Before a an unfortunate fate what do most people do: Short before a gun fire, a lightning strike or a collision, people simply close their eyes. It's a natural defense mechanism of hiding away; the same way an Ostritch barrow its head during predation. A psychological comfort before a painful tragedy.
I am in such state.
I'm closing myself from emotional turmoil. I'm trying not to sense my periphery and pretend not to see the consequences of my actions. I keep my cool though perspiring profusely.
I pretend.
I'm no longer sure of who I am with overlaying masks overneath my face. I'm sorting messes I've done, trying to repair broken actions. I lie with myself, I make myself believe and I comfort the monster within me.
I'm guilty.
I've committed faults to myself and to people I hold close. My principle of being the only one hurt turned upside down, with me enjoying every moment while the rest suffer. I got numb and disconnected with the world I live in. I suddenly wanted to live happily ignorant.
I'm undecided. Worst I'm not sure what choices I have, or if I really should decide. I used to be a control freak, now I simply let things be. Interchanging a hero for a villain, with battles still waging inside my head: A battle that will last for my life time.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
Si Kuya Daddy
If Olongapo City would have an icon, Daddy would perfectly fit and live up to it.
"Kuya, piso!" was his trademark while reaching out his hand asking for a piso. He is on his late 30s. He was wearing a school boy uniform dirty enough for a school fight or after-school games. He walks awkwardly like a seven year old waving at people and sometimes asking for what you're drinking and eating.
The way I figure it, he has the mental age of a seven year old, like the persona of the "I Am Sam". He isn't homeless as he appears sober and clean every start of the week. Well, aside from his weird costumes, that is. His got a family and sometimes as the story evolves they say that his got a RICH family; but the family let him be, like a kid with the whole city as his playground.
I usually see him being teased by tricycle drivers, jeepney drivers and even by policemen: "Daddy piso piso" they say before he can mutter his own line. He would laugh with them with an unexpected curse "pu@g in@", then he would walk away.
But what's comforting with his idea; is that he never change. I came to Olongapo as a kid in early 90's and every time I see him asking for a piso, the old remiscence brings me back to my youth. I think that's what most people find appealing; unchanged lives. We wish we were young forever; We always longed for the old feeling; We envy his forever youth.
They call him Daddy, and that's how everyone knows him. I still wonder what his true name is.
"Kuya, piso!" was his trademark while reaching out his hand asking for a piso. He is on his late 30s. He was wearing a school boy uniform dirty enough for a school fight or after-school games. He walks awkwardly like a seven year old waving at people and sometimes asking for what you're drinking and eating.
The way I figure it, he has the mental age of a seven year old, like the persona of the "I Am Sam". He isn't homeless as he appears sober and clean every start of the week. Well, aside from his weird costumes, that is. His got a family and sometimes as the story evolves they say that his got a RICH family; but the family let him be, like a kid with the whole city as his playground.
I usually see him being teased by tricycle drivers, jeepney drivers and even by policemen: "Daddy piso piso" they say before he can mutter his own line. He would laugh with them with an unexpected curse "pu@g in@", then he would walk away.
But what's comforting with his idea; is that he never change. I came to Olongapo as a kid in early 90's and every time I see him asking for a piso, the old remiscence brings me back to my youth. I think that's what most people find appealing; unchanged lives. We wish we were young forever; We always longed for the old feeling; We envy his forever youth.
They call him Daddy, and that's how everyone knows him. I still wonder what his true name is.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
The Street Kid I Left Behind
This is one of the memories I am not proud of; A guilt feeling which resonates every time I see a boy no older than 4 years old.
Jajas, my son, is now 3 years old.
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It was my last semester in college. I was no longer allowed in the dormitory and have decided to stay in a boarding house of my college friends instead. Carrying two heavy large bags, I found myself stranded in front of the boarding house knocking and semi-yelling "Tao po" one night. Behind me, retracing my steps, was a silent boy curiously looking at me. He was being followed by a group of kids playfully calling him "kuya,kuya".
The boy was skinny for his age. He was bare-footed with knees heavily bruised. He was a street kid. The other kids call him kuya for a reason I will find out later that evening.
I sat down in front of the empty house waiting for someone to open the gate. The boy sat down a few meters away while the bullies left him probably due to my presence. I took out a plastic of bread I bought earlier, got one for myself and offered the plastic to the boy.
His eyes widened, and like a new friend, he slowly shortened our distance apart. He took a bread and silently nimble it. Then he ate fast as hungry kids would do. He asked for more.
The night was silent aside from our usual chewing.
"Gabi na? Saan bang bahay mo", I asked. The boy said he was homeless and was just passing by. He addressed me as Kuya politely.
"Ba't andito ka kuya?", he asked me while pointing at my bags. I told him that I was waiting for a friend. I was glad enough for the boy to have shared my waiting.
"Pwede ba akong tumira dito kuya?" he asked seriously. I said that the place wasn't mine. He was silent for a moment and tried another hopeful comment; He asked that I take him with me to where I live knowing that my waiting was getting hopeless.
I sat there for a while and told him my story the way I tell a bedtime story. His comforting bed was the pavement, and his kuya was a stranger.
I said that I was just a student without any money to spare. My thesis was getting nowhere. My girlfriends, pregnant then, resigned from work and was expecting to have a baby boy. I half-jokingly said that I was actually planning on squatting at my friends boarding house for a semester.
He said he was homeless and looking for a place to stay; It was no competition. I felt guilty for feeling sorry for myself when all along a street kid was listening to my wonderful life.
