A floor above an emptied city, I gingerly treaded away, step by step, the gastronomic sins of the day along with other forlorn gymbunnies. Hop for hop, sweatdrop by sweatdrop, chasing the proverbial carrot of health and well-being, we were whiling away the hours in yet another nameless weeknight.
We, the assembled gymbunnies, happily paid for this trip which included an unexpectedly absorbing diorama of everyday life. This welcome distraction mostly consisted of nameless cars and people walking across a park, a hotel, ye ol' 6750 and a certain roadside curb where our fateful story conveniently plays out.
There, in the settling 8pm gloom, a man walked toward the curb and stood there, a tad too stolidly. His stance was sharp and posture, perfect but the frequent glances at the cellphone he held spoke familiar volumes. Clad in sleeves and slacks, there was about him a kind of after-office grimness, a matter-of-factness that frowns at inefficiency and excess. He was waiting for somebody and was apparently not enjoying it.
I watched as people strolled, cars passed and minutes ticked by. But I couldn't help coming back to this guy, the bare concrete spot he brazenly chose, and the struggle he endured. He stood there alone, far removed and yet so plainly in sight, available for any and all prying eyes to elaborate and criticize. He was brave, this nameless curbside stranger, or stubbornly apathetic.
And still I continued my pace as he, contrarily, continued his lack thereof. That I think, was when I started to sympathize. We were unified in purpose: a common enmity of the unfaltering cadence of seconds. Fervently, we endured the minutes waiting for the one thing to complete us. He fought for love and I, for wellness. We were joined in our own pursuits of happiness.
We had a lot of fight in us too, I thought. But alas, it was too late. We were father time's captives, imprisoned in the ponderous eternity of minutes.
Being a gymbunny though, however ocularly fun, had other responsibilities besides staring at everyone else. So, I stepped off and hopped off in search of other carrots. But before I did, I closed my eyes(and wrinkled my bunny-ears?) and wished my comrade luck and happiness.
I'd always believed that the most potent of wishes are those that are meant for someone else. A selfless blessing I wish everyone I meet, silently of course.
As luck would have it, I stepped out of the gym in time to see curbside-stranger's tale conclude. Right behind me was his object of thought, desire and, obviously, utter dismay. Number 2 approached. chided and kidded away at him in the secret language of lovers. He stood there, back-to-friend, hailing a taxi cab with gritted teeth. The camp-fire glow of his eyes betrayed him though. His love deftly proven, he stood there in the street, hand out-stretched, triumphant.
I smiled behind them and wished them both luck, but I knew they hardly needed it. He hardly needed it, that roadside champion. He could have waited for hours and days and weeks, it wouldn't have mattered. I knew, 'cause I would have done the same thing.
It's 2008. And so far, the first unbidden 38 minutes of it have been a veritable blast. In the sky (malamang alamang! haha!) and in the little things like the solicitous breath of my own room, the offhand caress of "New Year" text-messages and the gentle throb of wine in my veins, I could feel the ripples of change crash, clench, steal a chunk of today, then double-back.
It got tempting, to just sit, wait and watch. But mostly, I wondered what the world will turn into next, sitting there quietly in my complacent computer-chair. A few minutes and a sore-ass later, the realization that things won't appreciably change in the span of time I can stay-up awake --or that my bedroom wall was no place to watch the whole wide world change anyway-- got me scavenging for 2008 resolutions.
Which left me confused. Hackneying together a selfish list of dreams and desires, I ended up with a list to look forward to instead:
- attempt to add Singapore and Bohol to ye old 'Been There-Done That' list
- jump on the fitness bandwagon of gym memberships
- repeatedly swipe a credit card and dent that oh-so-generous credit limit
- finish that darned documentation
- learn, speak, write and (with luck) eat more Japanese stuff
- renovate, but mostly fix, the house
Resolute, I decided to get over myself and start livin' it up some more! This time around, I'll be the change I've been waiting for all along.
And there I saw that the world ain't so new. Today doesn't feel all that changed. My room's accommodating groans resound still. Text-messages peck and pout the same convenient tunes. Wine's gone but the heady, tipsy feeling remains as always.
But deep down, my soul burns and crackles with fiery resolve. I feel different and, 365 days from now, I think that'd make all the difference.
Then again, that could just be the wine. Happy New Year everyone ^_^
Today marks the first day in a long while since I've spent some quality time with the junk in my room. They've grown considerably since last we crossed broomsticks and clashed dust-bunnies and, between the allergic sniffles and sneezes, I can't help but get overcome with mixed emotions. I apparently have got mounds of stuff, which is actually quite nice, but I have to pose this question:
"What the heck do I do with all these boxes, twist-ties, warranties, manuals, peripherals, fliers, contact numbers and a lone package of pistachios?"
