despair eats me up. I spend the rest of that day in my lonely little corner where neither music nor sunlight can make me feel better.

But today, it's not one of those days.

Because I chose this day to not be any of those days.

I chose to believe that there's always a Sunday at the end of the week.

I chose to accept that I am one with the world and I am not an island.

I chose to go on, to cut hopelessness and appreciate the little things I have.

I chose to trust. To love. To laugh. To live.

And there's not a simpler (or better) indicator to go on living than the fact that I was blessed to have woken up to another morning of this life. 

Every single day. Until it all ends. #

photo credit: giant in the playground

INSPIRASYON. NAKS.

*At dahil may isang mabuting kaibigang nag-request ng Tagalog, subukan natin 'to. :)

Sabi nila, 'pag bigla ka na lang nakakagawa ng mga di pangkaraniwang at magagandang mga bagay,  ikaw raw ay 'inspired.' Yung tipong may pinaghuhugutan kang kakaibang emosyon para makapagtulak sa 'yo na maging mas produktibo at makalikha ng mga bagay na hindi mo naman ginagawa araw-araw. Yung tipong puro bulaklak at rainbow at butterfly yung notebook mo, puro "Good Morning!!!" na mararaming smiley yung FB status mo, nakakapagsulat ka ng mga poetic na kung anu-ano, at mas maamo at maaliwalas daw ang dating mo. Posibleng near-death experience kahapon ang nakatagpo mo sa EDSA kaya ka ganyan. Pero pwede rin namang nag-uugat yun sa isang bagong lugar na nakabihag sa mga mata mo, isang pambihirang pangyayaring naranasan mo, o di kaya naman sa isa o mga taong nagpaparamdam nun ngayon sa 'yo.

Nung bata-bata pa ako (oo, ako na ang matanda), sa dalawang bagay lang ako nakakahanap ng springboard para makapagsulat: una, pag bad trip ako sa isang sistema, at pangalawa, pag masayang-masaya naman ako sa isang bagong karanasan. Medyo dark at ma-angst lang ang dating pag sa una ako humuhugot, pero ayos pa rin dahil mula sa negatibong inspirasyon na yun, napapag-isip mo ang iba para hamunin ang nakasanayan. 'Pag sa pangalawa naman ako humugot, nahihirapan akong ibahagi at isalarawan sa iba yung natural high na naramdaman ko mula sa adventure (o misadventure) na yun kasi pakiramdam ko kahit anong paliwanag ko, understated lang ang kalalabasan ng pinagsasasabi ko. Pero ayos pa rin, dahil may mga tao pa rin namang mahahagingan ng kaunting leksyon na napulot mo kahit papaano. 

Pero ito ngayon ang tanong: 'Pag tapos ko nang maramdaman yung mga matitinding emosyon na 'yun, may paghuhugutan pa ba ako ng inspirasyon? 'Pano 'pag gumising ako isang araw at nag-iba na lahat ng kinamamanghaan ko, nabigo ako sa mga pinapangarap ko, at iniwan na 'ko ng mga taong pinagkukunan ko ng lakas ko? Sa makatuwid, pag nailabas ko na yung inis o high ko, tapos na lang ba lahat ng yun? Masyadong short-term. Dulu-dulo, hindi ka na makatuloy.

Matapos ang mahigit na tatlong buwang hindi ako nakapagsulat dahil wala akong mapaghugutan ng isusulat kahit anong piga ko, natagpuan ko ang kagustuhang muling ibahagi ang munti kong mga saloobin sa inyo. Pero iba ang araw na ito --- dahil hindi isang bagong inspirasyon ang tumulak sa 'kin para gawin ulit 'to, kundi ang mismong kawalan nito. Bomalabs, diba? Pero yun ang punto ko.

Wala namang masamang maging 'inspired' ka sa mga bagong bagay, tao, o pangyayari sa buhay mo; kung tutuusin isa nga itong magandang bagay na dapat lang namang ibinabahagi sa maganda ring paraan. Pero saan nga ba dapat naka-ankla ang inspirasyon mo? Sa isang tao? Sa inis? Tuwa? O sa isang bagay na higit na makatutulak sa 'yong mas maging produktibo, isang bagay na hindi lamang pansamantala?

Naisip ko lang naman. Wala kasi akong mapaghugutan eh. Gusto ko lang talaga mandamay. #

ONE SUNDAY

One Sunday. It felt worst than any other day.
Saturday was fine. Sickening, but fine.
But that Sunday just wasn't like any.
Perhaps I ought to let you know why.

I woke up to the sound of big tears from the sky.
Them, racing to leaves 'til they gently touched the ground.
I, struggling with what should first be done.
No rush, Monday's not until tomorrow.

I stared at my collection of melancholy stories.
Enveloped in paperbacks, they called me home.
I heard then, but never did listen.
I shed my share of the sad, sad sound.

Summer. It has been four months.
Fall. I never believed it was true.
Winter. You're cold and delicate as snowflake.
Rain. Your steadiness kills.

Walk slowly past them all,
Them who I thought I knew.
Don't look at them, for I'll see you.
It's the last thing today I would want to do.

There never was a choice, never a chance ---
And I'm sorry I waited for Sunday.
Because sometimes, what feels good is all wrong,
but what kills you inside is what's right.

Monday. Thought I didn't care.
Wednesday. I was caught unaware.
Saturday. Sick, but I'd be fine.
Sunday. I just knew it was goodbye. #

photo credit: shoulderdiary

FROM THE BACKYARD, A PRESENT FROM GOD

Beautiful things are discovered in its right time.

Just this morning, I put to my to-do list making a serious research on the art of preservation of dried leaves and flowers. The front and backyard has an abundant share of fallen leaves every now and then so might as well make good use of them. For the past years, I tried a couple of times to do it the natural way, pressing summer flowers and autumn leaves on the last part of the yellow pages and opening it only after a while. They dry up, but didn’t look like how I wanted them to. That’s why when my sister brought up this topic this morning, I was pretty eager to learn the art seriously this time. But little did I know a pleasant surprise was waiting.