We finished the plasticful of bread as the night was getting darker. I stood up saying that I need to take a padyak ride back to UP.
He said that I should take the padyak route with the bright lights on because the other one was scary dark. I told him that I have to take the scary one since it was the nearest and cheapest way.
He seemed disappointed. As I took the bags I was carrying, he offered to accompany me to the padyak's loading area. He was silently following me. The bullies earlier followed him again while teasing "kuya kuya" over and over. I grunted and scared them away. The boy smiled from my action.
As I took the ride, the boy pleaded that I take him with me. I said that it was impossible for me to take care of him. But the boy wasn't letting go of the padyak's sidecar. The padyak's annoyed driver shouted at the boy to back off.
The boy got scared, stood there and sadly watched me leave. We were out of his sight as the road wasn't properly lit.
The road was getting darker and darker, just like what the boy said. I was thinking of his plea "Kuya, kuya". The sound resonated in my head slowly getting louder as my thought was replaced by another padyak moving the opposite direction.
"Uy hinahabol ka ng bata oh!" The other driver shouted at the driver beside me.
My padyak's driver sneered and murmured "Di ko anak yan no?"
I looked back and there running was the boy as he shouted "Kuya kuya". I was only able to see his silhouette as his young short legs slowed down. His outline slowly being eaten by the darkness.
I did not ask the driver to stop nor wave back to say goodbye. I was there undecided and scared of my horrible action.
They teased him kuya and I never saw the little boy again.
Jajas, my son, is now 3 years old.
--------------
It was my last semester in college. I was no longer allowed in the dormitory and have decided to stay in a boarding house of my college friends instead. Carrying two heavy large bags, I found myself stranded in front of the boarding house knocking and semi-yelling "Tao po" one night. Behind me, retracing my steps, was a silent boy curiously looking at me. He was being followed by a group of kids playfully calling him "kuya,kuya".
The boy was skinny for his age. He was bare-footed with knees heavily bruised. He was a street kid. The other kids call him kuya for a reason I will find out later that evening.
I sat down in front of the empty house waiting for someone to open the gate. The boy sat down a few meters away while the bullies left him probably due to my presence. I took out a plastic of bread I bought earlier, got one for myself and offered the plastic to the boy.
His eyes widened, and like a new friend, he slowly shortened our distance apart. He took a bread and silently nimble it. Then he ate fast as hungry kids would do. He asked for more.
The night was silent aside from our usual chewing.
"Gabi na? Saan bang bahay mo", I asked. The boy said he was homeless and was just passing by. He addressed me as Kuya politely.
"Ba't andito ka kuya?", he asked me while pointing at my bags. I told him that I was waiting for a friend. I was glad enough for the boy to have shared my waiting.
"Pwede ba akong tumira dito kuya?" he asked seriously. I said that the place wasn't mine. He was silent for a moment and tried another hopeful comment; He asked that I take him with me to where I live knowing that my waiting was getting hopeless.
I sat there for a while and told him my story the way I tell a bedtime story. His comforting bed was the pavement, and his kuya was a stranger.
I said that I was just a student without any money to spare. My thesis was getting nowhere. My girlfriends, pregnant then, resigned from work and was expecting to have a baby boy. I half-jokingly said that I was actually planning on squatting at my friends boarding house for a semester.
He said he was homeless and looking for a place to stay; It was no competition. I felt guilty for feeling sorry for myself when all along a street kid was listening to my wonderful life.
We finished the plasticful of bread as the night was getting darker. I stood up saying that I need to take a padyak ride back to UP.
He said that I should take the padyak route with the bright lights on because the other one was scary dark. I told him that I have to take the scary one since it was the nearest and cheapest way.
He seemed disappointed. As I took the bags I was carrying, he offered to accompany me to the padyak's loading area. He was silently following me. The bullies earlier followed him again while teasing "kuya kuya" over and over. I grunted and scared them away. The boy smiled from my action.
As I took the ride, the boy pleaded that I take him with me. I said that it was impossible for me to take care of him. But the boy wasn't letting go of the padyak's sidecar. The padyak's annoyed driver shouted at the boy to back off.
The boy got scared, stood there and sadly watched me leave. We were out of his sight as the road wasn't properly lit.
The road was getting darker and darker, just like what the boy said. I was thinking of his plea "Kuya, kuya". The sound resonated in my head slowly getting louder as my thought was replaced by another padyak moving the opposite direction.
"Uy hinahabol ka ng bata oh!" The other driver shouted at the driver beside me.
My padyak's driver sneered and murmured "Di ko anak yan no?"
I looked back and there running was the boy as he shouted "Kuya kuya". I was only able to see his silhouette as his young short legs slowed down. His outline slowly being eaten by the darkness.
I did not ask the driver to stop nor wave back to say goodbye. I was there undecided and scared of my horrible action.
They teased him kuya and I never saw the little boy again.
Friday, January 25, 2008
How the Charity Worked
This is a story which I've not witnessed, which I'm not involved with, but definitely I was part of. I was very optimistic to give alms to the needy beggars last December, but I was only able to distribute blankets and warm clothings during the second week. Luckily my story inspired donors to give more donations: 3 bagful of clothing and 1 sack of rice. It was more than enough for a month's distribution this January.
But I became busy, that it was idiotic of me to use it as an excuse.