Before you answer that and while I casually sift through my unintended collection of capitalist debris, lemme run through the last few weeks, just for shits and giggles.
I hosted a party. Yes, yours truly got the nefarious chance to hog a live microphone and tell silly things to an audience of 70 all night long. It was at the formal company party held in one of Dusit Hotel's uber-slick ballrooms. That fateful night concluded my deliriously-long weeks of frenzied xmas chorale-ing, instantaneous movie shoot-ing, misplaced novelty dance-ing and the hyped-up -- but still pretty -- christmas party invitations make-ing.
It was, of course, fun and I walked away a learned man: additional audio editing skills, some photoshop kung-fu, impromptu hosting non-sense and, most importantly, learning the true meaning of busy. So busy, you don't-get-to-take-a-bath busy. So busy, I don't-remember-when-I-didn't-take-a-bath-but-thanks-for-asking busy.
I also sang a song. Along with all the christmas party preparations, I've been practicing my ass off --or more literally, my larynx off-- singing Mozart's sonorous rendition of Ave Maria. It was meant to be a solo piece but Tito Cesar cautiously shifted me to a duet with the talentedly-tantalizing Ms. Jean. This was after realizing my execution of this tenor piece's upper octave La was either un-masculinely weak or bestially bothering. In my attempt to reach the note with the proper fullness of tone, I keep bleating out like an angry, molested sheep.
We managed though, plenty of thankzies to Ms. Jean, and the solo-turned-duet played out without incident. And I got to play my sax for the married couple's first dance. Yey!
I welcomed my sister, too. She came back on the 23rd and she's slowly settling back to the humdrum glum of home life here on the Philippine Isles. As is customary with any Filipino family on any Filipino Holiday: a reunion, we went to. Between watching London get "Flood"-ed and the "Winter Sonata" guy calling down Byakko, Genbou and Seiryuu on TV, my sister took a lot of marriage-related heat from my relatives.
She's chipper now, and I wish her this christmas all the luck and support she needs... as well as a brand-spanking-new DVD player (with USB input)! Booyah! Now who's a good little-bro! Yeah!
By the way, I panicked over my PSP. My PSP-endowed friends would already know about this since my panic included calling each one of them (there's 3 of 'em) and telling them to calmly take-off the PSP crystal case and then burn it with the foulest flames in the deepest pits of goddamn hell. The gosh-darned-tootin thing that was meant to protect ended up strangling my precious instead. The select key got stuck select-ing and the little white lad's been in repair since wednesday hence. Pray for him; pray for my half-a-month's worth salary.
And oh yeah, I gave a kid a smile. Old high-school friends threw a christmas party for orphaned kids at an SOS center in Ayala. I hung-out with the cheeky young lad Gelo, balloon-whiz Ryan and lotsa other really, really excitable kids for two hours. Those two whole fun-filled hours left me with a vacant look and helplessly feeling old. This must be what being a parent feels like.
I enjoyed a wedding yesterday. It was my long-unseen 2nd cousin Paddie's day at the rustic church nestled deep in Guadalupe, and night at the historical Coconut Palace. The whole day was simply beautiful. The choir songs were beautiful, the sunset was beautiful, the guests were beautiful, and Lorrie was terribly beautiful. She bloomed and blossomed that night and though I didn't know her, I understand and shared her happiness. And Kurt Vonnegut (Baader Meinhoff!!) snuck into the event with his short story "A Long Walk to Forever" which is, unsurprisingly, beautiful as well.
Luckily, I met up with ol' buddies. Before the year ended, Mike rounded everyone up and got the ball rolling for another rollicking booze-fest down south. Everybody was there, although not necessarily at the same time (sorry, mish) and there were plenty of fond hello's and unexpected exchanging of trunks and trinkets. Macaroon's too! Indigestion not included!
It's been a whirlwind of a month. The length and breadth of this post pretty much proves that "there's no rest for the wicked" and though I'd rather not think of myself as "wicked", I'm just not as sure anymore.
Dad put me aside one time and told me that's just how it is: the business of growing-up is a juggling act. Learning to frolic with friends and family; to woe work and wackiness; and to hug health and happiness, that pretty much sums up the rest of adult life.
It's tiring, but whenever I manage to pull it off, the feeling of accomplishment is spectacular. Making the most of every moment, living each fleeting second as if it's my last, I owe it to all the decapitated, the paraplegics, the comatose and the debilitated to enjoy each and every lucid thought, savvy shuffle, synapse fire and unbounded freedom that life's got to offer.
