Monday, November 28, 2005


I stare transfixed at the glowing moon in the misty November sky. Selene wears her crown tonight; she is the glorious queen of the dark sky. She blankets me with a cool comforting light, she is gentle, she is soothing. She is unlike Helios who has blinded me with his fire.

She rises to her zenith before midnight, and holds the heavens her throne. She teases the other heavenly beings immortalized in the dark firmament. They twinkle, they sparkle, they dance; but they are no match for her majesty tonight.

Her sorrows are hidden, and her face is impassive. Yet I sense the loneliness in her heart. She is grieving. And I weep with her. In this dark hour.

Too soon, Aurora limbers in the eastern sky, and I must close my eyes. The icy wind warms with Helios’ fire, and I feel the sting. I shall weep with Selene another time.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Of Broken Hearts and Love

Too often, young men and women lose their faith in themselves and humanity when their hearts get crushed to a pulp, beaten blue, shattered into a million pieces, torn asunder, or to put it simply, broken apart. Love becomes a traitor, it becomes a taunt, it tortures the weeping soul to no end. The whole experience would seem like a curse, a haunting nightmare, and a sort of death to many. There is gut-wrenching pain, a black void, a loss of something so precious and dear. Heartbreak is one thing each person experiences in some way in one's lifetime, something as permanent as life and death itself. 

The loss of a love happens to anyone, whether expected or not.

The experience has seen history and literature chronicle its many forms, dramatic or extraordinary in some way. Love is lost in palaces and cobblestoned streets, in meadows and in gardens, on land or at sea, in times of peace or in times of upheaval. Music and dance express the swirling human emotions as it evokes bittersweet memories in sound and movement. Little ditties end up sounding like funeral dirges, notes start in a minor key, and mournful voices are raised to the high heavens. Dance becomes a melancholy affair, alternately swirling with the desperation and denial of loss, a call to the fickle Cupid to bring the loved one back in one's arms. Even science involves itself in the experience of the loss of a love, mystified by the psychosomatic diseases brought upon by heartbreak.

A young man would often cry inside, face the world unsmiling, forcing his way through his usual routine without his beloved, volatile and sensitive. He may choose to talk and talk and talk, or not talk at all. He would either get drunk, get angry, or get incredibly and emotionally mushy in trying to deal with the loss. He contemplates whether it really was his fault that the girl left him for a better guy, whether he should take revenge (if the guy is a bastard and an arsole and a half), or whether he should come crawling back to the girl of his dreams. Ask him if he's alright, and he replies with a shrug or a grunt, then leaves in a huff. He goes out with the guys, drowning his sorrows in the bottles of vodka or cheap beer, seeking other guys' opinion on why he should stop pitying himself and start looking for another girl. Or maybe he sheds a tear before his head hits the sack for a dreamless sleep. He may start exhibiting self-destructive behavior like punching a concrete wall until his fist becomes a gnarled mass of broken bone and tissue, cutting his wrists, taking out his anger and pain on helpless animals (psycho alert!), or pretty much anything that points to 'wimping out because of the emotional pain' aka suicide. 

The young woman would show up with puffy eyes, and a face that could make a gargoyle weep and flee. Her friends will give her a hug while she slowly finishes off a bar of chocolate to relieve her anxiety. She would engage in picking at her food, even if it were so delicious, but she has no appetite for it. She goes around walking like a zombie, paying almost no attention to the boring lectures, and automatically checks her cellphone for any sign of the lost beloved. After all, the lost beloved was the first one who proclaimed his extreme like for her, and wooed her with his best gentlemanly ways. She's always wondering how the gentleman died and was replaced by an asshole who couldn't keep his eyes (and probably his hands) roving over other young women. She might engage in long sessions with the bottle, or sweets, but in the end, she calls for a big girl powwow with her barkada amidst junk food and movies like Troy where the eye candy is much much much better than the average schmuck that she once dated. What man doesn't have the beauty and brawn of Hector, Achilles, or Paris?

Now where was I?

Oftentimes, these young men and women seek comfort in words and the company of friends who can help absorb the shock and the grief. Too many times, the heartbroken are filled with bitterness and hate. They would profess that love is a joke, a bane, a cruelty, probably knowing that deep inside their hearts, it would the first thing that can heal them. 