It was mama's idea to give the donations to the Columban church since she's a member of the collector's guild (manang ng simbahan). She said that everyday, the church people face problems of providing alms to beggars who take refuge in their sanctuary. Logically, the chuch would be the place to go to during spiritual and physical hunger. That's why churches should always be open 24/7 which I totally agree with.
I was happy to hear from mama that the donations, which she and Jody delivered under the donor name IDESS IT Inc., were very much appreciated by the church. The church is actually hoping to have a long-term regular donations in the future.
My satisfaction of being involved with the charity work may not have been fully met, but I was happy that the purpose was achieved.
To all donors, thank you. I believe that seeing someone else needy, wearing your used clothes or using the gifts that you gave, is enough blessing to make you smile. Until the next charity works then.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Witnessing Deaths
I've been reminded by death this past few days by hearing news of accidents and young celebreties deaths. I recalled sad thoughts of its encounter, and the unwanted feeling.
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I've seen deaths in its raw form, not in chariots or in 4 horsemen but of cars passing by. Three scenes of deaths. Two of it along the busy Quezon Avenue.
ROMEO AND JULIET
The first scene struck me as 2 tragic lovers in a theatre. A motorcycle was hastily placed down while a few inches, guided by a red streak of blood, lies an image of Pieta: The man was sitting in the middle of the street, hysterical, bloody and crying over an unconscious woman.
The woman, too white to be alive, seemed peaceful in her sleep being craddled by the man.
The man I pressumed to be the lover and the driver, now driven by guilt. Two helmets were thrown meters away while bypassers were horrified and frozen. After seeing the details fully, our jeepney drove by, leaving the theatre. All passengers were transfixed at the scene slowly turning smaller and smaller to be seen, like a curtain slowly enveloping the ending.
THE UNINVITED CONCERT GUEST
A few years after that, the comfort of the UP campus was taken away by an unlikely accident. It was the Bandemonium - band concert in the dormitory in front of the National Physics Institute.
I never saw the accident but heard it like metals scraping against metals. We run for help, and found a car lying upside-down on the dormitory ground sorrounded by people. debris of the car and the broken gate scattered all around.
It was dusk and dark all together that I realized too late that I was standing in front of the victims I thought was debris. A moan and motion came from the woman pinned down by the gate. Students and teachers stood there motionless, while death was slowly nearing by. The culprit, drunk and angry, tried to run away but was caught by concerned students.
It took a few seconds before the rational mind worked. Jeepneys were called while victims were carried by armful of opposing fratmen. First aid were made by teachers and students, alike.
Aris was also there. He helped me with a long bench which could be used for carrying one of the victims. All took place in less than 15 minutes.
But all were too late to save one soul. The badly wounded woman died after a week in the ICU.
The criminal, powerful and rich, pulled some strings and got away from the law. He was able to drive freely again after the crime.
ACTION
While working freelance from an office near UST, I found myself riding a jeepney ride to UP. The traffic suddenly went slow along the squatter's area. The mysterious motion of traffic was revealed as we got near the bridge. Lying with his head on the cement and immersed with his blood was a tattooed man. He was half naked with skin pale and burnt. He was dead.
Along the corner of the squatter's area were police with hands at their back holding pistols ready to strike and fire.
It could have been an action sequence in a pinoy film. But it was real with an actor dead. He might have been a criminal, but he was dead now; there was no point thinking on what happened. Some passengers were urging the driver to move since we might get caught in the crossfire.
The driver happily oblige while taking his last glance at the man sleeping with the feces: It was a horrible way to die.
-----------
I've seen deaths in its raw form, not in chariots or in 4 horsemen but of cars passing by. Three scenes of deaths. Two of it along the busy Quezon Avenue.
ROMEO AND JULIET
The first scene struck me as 2 tragic lovers in a theatre. A motorcycle was hastily placed down while a few inches, guided by a red streak of blood, lies an image of Pieta: The man was sitting in the middle of the street, hysterical, bloody and crying over an unconscious woman.
The woman, too white to be alive, seemed peaceful in her sleep being craddled by the man.
The man I pressumed to be the lover and the driver, now driven by guilt. Two helmets were thrown meters away while bypassers were horrified and frozen. After seeing the details fully, our jeepney drove by, leaving the theatre. All passengers were transfixed at the scene slowly turning smaller and smaller to be seen, like a curtain slowly enveloping the ending.
THE UNINVITED CONCERT GUEST
A few years after that, the comfort of the UP campus was taken away by an unlikely accident. It was the Bandemonium - band concert in the dormitory in front of the National Physics Institute.
I never saw the accident but heard it like metals scraping against metals. We run for help, and found a car lying upside-down on the dormitory ground sorrounded by people. debris of the car and the broken gate scattered all around.
It was dusk and dark all together that I realized too late that I was standing in front of the victims I thought was debris. A moan and motion came from the woman pinned down by the gate. Students and teachers stood there motionless, while death was slowly nearing by. The culprit, drunk and angry, tried to run away but was caught by concerned students.
It took a few seconds before the rational mind worked. Jeepneys were called while victims were carried by armful of opposing fratmen. First aid were made by teachers and students, alike.
Aris was also there. He helped me with a long bench which could be used for carrying one of the victims. All took place in less than 15 minutes.
But all were too late to save one soul. The badly wounded woman died after a week in the ICU.
The criminal, powerful and rich, pulled some strings and got away from the law. He was able to drive freely again after the crime.
