CUBAO

I practically grew up knowing the old Cubao. Naalala mo yung Christmas show dati sa C.O.D. 'pag malapit na mag-Pasko? Walang sinabi yung Greenhills dun, dude. Eh yung Fiesta Carnival? Nung bata ako para na 'kong nakapag-EK pag sinasakay kami ni Daddy sa chipipay na tsubibo dun. Nandun pa rin naman yung building. Shopwise na nga lang siya ngayon.

Ngayong matanda na 'ko though, for some reason, Cubao pa rin ang puntahan ko. 'Pag naba-badtrip ako at gusto ko mapag-isa, nagpupunta ako ng Cubao. Pagkatapos ko lakarin yung kahabaan ng Farmers hanggang Gateway hanggang Araneta Coliseum hanggang Ali Mall hanggang SM, uuwi na ako. 'Pag may kailangan akong bilhin, titignan ko muna kung meron sa Cubao. 'Pag trip ko maghanap ng lumang bagay, sinasadya ko yung Cubao Expo.

Ewan ko anong meron sa Cubao. Siguro una, dahil malapit lang. Isang sakay, convenient nga naman. 'Pag trip mo naman magdala ng sasakyan, mag-park ka lang sa Shopwise at bumili ng kung ano, libre na parking ticket mo. Pangalawa, dahil siguro may saktong timpla ng gulo at kaayusan, ng luma at bago, at ng ingay at katahimikan. Makikita mo yung mga jeje sa Farmers pagbaba ng MRT pero 'pag lumakad ka sa Gateway susunugin ka ng Rustans sa presyo ng mga bagay-bagay. Pumupunta lang ako dun dahil malakas yung aircon. Tsaka dahil nandun yung Fully Booked. Dati. Balita ko naging Uniqlo na raw ngayon yun. Lech. Oh well, may National pa rin naman. Na binawasan na rin daw ng isang level. Lech ulit. Pangatlo, siguro dahil simpleng tao lang naman ako. Masaya na 'kong binabalik-balikan yung mga lugar na may naaalala ako, kahit marami na rin namang nagbago. Siguro dahil sa lugar ng mga alaala, nag-iba man ang itsura, may pakiramdam na mananatili at ikaw lang ang makakaunawa.

Yeah, I'm boring like that. I'm mababaw like that. I'm ma-sentimiento like that. Masaya na 'ko sa maliliit na bagay. Supermarket hopping. Kain. Titingin kung may exhibit sa libreng art gallery. Walang katapusang lakaran. Masaya na 'kong gumagala sa mga lugar na pwede lang ako magmasid at mag-isip-isip. So, sasamahan mo ba 'ko sa Cubao pag-uwi ko? #

SUNDAY, SUMMER, STRUGGLES

Since it's a sunny Sunday I felt like playing some America as my working background. At least it makes my sad little box a lot more like home, where Sundays would be about good old music and a lot of house chores.

I'm not dealing with house chores today though. I am cramming for a presentation (only the first of three coming in the next two weeks) which I have not had a chance to finish after catching a bad flu paired with allergies this week. Apparently Hohenheim is the worst part of Stuttgart where pollen and other grass particles party the most in between Spring and Summer. Seriously, walking around campus now feels like winter --- it's really warm at 30 degrees, but white fibers keep flying all around like snow! So much for biodiversity. My allergies didn't used to be as bad back home. I don't even take anti-histamines. Now all I can do is pray for rain every day.

Yesterday I told myself I'll stay at home to get rid of the pollen party outdoors. Took some pills and slept early. Still, I woke up feeling quite groggy today, with my left brain throbbing and my right brain numbing. I'm in a coughing fit and my muscles ache like hell. Made myself some cough tea and opened my half-baked presentation and tried reading through my paper (which I am not at all happy about either) to get some details. Worse, I'm struggling with laziness and I'm trying to justify my procrastination. My professor's an a** anyway and all he cares about is your spoken English. Since nobody's a native English speaker among us, we're not anymore expecting too much. On the other hand though, I want to make good in front of my adviser. But the third struggle is, I just want to get over the d*mn thing.