The historic monsoon this week was indeed disastrous; and even though the house wasn’t flooded, I knew a cleaning job at the backyard was up for me again. So there I was, sweeping the soggy fallen leaves with a walis ting-ting, when I chanced upon this weird dried leaf from the jackfruit tree. Unlike most fallen leaves, this guy was most unique. It was pure veins, with only about 2% of its brown skin hanging on it. But still, the veins were perfectly held together, no punctures, no perforations, like a  wing of a transparent butterfly. Holy smokes, I said to myself. I immediately got the small basin from the sink, poured in some tap water, and helped the rest of the skin get off the veins. I knew I was being forceful but the veins were miraculously strong. 

Needless to say I wasn’t in pretty much a good state this week. Because I have slight seasonal affective disorder, I had to suffer some bad episodes brought about by the lack of sunlight again. It was so bad I nearly snapped yesterday, if not for a few understanding people around me who let me just walk alone the parking lots of buildings E to J to help me gain some sanity. I was thinking so many thoughts, worrying about my future plans and where I was standing in my own timeline once more. Looking down silently at the strong current from the makeshift pond at the middle of the hub, I prayed and told God I wanted answers. And finding this beautifully preserved dried leaf was not only an answer--- it was a message inserted in a tiny present.

A lot of us, or should I say most of us live our lives like it were purely ours, that when plans go awry, we go awry and crumble like landslides as well. The past year wasn’t exactly as good for me, but it wasn’t so bad either--- and that’s what I failed to see. I was heavily focused on an unsuccessful scholarship application, an ambiguous career ahead, and some other personal challenges that I did not notice that I had over a thousand other blessings. I don’t even want to start naming one because it will never end.

This leaf is God’s reminder, of His promise to me and perhaps to you as well. This leaf, amid the strong winds and heavy rainfall, stood the test and came out really beautiful after an uncertain period, its veins strongly held together like it was some masterpiece, probably even more amazing than any other leaf-art method I could research on. It was beauty made in time. This is God’s art. And if He was able to do it with an innocent leaf, what more to you and me? #

A capture of the leaf after a violent wash. :)

STRAIGHT TALK: HOW DO I GET TO THE MIDDLE?

I'm not really good with goodbyes. If I say mine, I'll definitely think of our little times together once I look at you, and just start to cry. Maybe things even you could not remember. And when you're the one leaving me for good, it's either I'll end up giving you most that I can, or I'll just silently watch you take that plane ride, on the side, without a single word. I don't know which hurts more, but how do I get to the middle? I'd like to know.

I'm not good with hellos either. It's either I ask too much questions the first time we meet, or I'll just give you a shy hand wave and just wait till you greet me first along the hallway. I don't know if you can recall how it was with you but either ways, we will always end up being quite okay, because my hellos are preparations for my goodbyes, which I fail to perfect. So how do I get to the middle? Please tell me how.

And yes, I'm also not good with keeping my distance. It's either I'll make you feel like we've known each other for quite some time to make you loosen things up with me a notch, or I'll just pretend that I did not see you, so as not to oblige me to greet or talk to you for that day. Does that sound stupid? I tend to get moody at times; but all those good days, trust that I'm being honest and genuine. Because I want to make up for our missed 'hello,' or what might be a painful goodbye from either you or me.

Now how do I get to the middle? How do I say hello and go about every day without thinking of our goodbye? This is straight talk. I would really, really like to know. #

photo credit: shutterstock

DRAG QUEEN

He's not who you think he is. Or she? Or he.
Entertainment, yes, the root of all reasons.
Goes up the stage, walks around town strutting
good ol' signature dress and severe make up.

Make up. 'Twas all but a little make up,
at first, but eventually turned into something hefty,
something even he did not notice and cannot identify,
if you could find a shoddier term for 'identity crisis'.

Not a matter of chance, I suppose,
because chances do not really make up good stories.
Not something acute or sudden, too,
because humans are creatures of habit, over time.

Over time, an enclave strumming of mental nerves.
It prompted him to choose to, or not to listen to the voice
that mumbles a very, very low undertone
twice, every 4 in the afternoon, when he is but alone.

So there goes the drag. King. Queen. Whatever.
Like a KitKat bar, confused if it's choco or wafer.
Who is to say, anyway, but he himself?
Catch-22: He's a liar, so much so he could lie to himself.

He drags himself. Half-figurative, half-literal.
He goes up the stage, judged by the way he looks and acts.
Give him a carrot and it does no good.
It actually does him worse. He thinks a lot, and now asks me

What is he? Everything becomes awry, but he forgets,
That there's only one reality to ponder, so I told him:
"Beautiful as it may seem, ye have to accept
the fact that it forever will be just part of your memory.

Of a distant past, or an unreachable future,
I would never, never get to know either."
Because in my fickle mind, he is not my own fiction,
but a reality. "I am you," I said, "and you are me." #

photo credit: deviantart

HOW TO SAY SORRY IN 400 WORDS

So maybe you've just grown tired, of my apologies, of me telling you I'll always do better next time. But you pretty know there are things that just could not fit right in your hands, right? Like lines that you force to go straight when they never could. They were born curves, I told you. But still, you believed in the possibility. Which in turn made me believe, too. And that's the exact point why I can't get over hating myself for disappointing you.


I can't say that freaking word because I know you might not believe me anymore. That word, that five-letter word you say when you unintentionally step on someone else's new white shoes, or accidentally break someone else's young, fragile heart for the first time. As much as I'd like to deny, I could feel something has changed between us, with the things that are usually just there and the you who was just usually yourself. But I'm giving this thought a benefit of the doubt by assuming two things: one, I'm just paranoid, and two, you're just busy. Busy enough to push me aside for the moment.


Oh yes, I'm big enough, to know what's right from wrong, and to know why and how things could have probably been right or wrong. "Probably." Because they are measured. You love numbers. I hate them. I hate measurements. I hate standards. I'm a scofflaw. And maybe that's why this line you envisioned could never really go straight. I am not them. If you could please stop thinking like everybody does.