ACTION
While working freelance from an office near UST, I found myself riding a jeepney ride to UP. The traffic suddenly went slow along the squatter's area. The mysterious motion of traffic was revealed as we got near the bridge. Lying with his head on the cement and immersed with his blood was a tattooed man. He was half naked with skin pale and burnt. He was dead.
Along the corner of the squatter's area were police with hands at their back holding pistols ready to strike and fire.
It could have been an action sequence in a pinoy film. But it was real with an actor dead. He might have been a criminal, but he was dead now; there was no point thinking on what happened. Some passengers were urging the driver to move since we might get caught in the crossfire.
The driver happily oblige while taking his last glance at the man sleeping with the feces: It was a horrible way to die.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Mr Poe's Tragic Heart
It's Edgar Allan Poe's 200th death anniversary. A tribute to his drunk stories: my magical realism.
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She was waiting for me like usual under the clouds of mushroon. It was an addictive routine, something a fool would gladly do for a lifetime. I was turning into that fool, and I knew it even before it started.
I swallowed the air of the morning as I gently avoided the crowd busily minding their own affairs. An old fermale penguin dressed as a nurse bumped my right shoulder while a young man took my left leg with his left cane as he walked by. I had to pause and resume my urgency. I said I was sorry, and they didn't take notice. Everyone seemed to be against me all along, but I had to move on.
I swallowed another gulp of air with some streams of Nimbus clouds: A cigarette puff from the canine beggar who was sitting and staring at me blankly. Trying to ignore the rediculous sight, I looked up while waiting for the signal light. The sky changed from red to green, and the crowd crossed the forest of flees. I exhaled, covered my ears and mouth with my scarf and proceeded with a run.
She was waiting for me like usual. Her hair flowed like a river wetting her neon-blue shoes. She smiled at my sight. She was lovely as usual.
My run turned into a walk. I was too close to see details of her skin. She was creamy fair as always and her bright green eyes emphasized her lovely features.
I took a pause when I was an inch away from her. I cannot touch her nor hold her. Between us is fine glass unwilling to be broken.
It was our last moment together. Before we can speak, my heartbeat became treacherous, became violent and made a loud rhythmic noise. The glass slowly became opaque like a water being swallowed by osmotic milk.
Before I lost the sight her I shouted "I LOVE YOU".
The sky turned red, all being froze and I was left staring at a white wall. I was a fool no more, and a being no less.
-----------
She was waiting for me like usual under the clouds of mushroon. It was an addictive routine, something a fool would gladly do for a lifetime. I was turning into that fool, and I knew it even before it started.
I swallowed the air of the morning as I gently avoided the crowd busily minding their own affairs. An old fermale penguin dressed as a nurse bumped my right shoulder while a young man took my left leg with his left cane as he walked by. I had to pause and resume my urgency. I said I was sorry, and they didn't take notice. Everyone seemed to be against me all along, but I had to move on.
I swallowed another gulp of air with some streams of Nimbus clouds: A cigarette puff from the canine beggar who was sitting and staring at me blankly. Trying to ignore the rediculous sight, I looked up while waiting for the signal light. The sky changed from red to green, and the crowd crossed the forest of flees. I exhaled, covered my ears and mouth with my scarf and proceeded with a run.
She was waiting for me like usual. Her hair flowed like a river wetting her neon-blue shoes. She smiled at my sight. She was lovely as usual.
My run turned into a walk. I was too close to see details of her skin. She was creamy fair as always and her bright green eyes emphasized her lovely features.
I took a pause when I was an inch away from her. I cannot touch her nor hold her. Between us is fine glass unwilling to be broken.
It was our last moment together. Before we can speak, my heartbeat became treacherous, became violent and made a loud rhythmic noise. The glass slowly became opaque like a water being swallowed by osmotic milk.
Before I lost the sight her I shouted "I LOVE YOU".
The sky turned red, all being froze and I was left staring at a white wall. I was a fool no more, and a being no less.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Sarcasm Spasm
I'm a sarcastic person. There's no argument in that. I make fun of situation and people in a manner which is socially unacceptable, and most of the time, it bounces back point-blank to my face. But nevertheless, I'm still sarcastic. But in truth, sarcasm is just a defense mechanism, which provides a leeway to get around a discussion on my weakness; or sometimes its my way of mocking people in a subtle manner. The actualy problem is that I can't seem to help but be honest about almost anything; so if one deserves my irony, I throw that person sarcasm instead. Then we get to laugh about it. As Dostoyevsky puts it, sarcasm it "the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded." yeah right.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Days in Makati
January and February always remind me of Makati days. Bare with my nostalgia, I can still recall details of it.
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The place was filled with strangers packed into a mildly heated catacomb. Ironically, that to get far at a short span of time, you get not to move a single muscle at the longest time possible.
The sliding door was greeted by mobs at both sides with opposing thoughts, like a roman battlefield waiting for a signal to launch: The signal was a beeping sound followed by the slow opening of the door.
Immobile yet wanting to get away from porgatory, I joined the flow of people trying to get out while pushing those who want to get in. I pitied the ladies properly dressed for work, there was no glimmer of chivalry in the men's faces. All are equal in love and war; I think it was the later this time.
It was tiny peep hole for a contortionist, but miraculously I survived in one piece. BEEP! A few survivors were left waiting for the next joyride.
I walked away taking out a card carrying the president's ID; with her photo smiling back at me. Gladly I got rid of her, inserting the piece to exit the station.