And though I can't make junk juice out of all this junk life handed me, I think I'll manage. Dust-bunnies or no dust-bunnies.
I wanna write. I really do. And after watching a movie like "eternal sunshine of the spotless mind", I can't help but think there really is a lot more to writing than I think I ever really, knowingly, and honestly can handle.
I put words to such shame, but actually it's mostly mine involuntarily imparted. Perhaps I try too hard to make it all out into some intelligible jumble of words that, with enough adjectives, might come off as sweet and romantic. But in the end, all I really end up is a long grieved sigh, hardly at par with anything salable off a bookshelf.
This is a writing fixation, if this urge of mine was a condition. This romance with words and phrases could simply be my prolonged attempt to find someone who understands. Someone silly enough to wade through all this syntax and plow through my metaphors. I may be the lexical equivalent of Rapunzel: my life as my tower and my words the trailing length of hair secretly calling for help.
It's a family thing. We never really say we love each other, though we do. It's a pretty disdainful habit we've acquired, to keep those 3 words in the same place we keep "Take care" and "Good luck". They've become trailing statements, open-ended sentiments that hardly deserve eye-contact or an emotional sparkle.
But we do tell each other we love each other. This strange familial wall of pride isn't as solid and cold as I'd like to embellish it. I noticed it at first whenever my parents took me to class. Whatever time or place my first schedule would be, as far as Quezon City or as early as a sunshine-free morning, they never said they couldn't. And if they did, it wasn't immediately. They'd meticulously check each and every possible plan to make it all work out. Make it all work out for me.
And I found it there. A hidden kind of love that throbs and warms up our home discreetly, like the safety net that was there all along, warm socks I've always taken for granted.
And they taught me that. To love a love so silent. To let my heart whisper to other hearts quietly, as I walk past you along the hallway, as I help you out with your code, as I invite you for a game of badminton.
And if you do find out, put them all together and learn what I've felt and I've waited for all along, that'd make it all the more special. Just like in the movies.
Nakangiti na lamang akong naglalakad pauwi. Ni sumbat o salamat, tahimik na dumaan ang anino ko sa tapat ng mga tulog na bahay, sa ilalim ng nakabantay na langit. Konting yapak pa at makikita ko na ang bahay ko; konting tulak pa makakahiga na ko uli; konti na lang at "safe" na ko, iwas muna sa mga taya sa habulang-laro ng buhay.
Natikman ko ang totoong pagod nung huling linggo. Hindi ko namamalayan, naubos na lang yung siglang iniipon ko sa puso. Dahil na rin siguro sa kalayuan ng payday, pero alam ko na ang tunay na salarin ay ang akin ding maselang puso. Napisa sa walang-tigil na pangangamba sa darating na exam sa linggo.
Nung kinagabihan ng biyernes, nakapagpasya na kong umuwi na lamang pagsapit ng alas-singko upang ipagpahinga ang duguang utak. Alam kong nag-iimbita ang ate ko na makipagkita nung gabing din yun. Pero dahil halos alas-diyes pa siya matatapos, sa susunod na araw na lang kami magkikita: sa fort sa mas makataong oras na alas-dose ng hapon.
Tumawag si mum at pilit na binago nya ang isip ko. Mag-aral na lang daw ako sa isa sa maraming bakanteng upuan ng nasabugang glorietta. Napa-buntonghininga na lang ako at ibinulsa ang cellphone bago ko pa ito maibato.
Parang inaya mo yung lawyer mag-inuman bago mag-bar exam; parang nag-commercial si Kris Aquino sa Deal-Or-No-Deal; parang inaya mong mag-jogging yung may LBM.
Hinintay ko sila sa bakanteng activity center ng glorietta, hawak ang mabigat na libro at pumipikit-pikit sa pagod. Pero nung dumating si ate, Huwaw! parang kape lang! Na-miss pala kita, kahit hindi halata.
At nung linggo, pagkatapos nang exam, pauwi't naglalakad, naramdaman ko ang masiglang tibok ng magaan kong puso. Tumibok sya nung naalala kong magkasama tayong buong pamilya sa kotse. Kumpleto, kahit sandali.
One-sided though it may seem, giving is a gift in itself: a package (willingly) cherished by all parties involved. Perfect for the holiday season, dont'cha think?
It came up last night, while wistfully discussing love and life among friends and drinks. A friend of mine related his unconditional feelings for a certain other, and went on to say that he did everything for this someone, in spite of friendly warnings.
His confession met puzzled looks, and shortly plenty of admonishment. The consensus: there really is such a thing as giving too much, just like there really is such a thing as someone asking too much.