As a friend, I am to soothe their agitation, to apply some balm to their raw hearts, to whisper words of comfort, to wipe away the endless tears, to listen to their pained thoughts, to interrupt their hyperventilation with a glass of water, to lull them to a dreamless sleep when they are too hurt, to let them vent their anger in the soccer field, and to love them despite their temporary insanity. The expense of boxes of Kleenex, cups of hot choco or low-fat frappes, cellphone load for endless messages and calls, retail therapy, DVD rentals, gym memberships, arcade tickets, go-cart passes, shooting range tokens, and spa treatments are nothing when it comes to helping a friend in dire need of reassurance and comfort. After all, I did go through the same thing, and they were my pillars of strength when I initially had nothing to start with.

I observe a remarkable phenomenon that after the storm, one emerges battered yet not beaten. One may hurt over the loss over any given period of time before acceptance finally sinks in. And one moves on, leaving some part of the self with the past with a resolve to seek love again.

How powerful love can be.

Tuesday, October 4, 2005

I Used to Believe In

It's raining. Again. The dark clouds herald late afternoon showers that slake the thirst of the parched earth. It's at this time that any sane person would rather roll around a soft, warm bed, and sigh how good life has been. It's perfect for reminiscing how the world made perfect sense when you were a such a tiny squirt. Your brain simply shuts out the urgency of the many requirements for school, your take on your probably highly dysfunctional family, the self-pitying attitude because your social life has suffered for so long, and the agitation due to the fact that human love is never perfect. You bring yourself back in time when everything seemed so simple, light, and worry-free. It's not that you can't leave the past behind, it's more of you're cherishing hazy memories that make you smile and cringe at the same time.

It was wonderful when you could play patintero, taguan, agawan base, piko, langit-lupa, and the myriad of other games that would seem so boring now that you're officially an adult. You never minded the sweat, the scrapes, the petty fights, and the lecture from the helper or the parents because you came home madungis and amoy araw. You never cared because you had the time of your life, your playmates were there (even if some of them didn't play fair), and because you could always look forward to another day of that. You believed the world was full of happy games and sweet things you could share with others. These games continued for the greater part of your childhood, even when you were at school. During summer, you would fake the afternoon nap, and rush out the house when the sun wasn't scorching anymore. Even the rain didn't stop your troop from finding substitutes for your sunny-day activities; you could always just dance to the cool sheets of water, fling mud at each other, or catch frogs to show to your horrified parents once they get home.

When the times came that you had to differentiate between good and bad, you played Langit-Lupa or variations of it. It was unfortunate to be the taya, because you were the "devil"; trying to tag a poor little human into freezing to his/her place before he/she could reach heaven. Of course, it was even more infuriating that there were "angels"; (unfrozen humans) who could
also tag their fellow frozen humans before you get them and manage to "SAVE!" all of them. And there were these make believe levels where you could also stay before reaching heaven... earth, water, sky...heaven. 

Other times, it was the Power Rangers (so now, you're guessing my age) that took on. You needed three guys and two girls to do the martial arts thing while transforming into the then highly awesome quintet of Red Ranger, Blue Ranger, Black Ranger, Pink Ranger, and Yellow Ranger. And you'd be calling out your dino-robots, "Mastodon! Saber-Tooth Tiger! Triceratops! Pterodactyl! Tyrannosaurus Rex!" so that they could morph into a humanoid robot that all five of you could control to defeat the monster that evil beings from the moon sent to earth. Always, two girls would fight over who would be the cute Pink Ranger, the only Power Ranger who had a miniskirt over her latex tights. And the Pink Ranger would dream of her crush becoming the evil Green Ranger that transforms into the White Ranger... and perhaps into the Gold Ranger? And then you needed to find playmates who could play the plasma head in the glass (the Power Rangers' boss) and the robot that always said "Ay-yay-yay-yay-yay!"

Or one could rush to the neighborhood playground, holding your own version of kiddie Olympics on the equipment. You would compete on who could swing the highest, pushing off the ground with much gusto, and feeling the rush of the wind while you barrel past each other's faces. You were introduced to elementary physics of the seesaw, figuring which playmate should take on which side so that the wooden beam stays balanced even when you all hit the ground screaming with delight. You save a part of the monkey bars as your own while trying to weave yourself in and out of the steel mesh in the fastest time possible to reach the top. You hurl yourself at the merry-go-round, making yourself spin until you were ready to barf at the grass. You would also race around the village on your bikes, trying to outrun the rabid dogs that would break loose from their chains once they see hordes of children having fun.

But enough games now. I don't think I'm going in a clear direction anymore.