AYALA LOOP
The line of people late for work are looping in the parking lot. Reconditioned and Airconditioned jeepney waited to be filled by the well-suited employees. The jeep reminds me of the old love bus in the Martial Law era; too large to be a jeepney and too small to be a bus.
We drove from one mall to another, then we sink in with the drowning traffic. I was late for work. I always was.
I got off at the enterprise building. The tower protected me from the blinding sunlight
as I went inside and out in just barely seconds.
I went to the underpass, took the escalator ride, and was in Paseo walking fast. A man greeted me with an ink cartridge, I did't know what the offer was for; everyone has got to make a living, I guess, and I was late to make one.
OFFICE
I went inside the building. The guards knew me too well and didn't bother to ask for my ID. Painted in their smiles are the words "Late again".
39th floor, the horizontal motion turned into a vertical vertigo. I pretended not minding the time as I entered the office. "Ryan!". I jumped nearly dropping my bag. It was from the HR manager. I'm in trouble. She motioned me to enter her office. Gulp, was all I did. I walked while the rest of the personnel eyed me as I turned out of sight.
She was holding a pen and paper grinning at me. It wasn't a reprimand, It was a promotion.
"You've been with the company for a month, but we would like you to become a regular employee," It was a surprise since I signed a contract for 3 months under a probationary status. I still have 2 months to spare before deciding on pursuing a career with the company or finding a different one.
"I'm still finishing my thesis Ma'am. Is the company willing to accept an undergrad for regular employment?" My plan was just to find a job to support my family while finishing my thesis. She said that the company is willing to take the risk; I wasn't. I declined and decided to finish the remaining 2 months first. She consulted my project manager who fortunately agreed.
I sat back in front of my PC thinking two months ahead. It was either finishing my thesis or taking a good job offer with a bulky sum of payment. Somone interrupted my thoughts by shouldering me. Ariel, a good friend, knew my problem. "Thesis ka na ser! Pagsisihan mo yan sige ka." I smiled in agreement and was in deep thoughts of months ahead.
A few weeks after, I informed them my decision not to continue with the company. It was my last day of work. My project manager enraged with my thinking, decided that I take the leave indefinitely. I gladly responded by taking the rest of my payment home.
A year later, I finished my thesis, got a good offer in Subic and have learned that the company I used to work with closed from bankruptcy.
----------
The place was filled with strangers packed into a mildly heated catacomb. Ironically, that to get far at a short span of time, you get not to move a single muscle at the longest time possible.
The sliding door was greeted by mobs at both sides with opposing thoughts, like a roman battlefield waiting for a signal to launch: The signal was a beeping sound followed by the slow opening of the door.
Immobile yet wanting to get away from porgatory, I joined the flow of people trying to get out while pushing those who want to get in. I pitied the ladies properly dressed for work, there was no glimmer of chivalry in the men's faces. All are equal in love and war; I think it was the later this time.
It was tiny peep hole for a contortionist, but miraculously I survived in one piece. BEEP! A few survivors were left waiting for the next joyride.
I walked away taking out a card carrying the president's ID; with her photo smiling back at me. Gladly I got rid of her, inserting the piece to exit the station.
AYALA LOOP
The line of people late for work are looping in the parking lot. Reconditioned and Airconditioned jeepney waited to be filled by the well-suited employees. The jeep reminds me of the old love bus in the Martial Law era; too large to be a jeepney and too small to be a bus.
We drove from one mall to another, then we sink in with the drowning traffic. I was late for work. I always was.
I got off at the enterprise building. The tower protected me from the blinding sunlight
as I went inside and out in just barely seconds.
I went to the underpass, took the escalator ride, and was in Paseo walking fast. A man greeted me with an ink cartridge, I did't know what the offer was for; everyone has got to make a living, I guess, and I was late to make one.
OFFICE
I went inside the building. The guards knew me too well and didn't bother to ask for my ID. Painted in their smiles are the words "Late again".
39th floor, the horizontal motion turned into a vertical vertigo. I pretended not minding the time as I entered the office. "Ryan!". I jumped nearly dropping my bag. It was from the HR manager. I'm in trouble. She motioned me to enter her office. Gulp, was all I did. I walked while the rest of the personnel eyed me as I turned out of sight.
She was holding a pen and paper grinning at me. It wasn't a reprimand, It was a promotion.
"You've been with the company for a month, but we would like you to become a regular employee," It was a surprise since I signed a contract for 3 months under a probationary status. I still have 2 months to spare before deciding on pursuing a career with the company or finding a different one.
"I'm still finishing my thesis Ma'am. Is the company willing to accept an undergrad for regular employment?" My plan was just to find a job to support my family while finishing my thesis. She said that the company is willing to take the risk; I wasn't. I declined and decided to finish the remaining 2 months first. She consulted my project manager who fortunately agreed.
I sat back in front of my PC thinking two months ahead. It was either finishing my thesis or taking a good job offer with a bulky sum of payment. Somone interrupted my thoughts by shouldering me. Ariel, a good friend, knew my problem. "Thesis ka na ser! Pagsisihan mo yan sige ka." I smiled in agreement and was in deep thoughts of months ahead.
A few weeks after, I informed them my decision not to continue with the company. It was my last day of work. My project manager enraged with my thinking, decided that I take the leave indefinitely. I gladly responded by taking the rest of my payment home.
A year later, I finished my thesis, got a good offer in Subic and have learned that the company I used to work with closed from bankruptcy.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
A pre-Valentine humor
Life follows a clicheic pathetic path, especially if you want to make an experience worthwhile. I think the Gods really have a great sense of humor sometimes.