And so I am at it again. Patterns, patterns, patterns. It's interesting though. In life we get to experience a lot of things, go to many places, meet a lot of people. However, we only get to maximize these encounters as much as we allow ourselves to. As for me, no matter what I do and wherever I go, I get easily disinterested after a few turns. Maybe because I'm naturally lazy. That, or I easily get contented. Is there something wrong with that? I don't even want to think about it. As one of my favorite people would always tell me, "At least you were challenged. And you learned something." Well, I'm not exactly sure what I'm learning so far, but I'm pretty much enjoying this getting-to-know-yourself-somewhere-out-there ride. One more hell of a year, baby. Oh yeah. #

NAME

"You have a beautiful name. Your parents must be big art fans." I rehearse those words in mind every time I catch a glimpse of you and I ready myself to talk about something in case I get caught in a situation where I am forced to strike a conversation. I was thinking that art would be most likely the thing we would have in common. I'm not a hardcore fan though, save for some mainstream painters. I don't even know much about the painter with the same name as yours except literally for his name. The conversation would not be forced, however. I always wanted a small talk with you. The first time you walked in and got introduced, I just smiled and said to myself, "wow". Something about you intrigues me. Was it just your name? I wanted so much to find out.

No small talk ever happened though. I thought maybe I just wasn't fit enough to be in your intellectual world. Going six years forward from that first encounter, I discovered you weren't named after that painter at all. And nor did your parents give it to you. That small talk, if it happened, must have been very embarrassing then. But maybe not. Because I could have carried on asking you to tell me more about you, instead of hearing just a faint "yes, thank you" from you. But it was not bound to happen.

Today, I'm still thrilled to call you by your name. It gives me the chills. It rolls into my tongue like soft fresh snow in the early morning. It paints my lips into a smile like seeing a warm sunrise from a breathtaking skyline. It's beautiful. It suits you perfectly. Sometimes, when I get carried away, I tend to call you by some other names. You don't like any of them though. But maybe that's fine. With every letter pronounced the way you said it should be, I pronounce the deepest emotions that no other name in this world can replace, no matter how sugar-coated they may sound. Your name is the sweetest. Your name is my weakness. Because when I call you by your name, I know you're the only one. #

I WRITE TO THE WORLD THE THINGS I CANNOT WRITE TO YOU

I haven't written much since we started "talking" again. 

Or I don't know if it's just because I've been starting to shift my craft from creative to academic-slash-scientific writing. The direction I am taking right now is pretty much a hundred and eighty degrees turn, as they usually say. I have been accustomed to using words as an escape, a weapon, or simply an extension of my restless thoughts. But now that I'm veering away from the very form that most people have quite "recognized" me with, I somewhat fear that along the way I'm also starting to lose the very connection where we started with. 

Or maybe that's just me being too nostalgic. But you see, I've been a fan of your work, and so have you been mine. We've existed in each other's world, but without the other knowing fully the real context behind those hard-thought metaphors. And although you've already taken down most of the stuff where I solely relied upon to update myself with what's happening to you back then, there still are days when I wish I can just walk down "memory lane". I have a penchant for looking back at the past, and re-reading our rare conversations every time sheds a light to some of the puzzles that I've always had a hard time living with. It's like browsing through a dusty photo album of an old friend. It's like watching those '90s home videos in VHS. It makes my heart smile and cry at the same time. 

Even with our new-found proximity, there still are times when I cannot bring myself to put into words --- yes, the very words that I have tried to shape in my own form all these years --- some things that I want to say or ask or scream to you about. It is at these times that I find my art both a blessing and a curse. Just as when most would probably think that it should be relatively easy, it is actually when it is hardest. That's why I just write to the world the very things that I cannot write to you. Scribbles of hopes, of dreams, of assurances, and of silence. Hoping that someday when you read back, since you've sworn that you're my biggest fan and I'm pretty sure you're going to find a way to read them, you'll get to realize that the world I'm trying to talk to is nothing but you. #

THE LAST STRAW

"Charley, do you have a minute tonight?" By the way he sounded, I knew he wasn't just asking for a minute. "Okay, not really one minute. Can you come over for dinner over wine tonight? It's been a while." I knew it. Not a bad idea. I was anyway in the office reviewing blue prints for a client presentation on Monday. "Sure, Kuya. I'd be driving to your place ‘round 8pm, okay?" After arranging how to go about the limited parking space in his condo, we hung up.

It's just 3pm and I can barely focus on the plates after that phone call. Half of my mind was somewhere else, and the other curious half was trying to think about what tonight’s agenda would be. Though we grew up together, my brother was not exactly the sweet kind of guy who would invite me over just so we could catch up with each other's lives. More so, he never really involved me in his personal dealings, unless I know the person he's having quite some difficulty with. Could it be about our cousin who made him a human ATM but who never made a single deposit? Man, Kuya is such a nice-ass who can't say no to people. Could it be about our aunt with whom he had a heated argument about the family inheritance? If you could even consider half a hectare an 'inheritance', to be split among eight siblings. Heavens, I should’ve asked him before he hung up. I can’t believe I could be so much like his girlfriend sometimes. Wait. Could it be about Leona?