It's better for me to look back on the times when I believed in Tooth Fairy, the magical woman who would reward every baby tooth you lost. I was envisioning her to be a very beautiful ethereal being very similar to the Blue Fairy from AI or Pinocchio. I was so happy to visit my dentist then because by some reason, my baby teeth wouldn't fall out even if my adult teeth were already there. For me not to see how frighteningly large the syringe was, she made up this whole story about Tooth Fairy who rewarded all the little kids who lost their teeth, due to natural causes or through artificial means. This Tooth Fairy thing continued, and I was happy most of the time because if it weren't ice cream or stationery supplies, it was baby toiletries that I got. I dutifully waited for my milk teeth to fall out until one day, when I noticed that the cute tube of powder I received contained a message with a handwriting very similar to that of my mom's. Things went so quickly inside my brain that my mom could not even think of an excuse to explain such. That was the end of my beautiful tooth fairy days, but up to this day, my mom is kind enough to buy me vanilla yogurt every time I need to have tooth surgery done for my braces.

And what kid does not believe in Santa Claus? He was the rotund, jolly, Caucasian man with twinkling eyes and a great liking to milk and cookies who would drop by on Christmas Eve with presents for good boys and good girls. Children with fervent hopes of a new bicycle, a new truck, a new doll, etc would try to behave themselves during the Christmas season in anticipation of St. Nicholas' reward (and much to the relief of the frazzled parents rushing during the holidays). Americanized as any kid would be, I always put up my linen sock-shaped "stocking" to be filled up by Santa during the night when I could not understand why we ate ham, queso de bola, pudding, and various sweetmeats while drinking hot chocolate. The only part I understood was that it was Christmas, people were nice to each other, there was a Christmas tree (plastic or otherwise) festooned with glittering balls, angels, strings of light, and a star or an angel on top, Christmas lights were blinking and frantically playing its preprogrammed song with blinks, the adults seemingly wanted to fill up my piggy bank, and people exchanged gifts. I would always wake up to a bulging stocking and find a surprise in there on Christmas day when it was dastardly to wake up to screams of "Merrri Krismas po! Hapi Nyu
Yeer!" from the less fortunate, the garbage collectors, the traffic enforcers, the village security, the mailman, the bills collectors, etc. I would not always get what I wanted but I figured, maybe Santa was really so busy and hectic, so I was just thankful he remembered. (Besides, I wasn't always on my best behavior.) 

It just so happened that even as a child, I was a light sleeper, and I easily woke up to the even the wind, the rustling of the grass in the garden, or my ticking clock. One Christmas night, while my parents were at their usual Santa Claus operation code named "Open the Window Screen and Drop the Gift," I stirred. My parents tried to lessen their noise to subsonic levels but to no avail. I woke up, and the grouch that I am, sort of growled at the intruders; my dad shot out of sight down the window and my mom ran out of my room. With this epiphany, I realized my childhood was over, and for the next Christmases, I spent my holidays helping wrap gifts, saving my allowance to buy gifts for others when my parents ran short, and making sure other children still believed in Santa.

I might have forgotten to be completely like a child already, or that my mind, saturated with too much science, might not accept the fictitional characters anymore. But I still am a child at heart. I still love chocolate milk, even if it has to be in the soy variant because my adult tummy has lost all it lactase. I can bury my face in the twenty-peso cloud of cotton candy and shoot to the moon with joy. I can finish off a bag of hot pan de sal every morning with the requisite kesong puti and Batangas tsokolate. I still love blowing bubbles when my heart is inconsolable. I laugh easily, kahit sobrang babaw lang talaga.

I grow into a new person seeking the fullness of life and at the same time, trying to rediscover the joys in the simple things around me through child-like eyes. It always hits me, this fact, that my happiness lies not in the material things I gain, but in the fleeting moments I have managed to remember and shall continue to cherish to eternity. I may not be the next Paris Hilton who can easily reject a heavy diamond engagement ring because the gem was yellow, but I remain happy in the realization that my life is so rich in all the wonderful things. I used to believe in happiness in simple things and the many trivialities of my childhood, and I'm amused to see that I still believe in the frugal joys of life.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

The Incontinence of the Skies

The steel skies have been pouring out all its might all week. It is as though the clouds have been holding pissing contests this week; the cloud that pisses the longest and with the most “piss” wins. Hence the spectacular showers and gusts of water from the polluted seas, and the frustrating traffic jams during the early morning and late afternoon rush. Funny how the clouds have the most perfect timing that causes the greatest inconvenience to the inhabitants of the metropolis. Now, it is early morning, maybe just past midnight, and I listen to the forceful splatter of water onto plants, concrete, and steel. Some people still refer this to “it's raining cats and dogs.” Some people say that heaven is shedding copious tears, weeping over the most heartbreaking sorrows. I prefer to be a jerk and name it, “the incontinence of the skies.” 