I begged you to just quit, but still you go. And you remind me of that guy Eddie Vedder's singing about in "Off He Goes". I could offend you a thousand times over, you get tired, but you still believe. That's why I can't quit, too. Not just yet. Yes, maybe things have changed. But don't worry, I can go on like this. A simple "hello" will do, or perhaps a one-question one-answer type of numbered conversation. Enough to show people nothing happened. It hurts, but I know I caused this state in the first place. And it's actually better this way. I told you not to expect anything from me. I will just do it. But still, if the lines won't go straight, at least I once had this beautiful memory.


It's raining. I gotta go. #

ISA NGA PONG 2-PC CHICKEN AT DOUBLE CHEESEBURGER

Kapag binubuksan ko na ang baunan ko 'pag tanghalian, madalas kong makuha yung tanong na, "kumakain ka ba ng karne?" Bakit nga ba naman hindi ako matatanong, e kung hindi pechay o tokwa o puso ng saging ang laman ng baunan ko, ay isdang pinakuluan na may dahun-dahon pero mukha pa rin namang walang lasa. "Health conscious?" Di rin. "Muslim?" Lalong hindi. Eto na sasabihin ko na nga kasi.

Minsan siguro iniisip natin na 'pag kumakain tayo ng corned beef kunwari, yung baka na yun ay lumaki sa isang cute little red barn na puno ng dayami, tapos ginagatasan sila dun kung kailan sila nasa mood. Kasama nila ang mga manok sa isang parte ng farmhouse, kung saan tahimik nilang nililimliman ang mga itlog na gagawin nating sunny side-up at leche flan. But no. Sa dami ng Bon Chon at KFC at McDonald's sa Pilipinas at sa mundo, tingin mo ba ganun pa rin ka-relaks ang pagpapadami ng baka, manok, at kahit na anong hayop na pinagkukuhaan ng karne ngayon? Para mas masaya, panuorin mo 'to: Meet Your Meat.

Sa madaling salita, masyado nang mataas ang demand ng food supply dahil sa dami ng tao sa mundo. Kung hindi sila mamadaliing palakihin at patayin nang ganito, malamang kalahati na sa mundo ang nagutom.

Pero malamang marami naman sa inyo madidiri lang ngayon tapos bukas kakain na ulit ng litson. Ang sarap e, diba? Pero bukod sa usaping pangkalusugan at tamang pagtrato ng mga nilalang na may buhay, may isa pang matinding dahilan.

Siguro hindi mo namamalayan na sa bawat pagkain mo ng karne, isa ka sa mga taong nakikiisa sa paglaganap ng kahirapan hindi lang sa Pilipinas kundi sa buong mundo. Ano daw? Labo naman nun. OK. Babalikan natin ang mataas na demand para sa food supply. Meron tayong dalawang uri ng food supply: yung deretsong napupunta sa hapag, at yun namang ginagamit sa industriya. At dahil nga mataas ang demand ng industriya o yung para sa produksyon ng karne (kasama na mga fast food chains), ang food supply na dapat napupunta deretso sa hapag ng tao ay pinapakain sa mga hayop. At yung lupang dapat pinagtataniman ng gulay, nilalaan pa sa mas malaking produksyon ng karne. Kaya imbes na yung cassava na kinain sana ng isang pamilya ng magsasaka, pinakakain sa baka. In short,

1.) Busog yung baka. Yung parehong bakang gagawing cheeseburger maya-maya.

2.) Gutom yung magsasaka. O masyado nang mahal yung presyo ng cassava na nabili niya.

3.) Ikaw busog ka. Kasi may pambili ka ng cheesburger at quarter pounder.

Marami, napakarami pang dahilan para unti-unti na nating pwedeng itigil o bawasan ang pagkonsumo ng hayop sa hapag-kainan --- global warming, epekto sa kalusugan, atbp. Pero yan na siguro ang dalawa sa pinakasimpleng dahilan. Wala namang pumipilit sa 'yo, pero sa susunod na pipila ka sa McDo, isipin mo. Isipin mo lang naman. #

Para sa karagdagang detalye, maaaring bumisita sa: peta2.com 

NUNG MINSAN AKONG NAUPO

'Pag ba napagdesisyunan mo munang umupo at magpahinga, nag-aaksaya ka na agad ng oras?
Minsan kasi 'di ba parang napapagod ka rin? Yung gusto mo lang tumigil muna. Pwede rin namang may nag-udyok sa 'yo. Pero 'wag na natin palalimin. Basta minsan napapagod ka lang.

Basta? Hindi rin. Hindi naman basta tinatanggap ang dahilang 'basta.' Lahat daw ng nararamdaman, may tamang pinanggagalingan. Ang sa 'kin naman, bakit mo kailangang malaman? Kahit gusto mo, hindi ko ipapaliwanag. Hindi lahat ng bagay pinapaliwanag. Kaya kung ako sa 'yo, intindihin mo na  lang ako.

Intindihin? Hindi naman kasi lahat ng bagay nauunawaan eh. May mga bagay na mahalaga sa 'yo pero hindi naman sa 'kin. At may mga bagay na mahalaga sa 'kin na hindi naman sa 'yo. Ganun talaga ang mundo. Natural lang sigurong maghulaan ang mga tao.

Nahulaan mo na ba ang nararamdaman ko? 'Wag na. Pinapagod mo lang ang sarili mo. Siguro diyan ka na lang, tapos hayaan mo na lang din ako dito. Tatawagin na lang kita 'pag kakailanganin ko na talaga ng tulong mo. O sabihin na nating hindi ko lang talaga sigurado kung matutulungan mo 'ko.

Teka, iniisip ko kung anong tulong ba ang kailangan ko. Nasabi ko naman na eh. Kung hindi mo nakuha 'yun hindi ko na kawalan. May mga bagay na kailangan inuulit-ulit pero may mga bagay na kailangan mong tignan sa sarili mong mga mata para magkaro'n ng katuturan.

Ang hirap maghanap ng katuturan 'no? Minsan gawa ka nang gawa tapos mapapaatras ka bigla kasi wala naman pala siyang katuturan. Matitigilan ka tuloy. Bakit? Dahil kahit walang nagsabi, alam mong nasa katuturan ng mga ginagawa mo ang mismong katuturan mo bilang tao. Andun nga kaya?