It was Valentine's day; I was a college freshman; and roses' prices skyrocketed to the rooftop, but still I found myself buying three roses for a special friend.
I knew her schedule since I got a class just beside her room. It was in Palma Hall 3rd floor, just beside the smelly men's restroom. My friends Jave and Adonis purposely went there wanting not to miss the event.
I stood outside the door awkwardly playing with the hidden rose on my back. A thorn pricked me realizing that my victim's sister just arrived earlier. She greeted me with a big smile and I greeted her a happy Valentines day. She saw the roses and looked at me as she muttered "Ow". She knew and told me to wait a little longer.
I saw her arrived a few seconds afterwards. She was carrying a proud bauquet of roses and a big card. Like the roses hidden behind me, I was hoping that something would hide me from my insecurity. But I tried to make the best smile I could master.
I greeted her with a Happy Valentines, and mimicing romantic movies, I smoothly moved the roses as quick as I could to surprise her. And surprised, she was.
I hope this would not sound so morbid; one of the roses' head flew away from its thorny body, landing beneath her left foot. She wrestled to pick it up from the floor. I froze.
I think everything turned black afterwards, or my mind went blank from humiliation. Too much of romantic cliches.
It was Valentine's day; I was a college freshman; and roses' prices skyrocketed to the rooftop, but still I found myself buying three roses for a special friend.
I knew her schedule since I got a class just beside her room. It was in Palma Hall 3rd floor, just beside the smelly men's restroom. My friends Jave and Adonis purposely went there wanting not to miss the event.
I stood outside the door awkwardly playing with the hidden rose on my back. A thorn pricked me realizing that my victim's sister just arrived earlier. She greeted me with a big smile and I greeted her a happy Valentines day. She saw the roses and looked at me as she muttered "Ow". She knew and told me to wait a little longer.
I saw her arrived a few seconds afterwards. She was carrying a proud bauquet of roses and a big card. Like the roses hidden behind me, I was hoping that something would hide me from my insecurity. But I tried to make the best smile I could master.
I greeted her with a Happy Valentines, and mimicing romantic movies, I smoothly moved the roses as quick as I could to surprise her. And surprised, she was.
I hope this would not sound so morbid; one of the roses' head flew away from its thorny body, landing beneath her left foot. She wrestled to pick it up from the floor. I froze.
I think everything turned black afterwards, or my mind went blank from humiliation. Too much of romantic cliches.
Monday, January 14, 2008
A Love Story (fiction)
She was waiting for the bus under a misty Sunday afternoon. Her umbrella dripping and slanted against her shoulder. She was in pink; girly enough to amplify her pretty face.
She wasn't alone, standing beside her were two strangers: a couple old enough to be her parents. They were sweethearts entangled under a big blue umbrella. They were silently whispering on each other's ears, and once in a while would giggle from ticklish thoughs. They were talking about their first kiss.
She got involved with the couple's contagious happiness. She smiled thinking about her first kiss too. Her thoughts, about to get into details, were set aside by the bus arriving.
She got in, rode at the front row like she always does, and took out her cellphone. She got 3 messages: 2 forwarded messages and 1 from someone special.
She opened what obviously was more important. Printed in the display were three words: I, LUCK, YOU. She smiled. It was a message she knew too well; A message saying that he was giving her more luck from. He never runs out of luck, she thought.
The bus took a turn, passed 4 blocks and stopped in front of a building unloading the happy old couple. The bus moved, the rain stopped and the wet pavement reflected the orange sky. The sunlight was filtered by the overlaying clouds. She wrote something on the window removing the condensing droplets. She wrote her name and his name and a line in between.
The bus stopped and she walked the aisle, thanked the driver and got down in the corner of the streets where they first met. She closed her eyes and imagine the scene adding playful cinematic imagery. He was more handsome than usual. They were alone that time.
She opened her eyes and walked a block more. He was there waiting for her. She took out something from her bag: an unopened letter and a flower. She kneeled down getting closer to the ground. She cleared the cement containing his name and two numerical years with a line in between. There was a quote underneath the years which she memorized by heart "Carpe Diem!". Finally she laid down the flowers.
She took out another cellphone from her bag, slowly typed and frequently closed her eyes to cry. After a few strokes she placed the phone back from her bag. A beeping sound came from her left pocket, she took it out. Reflected was a message from him:
"Glad you made it :-)"
She smiled comforting herself from the loss. Then it began to rain pouring tears and water in the ground where he rests.
She wasn't alone, standing beside her were two strangers: a couple old enough to be her parents. They were sweethearts entangled under a big blue umbrella. They were silently whispering on each other's ears, and once in a while would giggle from ticklish thoughs. They were talking about their first kiss.
She got involved with the couple's contagious happiness. She smiled thinking about her first kiss too. Her thoughts, about to get into details, were set aside by the bus arriving.
She got in, rode at the front row like she always does, and took out her cellphone. She got 3 messages: 2 forwarded messages and 1 from someone special.
She opened what obviously was more important. Printed in the display were three words: I, LUCK, YOU. She smiled. It was a message she knew too well; A message saying that he was giving her more luck from. He never runs out of luck, she thought.
The bus took a turn, passed 4 blocks and stopped in front of a building unloading the happy old couple. The bus moved, the rain stopped and the wet pavement reflected the orange sky. The sunlight was filtered by the overlaying clouds. She wrote something on the window removing the condensing droplets. She wrote her name and his name and a line in between.