The never ending downpour leaves umbrellas, windbreakers, closed shoes, or even vinyl raincoats useless. People get around cold and wet and miserable. Damp socks squish inside waterlogged sneakers or hammertime feet get uglier by the second in slippery flip flops meant for torrid summers. Umbrellas get broken when the owner needs it most. Windbreakers get soaked and heavy and useless. Every canopy, bus stop, waiting shed is maximized at this time, packed with people trying to wait out the fierce gusts of water and air.

Students like me look up to the heavens, imploring for the suspension of classes to buy us more time to try and catch up. We are too lazy to get up in cold, damp mornings to eat, bathe, and commute to the bestial 7 am class with an equally bestial professor. The people who are working already hopefully peek at the windows and streets for any sign of a terrible downpour that will render them stranded inside their own homes. People in the streets try to find shelter in any form, huddling against any warm and dry object, alternately praying to and cursing the heavens for the deluge that will leave them shivering and tubercular in its aftermath.

But do I hate the rain? No. It cleanses somehow, even if the water came from the largest and foulest bodies of water of the land. It nourishes the wildlife. It sweeps the waste of the urban cities into large congealed masses of garbage that block drainage systems, forcing people to clean up. This has people starting on why it is the government's fault that dirty brown floodwaters teeming with pathogens once again ruin their homes and their possessions. And I amuse myself when I hear them blame everybody else but themselves when they are guilty of flinging the plastic bags, bottles, hazardous waste, and God-knows-what in their own rubbish piles. At least, I reassure myself, we know how to cope when such things happen. 

The (insert any dirty noun here; bastard, racists, etc) in the US never knew how to deal with the Katrina disaster. The governor said, “Oh, it's just rain…” while the mayor proceeded to evacuate his immediate family to Texas while watching the poor and the blacks and the poor blacks get stranded in their homes or in the Dome with no food, water, medicine, or clothes. People there won't even help each other in the crisis, preferring to murmur, “My God, we're like in the third world already!” when their evacuation centers have gleaming floors, warm cots, and organized logistics. They feel that hustling to help is way below them, and in desperation, would turn to looting and other forms of crime to get by. People there are just so stupid to think that they can lie back and wait for the government to do everything for them; they're actually shocked that their government is unprepared. It's so tempting to say, welcome to the real world, buster. Your “third world brown brothers” have experienced such disappointments since time immemorial, we've just learned to cope with the government's shortcomings big time.

Enough of this griping. Now I think maybe this is a great time for manufacturers of diapers and pads to prove that their product really does absorb as much water as it can hold.

So maybe now the weather's turning me weird.

I love the rain.

Friday, June 17, 2005

Sa Pusod ng Dagat...Ano Daw?

My last topic consisted of a rather asinine discussion of the word bellybutton and its previously unknown Tagalog counterpart. It was rather a relief for me, literally and figuratively, to finally chance upon the native term for the navel, which is pusodPusod is the navel literally, and so my friends say, should not be confused with the word puson that is the rather noticeable tummy part below the navel for most women. The puson becomes rather enlarged due to lack of proper exercise, pregnancy, or the monthly visitor, and has a tendency to make one's shopping trip miserable when one discovers that a beautiful pair of bottoms cannot fit or look right.

Anyway, the word pusod is also a mystery to me in the sense that it was used in the phrase sa pusod ng dagat. (I remember this Tagalog flick that was titled Sa Pusod Ng Dagat; and I don't know or care what it was all about.) Does it literally mean “the navel of the sea?” The sea actually has a navel? (Hello, sorry, bimbo moment right here...) Does the phrase refer to a part of the sea much deeper than usual, or where the oceanic crust (oh, the Geo 11 nerd in me!) is much thinner that you can actually skewer the mantle after drilling into it a few meters or so? Is it the part of the ocean once connected to land? Somebody better give me an answer quick because such questions give me insomnia most nights...