Nung umupo ako, ikaw naman ang pinagod ko. Pasensya na ah. Ganun talaga. 'Pag ayokong mag-isip, uudyukin kong ikaw naman ang mag-isip. Siguro hindi kita mapipilit, o kung posible man, medyo matatagalan. Ano, kuha ba? Halika, hanap pa tayo ng mapapaupo. #


photo credit: ayladeeyosah

THE FIRE TREE

It must have slipped my mind
On the last edge of summer.
Pure awe for a vision foreseen
But now clutches from behind.

Your leaves are your flowers,
Trifling flames that race up
The little soggy green stalks
That hold your desires.

When did you turn crimson?
It must have been when,
Because no one could disprove,
Not a being was rational.

Who gave your guise of scarlet?
I muster it was them who,
As no logic can abjure,
Were consumed by the orthodox.

Make haste, fine fire tree!
Your diaphanous fragments of ruby
Race down in a soundless dance
Halfway a cold, windy June.

Though now burgundy, they still glow.
Wet greens will feed themselves,
Rubber wheels that tread on dry grays
Will perhaps be most perturbed.

It was a mess, yet for me it was beauty.
And I dare not impart a word ---
I will let your self stay beneath yourself
Until the next edge of summer pulls over. #

photo credit: LDLanham

VALID ID # 1

Mahigit 40 years nang nagmamaneho si Daddy, at sa dinami-rami ng taon na pasahero niya 'ko, lahat na yata ng aral sa kalsada at pagmamaneho naituro na niya. Hindi naman ako sobrang matanda na pero sa dami ng taon na yun, ang dami ko na ring napansing pagbabago sa daan. At minsan, nakakatawang ikumpara yung gawi ng kalsada noon sa gawi ng kalsada ngayon. Eto lang ang ilan:

Sa kalsada ngayon, may tatlong uri ka ng taong makakasalubong. Una, yung naglalakad nang normal. Pangalawa, yung nagte-text habang naglalakad. Pangatlo, yung kaninang nagte-text habang naglalakad, ngayon, nasagasaan na. Hindi ba kasi makapag-intay yung ka-text mo?! Siya pa yung galit 'pag binusinahan mo. Sorry naman.

Sa kalsada ngayon, may tatlong uri ng sasakyan. Una, private. Pangalawa, public. Pangatlo, motorsiklo. Oo, hiwalay sila. Kaya nga may sarili silang lane sa EDSA at Commonwealth eh. At dahil special sila, pwede rin silang mamili kung pedestrian ba sila o sasakyan kahit kailan nila gustuhin.

Sa kalsada ngayon, wala nang may right of way at joining traffic lang. Basta may maiaabot kang pang-meryenda, ikaw ang nasa tama. Epektibo rin 'yan kung DUI ka o kaya napagdesisyunan mong mag-beating the red light dahil masasaraduhan ka na ng drive thru sa McDonald's.

Sa kalsada ngayon, lahat kailangan minamarkahan at binabarikadahan. Green fences para lang di magbuwis-buhay ang nagmamadaling tumawid, "Nakamamatay" signs dahil hindi na yata naiintindihan yung salitang "bawal", mga pink na guhit sa bangketa, urinals, at kung anu-ano pang pampadumi ng daan. Bakit parang nabuhay naman tayo dati sa simpleng pedestrian lane at traffic lights lang?

Sa kalsada kasi ngayon, lahat may kalayaan--- walang gustong magbigayan. Lahat tayo ginagawa lang kung anong gusto natin gawin. Lahat, gusto mauna. 'Pag libre ang daan, kahit pula ang ilaw, gora lang. 'Pag nalalayuan sa footbridge, tawid lang sa kung saang butas kakasya. Paparahin ang sasakyan sa eksaktong dapat babaan, kahit 5 metro lang ang layo ng tamang babaan.

Anong nangyari? Bakit parang sumobra na ang gulo? Babalik na naman ba tayo sa usapin ng tamang pagpapatupad ng batas? O simpleng arogante lang talaga karamihan ngayon ng tao? Siguro pareho.

Kung naalala niyo si Alex Lacson at ang aklat niyang "12 Little Things Every Filipino Can Do To Help Our Country", ang pagsunod sa batas trapiko ang unang-una sa labindalawa:

"1st  : Follow traffic rules. Follow the law

Traffic rules are the most basic of our country’s laws. If we learn to follow them, it could be the lowest form of national discipline we can develop as a people. A culture of discipline is crucial to our destiny as a nation.

Whenever we follow traffic rules, we show our love for our neighbor, our love for the Filipino."

Respeto lang naman eh. "Lang" pero napakalalim niyan kung tutuusin, bilang sobrang gulo na nga sa kalsada ng ka-Maynila-an. At hanggang hindi ako nakakasigurong ligtas na ngang mag-full time ako sa pagmamaneho, Valid ID#1 na lang muna ang Driver's License ko. #

photo credit: House of Wards

PUNONGBAYAN

Some twenty-one years ago in 1991, I woke up to a breath-taking scenery of white outside our apartment window. It covered trees, cars, house roofs, and almost every surface where my youthful sight could reach. But it wasn't snow --- I was right in the middle of a small town in Mandaluyong. It was lahar ---thick, powdery, white traces of heavy ash fall.

White ash fall spread across the nation on June 16, 1991

For Filipinos, volcanoes and quakes were never common subjects over dinner until the eruption of Mount Pinatubo that historic June 15th of 1991 where white ash fall reached even our neighboring countries. Instead, these were mysterious matters of nature waiting to be unearthed in their own scientific cycles --- 100, 300, 600 years doesn't matter; we just know it will come.

And for Mount Pinatubo, it just so happened that its 600th year cycle came at the start of the twentieth century, threatening a good start to launching urban and suburban developments across Luzon. But there was one man, a Filipino so dedicated to his visions of making these forces of nature be understood by us, ordinary people. As he accurately predicted Pinatubo's eruption since an earthquake hit in July 1990, he never stopped leading Phivolcs in education, evacuation, and disaster preparedness projects. And though the eruption still left 847 people dead, tens of thousands of people below the tripoint of Zambales were saved, and 18,000 members of the US Air Force and their families left the Clark Air Base in Pampanga just days before the explosion because of the timely warnings. His name was Raymundo Punongbayan --- former Phivolcs director, and a late grandfather.