The bus stopped and she walked the aisle, thanked the driver and got down in the corner of the streets where they first met. She closed her eyes and imagine the scene adding playful cinematic imagery. He was more handsome than usual. They were alone that time.
She opened her eyes and walked a block more. He was there waiting for her. She took out something from her bag: an unopened letter and a flower. She kneeled down getting closer to the ground. She cleared the cement containing his name and two numerical years with a line in between. There was a quote underneath the years which she memorized by heart "Carpe Diem!". Finally she laid down the flowers.
She took out another cellphone from her bag, slowly typed and frequently closed her eyes to cry. After a few strokes she placed the phone back from her bag. A beeping sound came from her left pocket, she took it out. Reflected was a message from him:
"Glad you made it :-)"
She smiled comforting herself from the loss. Then it began to rain pouring tears and water in the ground where he rests.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
My Son as a smart-ass-book-worm puppy
Mama opened the children's book to ask for a good night story from my son. Jas, sitting beside mama, talked animatedly about the story of the book which he knows by heart.
Then Lola interrupted by asking Jas to read the book not just the usual pretend game that they were doing.
Jas fell silent for a moment. He knows how to identify letters but not the words. So he looked at his lola and said that for the time-being he is a dog: a puppy to be exact.
Then he browsed through the book and read outloud: BARK BARK BARK BARK BARK.
My mama laughed so hard as she patted my son's head. Smart dog.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
English of Otap
This goes to my wonderful friend Eric Obias who got married with Pot las weekend in Singapore.
While lazily wasting time eating Otap for pre-dinner meal at the boarding house back in our thesis semester, Eric asked a silly question on what "Otap" is called in English. Taken by his usual out-of-this world inquiry, the boardmates (8 of us, being called tongay, which is bicol for dried mucus..err..never mind) shot answers such as "dried sweet bread", owtap and the likes. But Eric seemed happy with what he got. So sirit. He said the OTAP is called CAD in english.
What? Why CAD.
Logically OTAP can be flipped backwards like 70s-genre would do to read PATO. The english of PATO is DUCK. Now you flip that to get KCUD, which is read as CAD.
We fell silent for a moment and burst out laughing unconvinced afterwards. Imagine who could make that up in just a few seconds, I guess only Eric can. That's why Pot loves him, and married him in the end, I guess. Congrats dude!
Friday, January 11, 2008
Sickology
I'm sick. I enjoy it. I enjoy being sick, since it reminds me of skipping-class-bed-enjoying days. Though my throat burns and my nose hurts from over sneezing and coughing, I still manage to make the most out of it.
I was able to accompany Jajas, Papau & Sam to a dentist; watched Jas as he enjoyed McDo playhouse; enrolled for my master's residency; had a coffee & cake with Jody; watched the "National Treasure" movie; and had a nice stroll and silly talk with Jody while nimbling pop-corn-filled fingers.
Then rain poured and I slowly succumed to light headedness. I think I'll be having fever later. too much for enjoying sickness then. acho.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Prom Guilt King
So how was my Junior Prom? a friend asked.
It's been 10 years now, but I can painstakingly recall the night most the young ones waited their entire life with.
Instead of sharing my stories about performing with the band, dancing with the crushes, making fun with the barkada and posing hundred times in front of the camera, I would like to tell a story about the guilt of youth stupidity.
Cottillion marks the beginning of the prom. I was purposely paired with a girl whom I was teased. She's pretty and tall for her age; Though the cruelty of childish thoughts, she was teased because she was skinny.
I hated being teased, and as much as possible tried to avoid it. One day a common friend approached me and handed me a poetry containing my Cottilion partner's name. She was asking that I make a tune for it since I was quite known for composing songs back then. I got teased by my classmates, and to my stupidity I laughed sarcastically. She heard and, I would later on learn, cried.
I took the lyrics with me and went home with guilt.
We were paired to be partners after that. I never got to say sorry, but I tried hard not to step on her feet. She seemed happy with my poor dancing skills. We practiced every afternoon, and though we never talked about her lyrics, I silently tried to make a song out of it every night.
On the night of the junior's prom, we danced. Though I stepped on her feet more than once, she seemed happy with my silliness as I sweat profuriously counting steps.
It was a memorable moment. Oh, and she turned out to be prettier than before; hope she's enjoying every bit of irony.
It's been 10 years now, but I can painstakingly recall the night most the young ones waited their entire life with.
Instead of sharing my stories about performing with the band, dancing with the crushes, making fun with the barkada and posing hundred times in front of the camera, I would like to tell a story about the guilt of youth stupidity.
Cottillion marks the beginning of the prom. I was purposely paired with a girl whom I was teased. She's pretty and tall for her age; Though the cruelty of childish thoughts, she was teased because she was skinny.
I hated being teased, and as much as possible tried to avoid it. One day a common friend approached me and handed me a poetry containing my Cottilion partner's name. She was asking that I make a tune for it since I was quite known for composing songs back then. I got teased by my classmates, and to my stupidity I laughed sarcastically. She heard and, I would later on learn, cried.
I took the lyrics with me and went home with guilt.
We were paired to be partners after that. I never got to say sorry, but I tried hard not to step on her feet. She seemed happy with my poor dancing skills. We practiced every afternoon, and though we never talked about her lyrics, I silently tried to make a song out of it every night.
On the night of the junior's prom, we danced. Though I stepped on her feet more than once, she seemed happy with my silliness as I sweat profuriously counting steps.