My stupid message tone instantaneously bursted my thought bubble. One text from Leona. “Hi bessie, care for some coffee after work tonight? I just thought we…”, read the message preview. Looks like my mental detective game is over. It is indeed going to be about Leona. My brother’s girlfriend is not exactly my BFF, but she fondly calls me ‘bessie’, maybe because we’re of the same age. We hang out sometimes since we have a lot in common --- she’s also an architect, loves coffee, books, painting, Philippine history, just name anything boring. That, aside from the fact that I’m her first aid when it comes to her strains with Kuya. So how does it feel to get caught up between them again? Sometimes I’m tempted to just tell them that I don’t really give a damn. Nah, of course I still do.

As I reached for my phone thinking about a nice alibi, I was wondering if it was one of those self-esteem problems Leona has been dealing with again. She's a board top-notcher, street-smart, kind, sweet, caring, thoughtful, generous, genuine, and not to mention very beautiful too. But for some strange reason, she’s kind of sensitive and jealousy, would always think of herself as unimportant like a lonely little wallflower, no matter how much you make her feel that she’s precious and loved. When I’m not in the mood for her drama, my evil side would wonder if she’s just fishing for compliments. But people who are like that would stop acting miserable when you give them their share of ego-boosters. But Leona? Nah. I just need to hear two magic words from Kuya to figure out what’s going on: I’m drained.

Message sent. I just told her I still need to stop by the organic store to get mom her favorite green pesto spread. Leona has a weakness for mothers. She lost hers to cancer when she was just 12. I know she wouldn’t insist anymore, but I felt a cringe in my guts with that little white lie that I just made. Lies. I used to be a liar. A pretentious, young career woman keeping up an intimidating face when all that’s inside me was just plain crap. I used to be so jealous, so doubting of the assurance that I receive from people who mattered, when they don’t even understand why I needed assurance to begin with. Leona met me after that state. She doesn’t know that we have a lot more in common more than coffee and history. And she doesn’t know that all it took to turn me around were the last two words of someone so dear to me but whose last straw I regrettably pulled: I’m drained.

It’s just 6pm but the February skyline spells like 8pm already. Three hours of mental torture was not healthy at all. Reaching out for my bag to get the car keys, my guts told me to pick up my phone instead. “Hi Leona,” I started typing. “Organic shop’s out of pesto. Are you still up for coffee?” #

AS FAR AS

I.

I sat with Silence ---

On a porch, on a grey-skied afternoon.

Chin on my knees. Arms 'round my shanks.

Harking back, choking up, musing on nothing.

Nothing --- that was everything I ever had. 

You came with Sound ---

With an old, dusty piece of map on hand,

Blocking my view of the forest clearing.

Said there's a pretty Lake into the woods;

Will take us quite a while, but we'll get there.

I sat in Stillness ---

Said I was not a bit interested,

But later changed my "no" to a "maybe."

Noticing this tiny little speck of chance,

You stooped down and whispered "I got you." 

We raced against Permanence ---

Into the woods, amidst the towering Trees

That watched every single move that we took.

Though it felt cold and grey as the now unseen skies,

Your hands were there to keep me warm.

II.

So we walked and ran and paced,

As far as our legs can take us. 

We breathed, breathed, and breathed,

As deep as our lungs can take in.

By the smell of wind blowing on my face

I could tell the Lake's within arms' reach now.

I smiled and looked back, but you seem to have stopped.

"Is anything wrong? Are you scared? Or just tired?"

I rummaged for medicines, but I have none.

I scrabbled about for water, and I have none either.

How could I tell you that I can give you nothing?

Nothing --- that was everything I ever had. 

III.

We sat in Silence, wishing tomorrow will be as beautiful as yesterday.

We sat Still, like water, on that Lake that we can't reach.

But can't we? Or we cannot just yet? 

I leaned on you and listened to the Sound,

of your tired and cold hands reaching out to rest on mine.