Dir. Punongbayan inside the old Philvolcs office in 1990

Hands-on was Punongbayan that he literally lived at the Phivolcs office to monitor the Pinatubo crisis. The Aetas of Pampanga were so used to his visits and teachings that they called him "Tatay." And on the aftermath of the world's second largest volcanic eruption of the 20th century, lahar, fault lines, earthquakes, and volcanoes became layman's terms. Why not? After all, we are sitting on the Pacific Ring of Fire and should be much aware of disaster mitigation more than anyone else in Southeast Asia.  

His son Stauro would define him as "selfless and indefatigable," and would usually see him "lying on the sofa thinking of what else he could do for the country, for the people." Punongbayan never stopped --- until a helicopter crash killed him with 8 other members of the Red Cross. They were in the middle of a search for a resettlement area for the landslide victims in Quezon on that 28th of April, 2006. His ashes were scattered over Taal Volcano, a thing he always wished and told his children when he was still alive.

Though the government did not give much financial support to a very important department, he proved that this should not stop him from finding means to help his countrymen. I dare not call him 'lolo' as I can't even remember how many times I met him. But the country owned him, and that's what I most admired about Punongbayan. He led a simple life, but with much of a scientist and a Filipino's integrity.

We don't need to bleed ourselves researching on scientific subject matters to save thousands of lives. Perhaps we just need to put a little of our being a Filipino in whatever we decide to pursue, beyond support for a Fil-Am AI contestant or a famed boxing champion. So here's to three occasions this week: Mount Pinatubo's 21st Anniversary, Punongbayan's 75th birthday anniversary, and to the Philippines' 114th Day of Independence. Mabuhay. #

photo of the actual eruption in 1991

* much thanks to PDI for a headline feature that came out on June 15, 2012.

WHEN WITS DIVERGE

Besides a hard-thought subject matter and title, I'm always miffed with one more ordeal each time I rest my two hands on the keyboard to start writing --- how to say what I'm thinking. Should it be in Filipino or English? Should it be in prose or poem? Should it be free-versed or structured? And most of the time, before I could even decide, all ideas just slowly leak off my fissured brain. Having to choose carefully sometimes defeats the purpose. 

Perhaps that was what stalled me from doing this thing less frequently back then. I have always thought of what others will think of what I do. But you know what they say, "Not one size fits all" or the simpler "You can't please everybody"? This for me is the perfect embodiment. I compromise form when I say ideas in straight lines, but I sacrifice comprehension when I conceal thoughts in poetic images. The minute I decide to choose how to say something at a certain point, that's also the minute I decide to let go of the possibility to be understood in some way. And that, I believe, is also where misinterpretation hails from. 

Coming up with one post daily for the past month has been both an appealing and appalling encounter. To be honest, I've never been subjected to a tug-of-war of comfort and discomfort at the same time. It's like letting your arm suffocate in a tourniquet, though you know this uncomfortable tightness will save the rest of your appendage. My essays were trash, and my poem-drafts were crap. But when I see even a single page view in my stats, there's a baffling sense of optimism that crops up within me to deem that there will always be someone who will listen, even just a single soul. I know I'm being heard --- and that's enough for me to carry on.

There's not one formula to doing what we want to achieve, so I suggest we all keep on trying. The fear of being misunderstood? Don't even bother. And do away with thinking and containing yourself to what other people will think because there's just so much to learn and discover. Whether you choose to be heard through a prose or a poem, it wouldn't even matter. Your very own message is all there is to it. And when it's heartfelt, everything else will ensue. #

photo credit: The Saunderton Split

WHAT LIGHT MEANS TO THE MOTH

And I knew it wasn't really easy.

The lights were out when I got home at 10 tonight. I just took a quick candlelight dinner with myself and went straight to my room to prepare for the last and worst one and a half hours of my day. Or should I say night. Using my phone's backlight as the only source of illumination, I've already written down a few sentences on my scratch paper, when my pupils suddenly stopped dilating. Brownout's over.

There's this one documentary from years back that never left my mind and which always reminded me how lucky I was as a kid, especially back in my high school days. "Gamu-gamo Sa Dilim" was the title of this I-Witness classic by Kara David, a documentary about young school children who travel for miles walking past mountains to get to their makeshift schoolhouse, and by the time they get home late at night to study, not even a single lamppost can help them see what they were reading or writing. But their determination to learn and reach for their dreams through this education served as the only light in finishing their race to life.

I had my laptop fully charged minutes ago but I decided to take that darkness-filled moment as an opportunity to experience perhaps what I may not voluntarily do had I had the choice. It wasn't really easy. And it just reminded me once more how grateful I should be for everything I have now, both bad and good. 

It's natural for us to always feel the least blessed when something bad happens. That, despite the fact that out of the 365 days of the year, I bet not even 30 days of it will be spent with such unfortunate events. And because we concentrate more on the negatives, we crumble altogether, feeling miserable, ruining the remaining 335 days of sunshine.

For ten years now that scene of the children in "Gamu-gamo" has been my leverage in reminding myself that things are not always there as default, like the simple lights that we take for granted. But I would not want to stop there, because besides being grateful for such, that light is supposed to be shared. And I sure am looking forward to it pretty soon. #

photo credit: matangapoy

11:11

Providential, they say; but who?

Some chap who happened

To gaze on a clock,

And saw one digit all aligned

Like valiant soldiers waiting

In the firing squad?

Wish. Discount the source.

Ignite lanterns come night

And let them flutter

To the sky, where soon

They are nothing but 

Indistinct flickers of wanting.

Sarcastic, to say with less empathy.

Pathetic, to denounce your "wisdom."

Perhaps the hanker was

Never as critical.

Or maybe just an amusement,

A comedy to give guise to tragedy.

Dream. Let the wish linger

A while longer in perception.

Kill time to witness it coming 

Once daily. Nine, ten, eleven.

Eleven eleven.

