Tuesday, February 24

The Uns

Weekend has been uneventful, save perhaps for Gabby, for whom a simple stroll at the malls is as exciting as his first bite of solid, he just couldn't wait to slake his curiosity into the enormous place full of magical lights and big people, and little people like himself. I am happy to note that he's eager to bask in his surroundings with the inquisitiveness of a scientist and the acquiescence of a wise man....he's just a baby, goodness me!

We strolled along the Palm Court of ATC last Sunday. I walked in at the Powerbooks, Gab in tow, and when he saw the kids comfortably lying around reading books, he crawled his way to the early learning books, found a familiar one like that he has at home, flipped through the pages, and that adorable little hand reached it out to me as if saying Mommy, please read this one to me! Of course, I'm more than happy to oblige. If I had all the money in the world to buy him those wonderful books!!!

Back when I was in college, I had met people or a group of people with whom I didn't seem to blend in well, in spite of our collective interests in the same subject matters and courses. There's something about them that didn't sit well with me, I can't exactly point out what it is. I called them the Uns.

They become my reason for un-thinking things that I thought were accepted wisdom, for un-feeling what I felt was a noble outlook. Poetry, for instance. They, the Uns, are bigoted freeloaders who do not think twice about discounting the burden that one feels in trying to express the almost inexpressible beauty of an afternoon rain, or strewn leaves.

For them rain is just one big useless drain of water from an inconsiderate god trying to ruin their day plans indiscriminately, and leaves are dirt on the road, my notions are simply out of whack and maybe i'm just emotionally misaligned. The Uns made me terribly sad.

Well I forgave them. I have almost forgotten about them. Up until the day that I tried my hand in web log. I'm surprised to find out they are still alive. Or at least now I know they are not only from my college, but from real life as well. There are in reality millions of Uns that I unknowingly rub elbows with everyday, and they almost resent the fact that I have begun to recognize them from one conversation, or from one glance. I don't know however if the saying It takes Un to know Un--ringstrue for them...I just know that they are a negative, moribund force thriving only on their brazen point of view and lack of true character. And they are about to take their last pair of legs out of the door...

So much about the poor, poor Uns. I'd rather have the suicides talk to me in my sleep.

Wednesday, February 18

Too Much Too Soon

The middle of the week finds me with an empty mind. There are so many things I'd like to speak of, but I don't know where and how to begin to write down my convoluted thoughts about mostly nothing. The more apt words for me now are Angst-ridden, apprehensive, uneasy, fretful, angry. Gee, I think I've seen too much of people's grumblings, inscrutable though their identities may be over the blogging world, that their miseries seemed to have rubbed off on me. A case of my voracious appetite for peeping into others' business.

Maybe a time off blogging will do some remedy....

Monday, February 16

Post V-Day Thoughts

Back to the daily grind today. Last Saturday, we headed to the malls to do the weekend grocery shopping. I had coaxed Oliver into bringing Gabby and his yaya with us, since it's Valentine's Day. He hasn't planned anything special for us for that day, so I thought this must be a good family day for us. The night before, Oliver went home with his advanced V-day present for me. No roses or chocolates as I have emphatically reminded him. We had unofficially agreed that if we both have to give each other presents for this occasion, it must be something useful and, you guessed it, practical. So when he got home, I was kept in anticipation until he handed me his (unwrapped) gift. A Weighing Scale!!! At first I felt, how blunt of him to give me something so demeaning. Am I THAT FAT already? But on second thought, I appreciated his concern over my health, even if it dampened my romantic mood a little. I gave him a pair of golf socks that he liked, and a card whose message seemed to strike home a good deal, I made tiny drawings of myself and Gabby. I'm glad that he liked it.

Anyway, at the malls, Gabby had a swell time. He was immensely enjoying the world outside his home, reveling at the idea that there are so many people, especially little children, just like him. We brought them to Pixie Forest where even Neng had a great time with the games. Gabby's face was one of delight and awe. When he was six months old, we used to tour him at the arcade, but he only seemed annoyed with all the commotion, he didn't quite understand what was going on. Later on that day, we passed by the toy stores and I had asked Oliver to buy Gabby a rubber ball---he is truly fascinated by the bouncing thing. But Oliver said to wait til payday. Dang, what a damper that is to all of us.

On the Sunday afternoon, we heard mass. Oliver wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, so I brought Gabby and Neng. Again, Gabby's enthusiasm to explore around didn't seem to abate. He wanted to walk around the pews and benches, but the mass was already starting and I couldn't keep him down. So Neng brought him out of the church to watch the other children. In the middle of the mass, I was worried because I couldn't sneak and see if they were okay, so I got up and found them near the entrance door. I took turn in watching over Gabby so Neng could catch a bit of the mass. While outside, Gabby saw these older kids playing basketball and he eagerly ran to them. The sight of a basket ball is marvelous to him, and when the kids let him play with the ball, he was just a spectacle! A one year old kid trying to raise up a big ball and shooting it in mid-air! He must be a basketball star someday!!!