Let's just sit and wait until we can go on with our Story, together. #

BURDEN OF PROOF

"And Mom, Jamie's a girl." Again. That's always where our conversations boil down to --- me having to clarify to her that the person I have been chatting with, talking to on the phone for hours, and planning to meet up that weekend is actually a girl. I don't really like having to explain myself and what I do to other people, including my Mom. But what choice do I have? If I don't, next thing I know's that she'd be cross examining my younger sister asking if I've been sharing secret crushes with her during our midnight gossips, working so hard to probe evidence to pin me on the cherry of the dartboard. Especially if the names she's been hearing from me lately sounds suspicious enough to be a guy. Like Kris or Andy. Or Jamie. Seriously, she really should have finished law school and not settled to be a plain housewife after marrying dad and having us. She would have made a great lawyer. I bet she can win a hundred percent of all annulment cases, including her own.

"I'm not even asking." That would always be her defense. I can sense she was trying to keep her eyes off mine as she looked straight down the table, perfectly julienning those poor little baby carrots. I actually have no idea how it became a full-blown discussion since I just popped out in front of her in the kitchen to ask if I could borrow her Mondeo to meet Jamie in Ortigas that afternoon. Since I got back from this children's storybook writing competition in Vegas the other week I haven't had time to have my Cortina overhauled after floodwater seeped in during a huge storm while I was away. Still annoys me to think how apathetic my elder brother could be. I called him from overseas several times that day to make sure he'll move my car to the elevated part of the garage. He said he will, but after a few hours I got a text message --- "Sorry sis, bed weather." Wow. At least he was considerate enough to update me that my car's totally useless now. On a lighter note though, had it not been for him, I would not have been inspired to write about the struggle of a little boy growing up with Asperger's syndrome in a rather dysfunctional family as my final story line. It won first prize. The judges said it was a "rare, representational piece".

"When are you going to start dating, honey?" She started doing her direct examination. She'd be telling me I'd be turning 30 next year, that she understands if I am now in a mindset of not getting married because of her feminist influences raising the three of us alone, but that she and dad have a different story and perhaps I can still consider starting a family of my own someday. I don't really mind answering the same questions over and over. In fact I love it when these discussions come up, because I can finally take part in her forensic games. Best part would be when I get her to suddenly be the defendant and narrate to me to the last detail, sometimes excruciatingly, how she met dad in law school, how they fell in love, got married, and how she eventually found out about his other family. It makes me guilty sometimes, but I feel relieved whenever she would end up with just conceding to my decision to not date guys just yet.

"Say hi to your friend for me," Mom yelled as I started the car. I saw her waving goodbye from the rear-view mirror and felt another tinge of guilt for a second. Though single-handed, Mom did a pretty good job at raising us, no doubt about it. But for some reason, even if we constantly have those conversations in the kitchen, I never really told her about me or what I do, or why I do what I do. Could it be the reason why she keeps on playing her forensic games on me? I have no idea. As I stepped on the accelerator, I thought to myself how different this morning's conversation could have been had I played my role as the daughter, and not the defendant. Mom, Jamie's a girl. Yes, she's also a freelance writer. Well it's legal all over the US now. Do you think Vegas would be a nice place for us to start together? #

PACES (A Short Short Story)

It was a lazy Tuesday afternoon. At least for me, it felt like a Tuesday. One of those Tuesdays. The sun was struggling to stay up, but dusk was already pushing its way over the orange horizon. I could see its majestic red rays peep from the gray clouds above the city skyline. I look back inside the room where I was sitting on my working desk, anxiously waiting for 5 o'clock. There you are, seated across where I am, busily writing something with your fountain pen on sheets of loose white paper. Your forehead almost kissing the ink, I could see from behind your rimless glasses that your eyes were glinting with whatever you were writing. Or were you sketching? I didn't really bother. I wanted to offer to turn the room lights on for you since you looked really pathetic while forcing each blot on the now messy canvas. But I didn't. I just wanted the darkness to force you in turn to finally stand up and tell me you've had enough. For the day, at least. I don't even know why I'm waiting for you, aside from the fact that it's only the two of us left in that cramped office, aside from the decade-old tables and dust-covered swivel chairs. Always been the case --- we go home later than the others do. But for some reason, I've always looked forward to get off at 5 o'clock with you.