Who are we kidding? #

photo credit: burningman

ONLY SIX MONTHS TO LIVE

I have always been fascinated with the thought of dying young. When I hear of people leaving this earth in their 20's, I sometimes border on envy. Most people would say, "sayang," but for me, it's more of a "wow." Congratulations. Mission accomplished.

The very thought of death never really scared me. Well, besides my wish not to die with a gunshot or from a freak accident, death generally is something I know is natural and something that will come unexpectedly. I know I'm not holding on to anything in this world simply because they're all temporary. But to add morbidity to wanting to die quite young, I actually set a deadline for myself --- 24. Wait. I'm 24. So that means I've only got 6 months more. 

In my mind I've set the perfect life until my 24th year of existence: right after graduation, I'm going to earn 2 years of professional work experience, resign, take up a Masters degree outside my country, go back, and then... blank. So maybe that's where the "24" is coming from. I don't know where to pick up from where I'm leaving off. My deadline is an escape from the great unknown.

But fortunately (or unfortunately), the vision never came true. I've been working for almost four years now and flunked every application to study abroad (as if there has been that many). You know the feeling of knowing your end goals in life but not knowing the in-betweens from the now? That's where I'm exactly at. You may think I'm "malas," but ironically, it's when these plans got screwed up that I was opened up more to the beauty of life. 

Being 24 has been a turning point in my life. I've departed yet seen new places. I've separated yet met new people. I've unlearned yet was reminded. And because I know I'm 24 and in my mind got only six months to live, I've been opened to the reality that opportunities are but everywhere---I was just stupid to have stayed inside my barracks with all of my weapons for quite a few years, waiting for God-knows-what. I was quite confused then. But maybe now I'm ready.

Isn't it poignant that just when you've started, here seemingly comes the sudden end? But whether or not God will take that deadline seriously this year (and I'm pretty sure He won't because His timing will always be a bittersweet stunner), I'd still be grounding to that deadline to remind myself that I have better get moving now or it's going to be never. Come November, maybe I'll still wake up on my birthday like just any other day. But I'm not to bum around because if there's anything in this life, I want to get at least a death well-deserved. :) #

photo credit: teenink

UNREST

Run fast,
Walk tall.
Stand still,
Sit straight.
Spine on the rest,
Dissenting the unrest.

Miles are ran,
Alleys walked.
Stages stood at,
Chairs sat on.
Back against the rest,
Deviating my unrest.

Mind is of the matter.
Matters of the mind.
Talking to me,
Pathways are opened.
Talking through me,
Footprints are examined.

The mark of yesteryear
Is trickiest to cleanse.
Is it me from the inside?
Or all you from out?
I don't want to be
A product of my environment
It's tricky, Costello.
You should have known. #

photo credit: dirtisdirt

MATIISIN

You leave the house at 6am knowing you have to be somewhere early. As luck would have it, the ride you took was just the best so far. The aircon was broke, the driver stepping on the brakes like he's swallowed some brake fluid that morning, and pulled over to a gas station where the vehicle was misloaded by gas instead of diesel. You get to the metro and you see the line was unusually long, about 500 more people before you reach the ticket booth. And then you line up on another queue to get on the train. You reach the destination at 10am. You could have made it by 7:30am. "Ganun talaga," you tell yourself. No, my friend. You're just an emblem of pure, immaculate patience; that is, in the wrong context. 

Filipinos can be just too matiisin even to unbelievable heights. "'Pag maiksi ang kumot, matutong bumaluktot," this is what we were ultimately taught. We tend to make do with what we have despite the several options that we have. We stick to the conventional, to what we're used to, even if we know things could have turn out with better results had we chosen the alternatives. That's why we had 333 years of the Spaniards, 10 years of Americans, 20 years of Marcos, and 9 years of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo. 

I have all the respect for people who know how to look at the brighter side of things, for people who can smile despite the burdens that they carry. But sometimes, we have to draw the line between our patient endurance and our ignorance. Is it just 'hope' we're clinging to? Or we just settle in the comfort zone sometimes brought about by our indolence? Three paragraphs can't answer but this definitely opens up the wide array of different cultures, both right and wrong, that we were taught over generations. 

Yet no matter how frustrated I get when I see my countrymen in this situation, I still cling to the hope that there's a part of the pie who sees problems as opportunities and who wouldn't settle for a broke-down FX ride. Or maybe it's just me. After all, I'm Filipino. I'm a Filipino who's plainly, stupidly, and luxuriously 'matiisin.' #

TREASURED TRASH

Several years ago I was doing a little tidy-up in our shared closet. Making sure I don't miss a single piece of trash, I was opening boxes that looked suspiciously candidates for the waste bin. I stumbled upon this little tin coin box in the shape of the Filipino jeep which can be opened on its roof. Suspicious, I thought. With gnashing teeth I struggled to open that tin box. At one sudden pull, the contents burst out and holy smokes! Scattered around me were little candy wrappers from God-knows-when. I shrieked to call my sister.

In general, we are beings of sentiments, and we love to keep things that remind us of these treasured feelings no matter how small, stupid, or plainly pointless. "Remembrance," as we fondly call them. When we were in, say high school, we used to love keeping this scrapbook that contains the weirdest memorabilia that it makes it hard to store the scrapbook itself. Empty wrappers, receipts, tissue papers, band-aids, boxes --- name it. And when we look back and go over this 'collection' from time to time, we take ourselves back to the very feeling we felt when we acquired them. And even if the memory hurts, it still ironically makes you smile. It's the ultimate concrete manifestation of our sentimiento de asukal. These may just be simple things, but they symbolize a greater part of our culture.

I myself am keeping boxes of letters that were given to me over time, from the formal Palanca to the crappiest little note where someone wrote me "Hoy!" on a post-it and just signed her name on it. Besides my fixation with written words, it just goes to prove I'm also a keepsake keeper. I totally see nothing wrong with this custom, except that I occasionally feel guilty for it occupies a significant amount of space in my life, both physically and emotionally. Nothing wrong in looking back on them, but sometimes, it's the process of looking back that stagnates us and holds us back in our decision to look forward to the hopes of the future. 