It was a memorable moment. Oh, and she turned out to be prettier than before; hope she's enjoying every bit of irony.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Star Gazing
It would be great to see the stars tonight.
Funny, that we do this every night we stare at the star in the Sunken Garden lying flat on the grass; but now I stoop down the pavement most of the time.
Time to see the stars again then.
Funny, that we do this every night we stare at the star in the Sunken Garden lying flat on the grass; but now I stoop down the pavement most of the time.
Time to see the stars again then.
Papa's Birthday Gift (Our Story)
It's my father's birthday today, and I forgot.I felt guilty, not because I don't care; I trully care, but my mind isn't an expert calendar and reminder. The worst time it broke down was when I forgot how old I was.
Forgetting papa's birthday isn't new to me; All my love ones shared the same experience one time or another. But my mind is good in remembering experiences, emotions, smell, sound and even the slightest detail of an event I can only remember.
The best time with my father was the time he can barely remember at all: The time he got drunk. It was the time he opened his life vulnerably to me. Being a father to two young boys, my father would show authority above all else. He was a short-tempered mild-mannered desciplinarian with the wisdom of a philosopher. I looked up at him like the way I looked up at the Rizal's statue at school: neck-hurting and eye-blinding realization. He was superior.
Then I went to college. I learned his mistakes. I've seen his imperfectness. I saw the human that he is. I remember that he would show up in dorm one day extracting what's left in his wallet so I could have a bit of an extra allowance. He was dismayed with what he gave. An emotion slipped out on the look of his face. I comforted him with the biggest thanks I can offer. I began working part-time after that day.
So what of the drunkness? Well it was one of those days I hated most. It was sembreak and I was at home doing nothing. Mama asked me to wait for papa since he would surely come home drunk from a party at work. I waited until 1am.
Then he came with the smell of vomit and beer. He was following zigzag footsteps. He sat down at the couch, unbuttoned his polo and lazily went to sleep. I looked at his state like before: I hated beer for it. Then he suddenly stood up and ran for the restroom with the cheeks all bloated and eye popping trying not to be sick. He released what was left of his meal in the restroom.
I didn't follow and waited instead. The restroom routine took longer than usual. I knocked at the door and was greeted silently by groans and puking sounds. I opened the door and
saw him embracing the bowl.
I cleaned him. He stood up and sat down in front of where I once sat. He was smiling and I followed him annoyingly. Then he talked to me in one of the best memorable stories of his/my life. A memory hidden beneath the superior heart.
He said that my college life isn't hard enough. He told of stories about his youth trying drugs, being stupid, being caught by the police since he was hanging out with rich kids: He pitied his childhood being a son of a carpenter. He told me that mama is the best thing that ever happened to him, that mama is smarter than him. He said that he tries hard to be a father. He was pleading that I make things better for myself. I was crying and he was smiling lost between memories and alcohol.
He stood up, patted my left shoulder stronger than usual and went upstairs to sleep, leaving me lost in self-realization.
He woke up the next day remembering nothing of the night before.
I woke up the next day loving him more.
Happy Birthday Pa!
Forgetting papa's birthday isn't new to me; All my love ones shared the same experience one time or another. But my mind is good in remembering experiences, emotions, smell, sound and even the slightest detail of an event I can only remember.
The best time with my father was the time he can barely remember at all: The time he got drunk. It was the time he opened his life vulnerably to me. Being a father to two young boys, my father would show authority above all else. He was a short-tempered mild-mannered desciplinarian with the wisdom of a philosopher. I looked up at him like the way I looked up at the Rizal's statue at school: neck-hurting and eye-blinding realization. He was superior.
Then I went to college. I learned his mistakes. I've seen his imperfectness. I saw the human that he is. I remember that he would show up in dorm one day extracting what's left in his wallet so I could have a bit of an extra allowance. He was dismayed with what he gave. An emotion slipped out on the look of his face. I comforted him with the biggest thanks I can offer. I began working part-time after that day.
So what of the drunkness? Well it was one of those days I hated most. It was sembreak and I was at home doing nothing. Mama asked me to wait for papa since he would surely come home drunk from a party at work. I waited until 1am.
Then he came with the smell of vomit and beer. He was following zigzag footsteps. He sat down at the couch, unbuttoned his polo and lazily went to sleep. I looked at his state like before: I hated beer for it. Then he suddenly stood up and ran for the restroom with the cheeks all bloated and eye popping trying not to be sick. He released what was left of his meal in the restroom.
I didn't follow and waited instead. The restroom routine took longer than usual. I knocked at the door and was greeted silently by groans and puking sounds. I opened the door and
saw him embracing the bowl.
I cleaned him. He stood up and sat down in front of where I once sat. He was smiling and I followed him annoyingly. Then he talked to me in one of the best memorable stories of his/my life. A memory hidden beneath the superior heart.
He said that my college life isn't hard enough. He told of stories about his youth trying drugs, being stupid, being caught by the police since he was hanging out with rich kids: He pitied his childhood being a son of a carpenter. He told me that mama is the best thing that ever happened to him, that mama is smarter than him. He said that he tries hard to be a father. He was pleading that I make things better for myself. I was crying and he was smiling lost between memories and alcohol.
He stood up, patted my left shoulder stronger than usual and went upstairs to sleep, leaving me lost in self-realization.
He woke up the next day remembering nothing of the night before.
I woke up the next day loving him more.
Happy Birthday Pa!
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