It was still sunnier from outside the building than I thought. In the city where we live and work, there aren't really much residents, and walking to and from our apartments was more of a given rather than a choice. That afternoon was perfect for a slow walk. As we started heading right along the pavement, I could see a lot of people were still strolling around. The minute we crossed the street, you stepped forward to get ahead from where I was standing. You looked back at me with an almost inconspicuous smile and asked, "Tara?" I just hate it when you do that. Not your smile of course, but the fact that I know that it simply means you're inviting me to hurry up and jog our way to the streets before the gray skies totally consume the red lights of the skyline. I didn’t tell you of course, but you just spoiled my walk-in-the-park dream that afternoon. But I am powerless. All I know is that your energy's inevitably viral that when you start running, I end up just running too --- even though I always fear my heartbeat's going to suffer at some point. I let our distance widen by a few meters. It is just then that I noticed you actually looked prettier than usual that day --- your short hair let down, resting on the plain white sleeveless knee-length dress, in full contrast against your favorite dirty black Chucks. I have always envied your sense of style. How can you wear something like that with such effortless confidence? "Artist ka nga," I smilingly thought to myself. To put a halt to my envious admiration I just tried to run faster to close our gap.

As soon as I caught up with your pace, tremendously catching my breath by the way, you abruptly stopped and picked up your phone from the right pocket of your white dress. I never got used to listening to people's conversations over the phone so I brought my eyes to linger on top of the buildings, watching the city birds do their last V-shaped formation above us before calling it a day. Slipping back your phone inside your pocket, you just said "Si Sharon. I have to go." Oh, Sharon. I thought to myself. Sharon also worked in the same company where we used to. I met her two years before we actually met, remember? Without even looking at me, you started heading forward. Actually, you started running. Again. But I didn’t ask why --- and you didn’t stop me from following you either. We ran at a pace that has always been familiar to us, racing against the last drops of red shimmers across the gray skies. I don't even know where we're running to, but all I know is that we're not going back. At the sound of every hurried step that we took against the concrete pavement, we just know. #

ARRHYTHMIA II

Isang daan lang daw kada minuto.

Isang daang tibok. Pintig. Sikdo.

Sinubukan kong damhin sa aking mga daliri.

Bakit ang sa aki'y tila higit na mas marami?

Pakiusap, huminahon ka na.

Wala namang sayong nakikipagkarera.

Kahit ga'no kabilis ang iyong kumpas

Di ka makalalabas sa munti mong rehas.

Matagal-tagal ka ring hindi nagpadama.

Buwan o taon - ang huli'y kailan nga ba?

Para bumangon ang isang masidhing agam-agam,

Isang gabi lang ang aking kinailangan.

Isang gabing inilarawan ng kanyang tinig.

Kalmado, malamlam, nababalot ng lamig.

Kung paano nahulog ang buwan mula sa langit,

At nag-iwan kinabukasan ng isang mahabang guhit.

Sana ba'y 'di ko na lamang inusisa?

Ngunit ako rin para sa kanya'y balisa.

Sana ba'y hindi ko na lamang nabatid?

Kamangmangan ko'y walang buting maihahatid. 

Lunes -

Para sa kanya,

Marahil isa na naman lamang

Pangkaraniwan at nakaririmarim na Lunes.

Subalit,

Ang hilahil na ito'y

Habambuhay kong papasanin

Sa hudyat ng pagsisimula ng kanyang Lunes.

Isang pangakong pilit kong ipinabitiw.

Mga himig at salitang pilit pinagsasaliw.

Sakaling makatanggap ng di inaasahang tawag

Ako ba'y matutuwa o higit na mababagabag?

Hihinto nang tuluyan ang iyong pagpintig

Dahil sa kabilang linya'y di marinig ang kanyang tinig.

Subalit ang tawag niya'y hudyat sa akin ng kamalayan, ng kalayaan.

At ikaw, puso ko, ay titibok, at titigil na sa isang daan, #

SEVEN DEGREES

Seven degrees. Sun setting on my east.
On my left, a single row of trees
That stand sturdily
Amidst the chill of year's end.

They look down at me. Down. At me.
They utter narry a word,
But their glances pierce heavily
Through my thick winter wardrobe.

I look back. I stare back.
Can a tree still be a "tree"
When its leaves are no more?

What good are you, then,
When you fail to give me shade?
How can you stand up so proud
When you do nothing,
But sleep and wait for spring?

But then, birds still cling onto you.
Squirrels still find your dry branches
Playground for their silly games.
Insects still find warmth
In your cold, empty trunks.

Stop. Stop looking at me
Like I can do better.
I have not gone to this place
In the past two summers.

Today, every green from you was shed.
Not a single dangling leaf can I see
From this cold wooden bench where I sit.
I am taken aback.
I have never seen you like this before.
But, have I ever "seen" you before?

The winter bared to me a part of you
That I will, perhaps,
Never would be able to fathom.
For I am merely a random visitor
Who happened to sit beside you today.
For I am just like everybody else
Who can see your beauty
Even when all life is shed. #