Maybe we should try a little letting go sometimes. It's hard, but the moment we stop keeping physical things to remind us of our sentiments, it's when we recognize that what's important is how these experiences changed us. And there's no need to keep physical evidences of such because we ourselves are already symbols of sentimiento de asukal accumulated over time. #

photo credit: behance

A VERSE WITH NO NAME

Lines that don't
start and vaguely end.

Words, which make
you think beyond words.

Rhymes, giving sound
to the often inferred.

Form, that dares
the craftsman than you.

Emotion, dispensed freely
like idle Tuesday afternoons.

I hate poems;
they run in circles

Defining gravity yet
defying the very sense.

Intensely hidden gist,
sugar and pepper coated.

Killing punctuation that
uncovers necessity in stages.

I hate poems;
I will create more. #


photo credit: toothgap

DEOXYRIBONUCLEIC ACID

The jeepney ride to Commonwealth this morning was another topic-compelling moment for me. I was taking out a few coins from my purse when I noticed this kid of about 5 or 6 standing from behind the driver's seat, facing the rest of the passengers. He was wearing neat clothes and a cap that perfectly fit his little head, and was waiting for someone to say "bayad po" so he could reach out his hand to get the coins and hand it to the driver, who I assumed was his dad. The fast forward button auto-pushed inside my head and I thought, years from now, will this little boy become exactly like his father, or will he be one to break off from a seemingly inevitable cycle?

Most often than not, we are defined by what most of our family members have become. If you've come from a line of doctors or lawyers, then you must have been expected to be one yourself. Most successful artists have come from a pedigree of artists as well. Pressure, expectation, or simply the lack of self-derived motivation must have urged you to string yourself to what your ancestry generally dictated for your generation. But I find it quite staggering how some people can break off from these dictates, people who seem to have found the secret protein to alter their own DNAs.

It was never easy. I always knew that I will not be an engineer, a scientist, a schoolteacher, or a lawyer like what most of both of my lineage generally patterned me to become. For over thirteen years I was trying to find that secret protein to alter my life structure. But though you know what you're up to and you have the firmness to stay out of the stereotype, sometimes it just doesn't work out right. In this light a certain understanding creeps up to me to believe that our DNA is not simply a protein that may define our physical and personal attributes--- it may mean more like a life-pattern, one that's not easily broken off over generations.

But if one thing gives me hope, it's that DNAs are anti-parallel. They have nucleotides that run side-by-side in opposite directions joined by ester bonds, giving a complementary structure just like a simple family--- our families. We can run into opposite directions yet maintain a bond that will hold us for the next million years. And because some DNAs are found quadruplex that branch out, I have reason to believe that though these blueprints could not be broken, they can probably be altered over time given the right push, the right modification process, and the right purpose. #

photo credit: drmomma

CITIZEN JOURNALISM

Eight years ago I was staring at my college application to UP really hard, wanting so much to write "AB Journalism" in the field Course 1 but ended up taking something totally different to avoid an uncalled-for tension between my parents. Today, kids who want to take up Journ probably wouldn't need to defend it that way as the rise of online media now heavily promotes and encourages 'citizen journalism.' Defined, citizen journalism derives from public citizens "playing an active role in the process of collecting, reporting, analyzing, and disseminating news and information." Facebook and Twitter have obviously been one of the best venues for this over the years, where millions of blogs, links, and status messages are shared daily over the net. 

A couple of weeks back, this has been the topic on Rock Ed Radio, my Thursday night radio fix on Jam 88.3. I'd love to share some points the two notable guests (Maria Ressa formerly of CNN Asia, and Roby Alampay of Interaksyon.com) raised during the two-hour discussion (thanks to storify.com for these feeds):

@robyalampay: I don't really use the term "citizen journalist." I'm more focused about the process of journalism.

@maria_ressa: Anyone who publishes is a journalist. A citizen journalist is someone who can publish.

@robyalampay: Whether you call yourself a citizen journalist or not, if you can publish, then you can be sued.

@robyalampay: I don't think Edu Manzano was being a citizen journalist when he tweeted that Grace Lee, President dated in Greenhills.

@robyalampay: We should be responsible as we can in protecting the integrity of that information.

@maria_ressa: Now, the people speak for themselves. The danger there is what standards do they use?

Quite obviously, there are a lot of things to discuss and to question on this topic, and even journalists themselves could not install police lines on the roles of 'citizen journalists' especially that they have all the avenues and that the availability of information has never been this fast and free.

I for one have been using blogs for years to create awareness and express my views --- but I could not consider myself a 'citizen journalist' despite draping these articles online for anybody to read. Facts are accurate, sources are cited, but the 'process' Roby is referring to may have been what I lack. And that for me simply differentiates the professionals with all those publish-hungry uploaders who feed useless and/or inaccurate information, not to mention habitual errors in structure and grammar, proudly claiming "Look, I'm a citizen journalist!"

I will forever be grateful to the online media for these kinds of tools where we can express ourselves more freely, compared to when, eight years ago, I was on a struggle to get published. But given these tools, let's remind ourselves that whether we want to call ourselves 'citizen journalists' or not, our role is not to gossip, but to educate. It is our responsibility therefore to feed our readers' minds the kind of education they deserve. And again, it's our sole accountability if we get sued. Heaven forbids. #

photo credit: jgold517

CUENTA REGRESIVA

It was a seamless scheme
jotted on a leather-bound notepad
by hand, to take down the most
unadulterated of emotions.
Timetables sketched
on succeeding blank pages,
hoping to attract the likelihood
of its probable occurrence.
Thin circles are but default,
on dates imagined to be
momentous, momentarily.
Momentarily. Because the scheme
was not about to probably occur.
The scheme was to be screwed.

Detour, divert, deviate.
Go find some other way.
Prove that it should be
In your custody, your clock.
But bleed yourself dry
because here comes somewhere,
somewhat. Someone.
Palpably, plainly, patently,
the scheme was screwed,
all the more screwed as
imaginary probabilities make you
detour, divert, deviate
in longer stretches than usual.