They were right. You ~can~ give too much, so much it hurts. But one thing about life is that the best things are never free. And, at the risk of sounding a wee bit masochistic, nothing makes you appreciate something more than hurting a little bit on the way there.
And, after all, isn't this the stuff of true romance? Of Romeo's death, of Mother Teresa's spirit, of Peter Petrelli's sacrifice? That pain, borne willingly -- isn't that the ultimate proof of love?
My take is simple. Once I find that special someone, I'll give it my all.
So that at the end of a long day, in bed wearily resting the aches and pains of a hard day's work, I'll close my eyes and find myself secretly smiling in the few moments before my dreams take me. A smile borne by the thought that beside me is the reason for all my tireless persistence. In this person lies the reason I live, and I'm the luckiest man on earth for it.
Bits of me are falling through the cracks, and though I have the power to bring what was lost back, I hardly have the will. It's turned into a habit, this sickness of mine, to forget myself.
It's been a very productive few weeks, every hour spent doing something or other justifiable goal diligently and with much gusto. The taste of success is neither sweet nor bitter though, but a strange gray smear of bland on my weary tongue. It's like I've walked for miles only to find I'm back where I started.
Nothing has changed...
... except I've lost along that circuitous way some of the things I've held dear: my friends, my identity, my life.
But this is what I wanted. These are my dreams I'm chasing. This is my conscious choice. This is my heart breaking, with compromise nowhere in sight.
I feel like the butt of college's most prejudiced and hurtfully-accurate remarks: "Antaas ng grades nya, siguro loner yan."
And the worst of it is there's no spinning this into some insightfully positive advise. I guess optimism fell through the cracks, too.
If I was a god -- or, since I'm catholic, a saint -- of something, I'd always hoped to be the one to represent the oh-so-common tune-humming pedestrian. There's a certain inexplicable charm in their carefree grin and beat-driven footwork that snags at my normally-apathetic heart.
And so she, a strange headphone-toting muse, represents this awkward joy of mine, in a makeshift altar to all things brazen and free.
And oh yeah, 1000 main-page hits. Booyah!
If I was a god -- or, since I'm catholic, a saint -- of something, I'd always hoped to be the one to represent the oh-so-common tune-humming pedestrian. There's a certain inexplicable charm in their carefree grin and beat-driven footwork that snags at my normally-apathetic heart.
And so she, a strange headphone-toting muse, represents this awkward joy of mine, in a makeshift altar to all things brazen and free.
And oh yeah, 1000 main-page hits. Booyah!
It's a common enough illness of mine to dream in my sleep what I dream about awake; taunting myself. On a nightly basis, my pillows unwittingly get acquainted with my darkest, most desparate desires. I'm actually quite glad my bedding isn't the type to gossip.
And it's only fair, merciful even, that with every dream comes a swift forgetting. Only small snippets manage to escape my un-consciousness to join me in the waking world. However, these small wounds are painful and remind me of my loss, however imaginary, constantly.
So it's quite unnerving to be confronted by my dreams outside the 4 corners of my bed. Whenever I get close to my desires, I lose all sense and the customary disbelief kicks in automatically. It sickens the hell out of me that whenever this happens, I always start yapping about all-sorta-stuff that sound a lot like false-modesty.
It all started one not-so-special afternoon, just about before the time I wait beside the time-puncher-thingie until 5pm. My boss approached us, in his slow, deliberate shamble and confronted us with his usual thoughtful expression. Not the type to beat around the bush, he off-handedly started asking the 4 of us which have passports.
My heartbeat quickened, and, with every negative answer from my fellows, it shot up a little more. In the end, 2 of us have passports, but since my friend wasn't officialy part of the team yet, our boss told me that it might be me who was up for a business trip to Japan sometime soon.
There it is. The primary reason for all the hours I've toiled, underneath their cheerless flourescent lights and inside their cold cubicle walls, was here.
And somewhere between the sound of my boss' footsteps walking away, the congratulatory remarks and the quaking of my heart, all I could say was: "Whoa. Malabo pa naman yun e."
Deny. Deny. Deny. I guess I was ashamed and quite shocked at how much I wanted it. When my passport-bearing friend asked me if wanted to go, I answered with a resounding "Hell, yeah!" Then, upon realizing my brazen mistake, I quickly placated the situation by telling him he's got as much a chance at it as I do.
All I'm trying to say is: I don't want to count on it. Until I set foot on Japanese soil, I'll be defeatist, waiting for the sound of the alarm clock to take me back to the real world. That same treacherous clock that usualy goes off the moment I stumble and begin to believe.