Speaking of insomnia, isn't it quite irritating when your body clock goes haywire on you? Most people actually do experience what I shall term anticipatory insomnia. When you have an early class/engagement/meeting/event the next day, the body simply refuses to get a much needed 6-8 hours of sleep to keep the mind fresh and the body energized the next day. You wake up groggy and crabby after some 0-2 hours of light sleep. When you have nothing much to do or things of little importance to you, your body simply hits the pillows as if hypnotized by the bed itself. Or sometimes, you have an exam or a major project due the next day and you take a little “5-minute” nap expecting to get an energy boost, only to wake up the next day in horror upon realizing you've slept for fourteen hours straight, with nothing on your hands or the fact that you have no excuse for missing the exam. Then there are the days when you have nothing to pass or that you have no classes but then your stupid human shell suddenly has this bright idea of adapting the “early-to-bed, early-to rise” or “the early bird gets the worm” or “an early bird is a nice obedient virtuous bird” sort of thing. Crazy isn't it?

Now, you have to excuse me because I have to ponder on my list of life's greatest mysteries and why I dreamt of bacon (yummy, crispy, golden brown, and full of nitrates that can kill me before I'm thirty sort) all night last night.

Tuesday, June 14, 2005

Belly Button

Can the word "belly button" be translated into Tagalog? This morning I woke up with a jolt, trying to remember if I had classes or not. It dawned on me that this was a Wednesday, my mid-week sanity break, and proceeded to think about my life's greatest mysteries today, the Tagalog counterpart of belly button being one of them. My Tagalog-English and English-Tagalog vocabulary has suffered from neglect for the past few years; I haven't heard, spoken, or written in straight Tagalog since elementary with the exception of trying to explain Machiavelli to my Soc Sci II professor last semester. I can't find the proper term for belly button in Tagalog, and I can't even remember the anatomically-correct description for the little strange hole that isn't actually a hole that once connected me to my mother's uterine lining.

Don't get me all started on my English now because I can no longer enunciate words properly as well; what usually starts out as the word "sheet" in my brain is somehow abbreviated by my tongue (and to my horror) as somehow sounding more like "shit." I comfort myself that I still haven't reached the point where I exchange f for p or pronounce spaghetti like "is-pa-ge-ti." There was a time when people were asking me for the literal translation of the Tagalog word pangingilo/nangingilo" and I couldn't help but laugh because the first words that came to my mind was the line from the Sensodyne commercial "Pain when you eat cold or hot foods." It was quite a mouthful considering that pangingilo is the sudden stabbing pain you feel upon eating food that is heated or cooled to a temperature very unlike your teeth that has been rendered sensitive by God-knows-what. Hahaha, the mysteries of translation where chemistry becomes kimika or kapnayan. But asshole that I can be, I still snigger when other people mispronounce words like sheep or fringing; sheep sounded like shep from a History classmate and fringe in the word fringing became “free-ng-ngeeng” when pronounced by my Physics professor.

Speaking of belly button, it is still a mystery to me why some people are outties and some are innies. (If you don't know what outtie or innie means, it is this: you're an outtie when your belly button protrudes and an innie if it doesn't.) Is it because of the way the umbilical cord is cut and clamped by the midwife or ob-gyne? Does it have to do with one being unusually active as a child inside the mom's womb that results to being an outtie or the nurse accidentally pulling off all the umbilical cord that results to being an innie? Some people actually make a big issue of what the belly button looks like, i.e. that it looks the print model look ugly or that it protrudes too much that the MTRCB has to sanction the TV host to wear nipple tape over her belly button. Pregnant women usually become outties if they were innies in the first place; pregnant outties usually become mega-outties like Kelly Ripa when she's pregnant.

The more mysterious thing to me is why people are so sensitive in the belly button area. Is it because the skin is thinner there? I remember the time I accidentally brushed against the belly button of my ex (we were not fooling around, mind you) and he recoiled in horror. I asked him why and he told me that his childhood nanny used to scare him that if you touch the belly button, you can eventually puncture the skin and touch your bloody innards. (Now what kind of story is that?) It somehow stuck to his mind and wouldn't even dare clean his belly button with cotton swabs and oil without sucking his breath first. Even some people recoil like my ex when I ask them if they clean theirs regularly; they are probably as afraid as my ex because some yaya of theirs told them the same ridiculous story when they were younger. I have no problems with my belly button and I am still mystified that I am the only one not squeamish enough to poke it.

Belly button was actually my mom's term of endearment, along with mahal, or anak. It rhymes with my real nick and becomes K.B.B. when my mom fully pronounces it. She rarely uses it now that I am legally an adult but somehow, she uses it when she makes lambing or wants me to be her baby again. I am actually on my last year of being a teenager and no longer quite a baby except for my occasional tantrum or panic attack. Makes me feel so old and young at the same time. Hehehe, I wonder if my mom will smile and pout sadly at the same time if she gets to read this. Advanced happy birthday, Ma. Thanks for my new room and bath room.