A momentary bliss
from a pretty purple wild weed.
An ill-advised pretense,
Like a half-act play.
Significance fails.
Reason falls short.
Misplaced, mislaid, missing.
Astray, adrift, at sea.
Start counting down
to when you ought to forget.
Hoping that come one,
All will just be gone. #

photo credit: bigkungmaster

FIXATIONS OF A FRESH GRAD

Tell me something more about yourself that's not included in your resume. If you're currently part of the white-collared army or at least have been part of it, don't tell me you were never asked that question. We know it would be asked; but still, we get all flustered, stammer, and all we can say is maybe something canned, something probably already written down your CV. That's because either you were so eager to decorate that CV that you wrote everything down to the last detail of your telenovela-worthy life story, or you're simply living in a world where everything is about your job.

I never applied too much pressure on my life until I was a fresh grad. I felt like I had to get the best first job that would hopefully be my last. I felt like I always had to prove myself to other people, and to myself more than anybody else. Four years have gone by and I eventually moved to a different company. Now I'm seeing how I was four years ago with my younger sister, who's now taking on all the pressures of a fresh grad like air that can't get out from a bottle of hairspray. The sight's pretty painful. But no matter how much I tell her that her first job's does not equally going to determine who or what she's going to be, I know she'll never comprehend unless she gets her feet on the water. And I can only be here to lend her some good old recycled sanity anytime she needs one.

We humans always want to learn things the hard way. But realistically speaking, sometimes there's just no other way to learn than to feel them in our own, hard ways. Experiences are what make us stronger; it's what makes us 'human.' For me four years have been pretty long and I sometimes feel really old. But I can say it was long enough to identify a part of myself that will separate my job from who and what I am. My job is part of who I am. But I am not my job.

Whenever I look at my CV I still feel like a fresh grad, with all those fear of the unknown and the excitement of what I may write next. But when I'm asked, "tell me something more about yourself that's not included in your resume," I now understand it's actually a happy question that you can ask yourself every now and then. It's an opportunity to discuss something more out of what is being dictated to us by the stereotypes of being in the working class. And that's actually the whole point in all these asking, because your resume is obviously a mere understatement. #

IN PURSUIT OF A STAR

She pulled out a gauzy sheet of black canvas,
Grabbed the biggest brush with the finest tip.
On the white paint left on her sullied palette,
Randomly draped tiny flecks which she called 'stars.'
Pointillism, realism, impressionism ---
Nary a term to describe this portrait
In her mind it was a mere picture of wanting,
Of longing for things painfully distant, yet beautiful.
She painted them fast--- little white dots converging,
Yet from one another kept an acceptable distance.
She wanted to finish the picture before she forgets
Her vision that night, a mental picture of inexplicable ardor.
It's going to be a masterpiece, she thought,
Still filling the lifeless textile with pristine speckles.
It's through. But somehow she sensed emptiness.
Staring at the magnum opus of constellation,
She felt nothing but an unwarranted exhaustion.
Ah, the twinkle! she blurted in discovery
But how, just how do you paint a twinkle?
It's the air that's make them dance, I told her.
She sat down and put the palette down.
You can take that home, she told me,
Looking at the dead canvas she just junked.
Thanks, I said, but I'd rather you breathe on it first. #

photo credit: blackpoolastronomy

DAYBREAK SONATA, FIRST MOVEMENT

The first song in my mind was what put me to sleep last night.
In my room, I'm staring at the color of midnight. It is dawn.
The lack of visibility and the languor to switch on the lights
Are just a perfect combination to augment my deaf perception.

I'm so used to the sound of daybreak.
My neighbor's chicken cock-a-doodling.
Forks and spoons in the kitchen clinking.
Sunny side-ups on a fry pan sizzling.
Man's best friend, at an early stranger, barking
Maya birds, from the leafless guava tree, chirping.
Jeeps, some in high-pitched whistles, belching.
In the clouds, a huge airbus hovering.
And the person next to me, breathing.
Or my own breathing. Or my thoughts breathing.
I just can hear my tiring thoughts breathing.

Nothing's more deafening than the bees in my bonnet,
Where, despite a last song syndrome and all those noise,
My sunup is pre-occupied by my own deafening fixations.
Thoughts that struggle hard to recall yesterday,
But thoughts that hope harder for a better today.
Or tomorrow. But tomorrow's still another daybreak away.

My mind wanders with my eyes still closed.
All the sounds I heard just recur.
I'm so used to the sound of daybreak.
Perhaps I'll cut my thoughts some slack tomorrow. #

photo credit: paintingmania

FROM TEARS TO DUST

The opposite of drizzle is mizzle.
Only intensity discriminates
But force is of no substance.
Rhyme is all that matters.
For it still is rain.
That sad thing that fall as free
From patches of vapor
Like tears from great big eyes.

The rain is my catalyst.
I feel vapor and I'm chafed.
I smell loam and my heart pulsates.
I see lightning and I'm petrified.
I hear the droplets reach the ground.
And I'm sad. The rain is just so sad.
Like hoping for something beyond you.
Like liking someone and you can't confess.
Like getting cheated.
Like being left.

How they push themselves to my window!
Sprinting down, clearing their pathways
They never leave a mark
Until they stop. And everything goes dry.
And everything is still. And everything is just mud.
Then stain. Then dust.
Summer rain. The cheater.
I let out a sigh. #



photo credit: loveamongotherthings

BLOOD PRESSURE

Come together, I beg. Press-gang if you need to. Key-in one, type the next, hit backspace thrice. Now I owe the white void even more. No, this can't be. Only thirty-five revolutions to deadline. The price is costly. More than money, more than pride. Or maybe it IS pride. Nothing can be more costly than that. Flow, thoughts, flow. Stream fast 'round the course inside my mind. Go straight to the edge where, like lemurs slipping on ice, you fall freely but nevertheless give life. Or give away life. Twenty-seven revolutions. How time flies. Like the weekend that just started, then suddenly it's Monday again. Nothing can make you feel more cheated. Wait. A vein is opened. Little tides of air-filled blood surge slowly down the capillary and squirts at the white space. Liberty for the blood. A breathing space for my conscience. Almost done. Spare me some sense this time; sagacity can wait. This is still 'art,' at least I did not cheat. Like the weekend did. #

photo credit: nursemyra