I thank God for everyday that I see Gabby grow into a healthy smart and loving kid.

Friday, February 13


Another workweek has passed, my blogging experience has become to me now like an immersion to an unknown world. In a nutshell, I had expected only a medium where I could unload my thoughts and observations on things that happen to me on a daily basis, but i have seen many online journals that speak of a vast array of emotions and experiences--a hodgepodge of what is truly human...sometimes funny, sometimes sad, at times gothic, or full of ennui and wariness....but often beautiful....i am perpetually in awe.

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day, most of my workmates had gone somewhere in a frenzy to make last minute arrangements for a date, or reserve flowers. I suppose my husband has thought of a small surprise for me as well, but he kept chiding me to forego the whole thing....for practical purposes, as usual. I don't make a big deal out of it honestly, just thinking about Gabby and to bring him somewhere special on the weekend is enough. I'm sure he's earnestly waiting for the chance to try out his newfound skill--walking. He seem to increasingly feel claustrophic in our little space everyday, and wants to explore more.

Oliver is not a the kind who is effusive in his display of love or caring. In spite of his rather fussy and talkative front, he can be reticent when it comes expressing what he feels---especially towards me. Sometimes it is hurtful and disheartening, but he makes up for his shortsightedness in small, and yes---practical---ways.

Hmmm....Valentines has become indeed, just one of "those days".

Thursday, February 12

Poetry in Motion

a favorite poem. written by nikki giovanni.

poetry is motion, graceful as a fawn,
gentle as a teardrop, strong like the eye,
finding peace in a crowded room.
we poets tend to think our words are golden
though emotion speaks too loudly
to be defined by silence.
sometimes after midnight, or just before the dawn, we sit,
typewriter in hand, pulling loneliness around us,
for (getting) our lovers or children who are sleeping, ignoring
the weary wariness of our own logic to compose a poem--
no one understands it
it never says love me, for poets are beyond love
it never says accept me, for poems seek not acceptance but controversy
it only says I am, and therefore I concede that you are, too.
a poem is pure energy, horizontally contained between
the mind of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing, discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not delight, discard the heart
for poetry is joy
if it does not inform, then close off the brain
for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that Life is precious
which is all we poets
wrapped in our loneliness
are trying to say...
The Color Purple


I have developed an empathy with the blacks after sitting through The Color Purple last night. I am presently basking in the light of a goldberg, winfrey, deserata jackson and of a nikki giovani who introduced me to black poetry. The color was so vividly moving that I had to cry with so much heart, in spite of myself. But I confess I kept being stirred that I am not black but brown. In short, I have not quite followed how it is to be brown if such as the matter of being any other skin color, as opposed to white, is concerned. How could God anyway have allowed this disparity to take over us humans when all that would be left of us are the ashes of our banalities. As life here on earth extends to our eyes, I can see that black is very beautiful. It, being the manifestation of all brooding silences, leaves us feeling pointless in so much of our self-calculations. Dust is black after all. Or gray.....or so i'm stoned...

Wednesday, February 11


Today, I tried to gather all my writings, and sketches...I've never in the past tried to organize them, they were just strewn about in spite of our many house moves, or the comings and goings of different people, the husband, the baby...I ought to give more attention to them, now that my life seems to have settled back into the normal swing. Bringing out Gabby into the world created a lot of chaos, if not havoc, into my personal routines---nights staying awake to tend to all his little needs, pacifying him and the equally crabby husband, mornings scrambling out of bed to get to work, weekends spent at the grocery store and the pediatrician,there was barely enough time for Myself.

Gabby is now 14 months, and he asserts his independence in almost everything, to my relief and chagrin. These past three weeks, I had managed to read four books with very little interruption from the small guy, he having unburdened most of his energy to the young Ate. That is not say though that I have completely ignored him...no, I dote on him every minute that his adorable face comes in two feet proximity of me. I would pop a bubble no matter how kindly, any day, for him alone.

Anyhow, my musings are always somehow flighty. I guess I would be in a stage where I'm un-doing the mundane things of the last hmmm....20 months, being a wife, mother, worker.

Here, in this space, my turf, where I alone am the queen of my inanities---I am finally back to my old self.


A day comes when my mind
Is spellbound to the violent rush
Of emptiness. It feels
As though the agonies
Might last forever.
The deliberate curse of Silence
Is strangely wearing me down
To the skirmish of a deafening loss.
My senses follow me
In every corner, drawing out
The contents of my life
Until the broad daylight
To which I only hang on
Sparks away, too.
This is the very time when
I need to see the viciousness of things
And stir them down
To surround my solitude
Because when forevermore
I choose the loneliest
Of places, I have nothing
To understand me in my
Narrow convergence.


Poems that I wrote at a time when I was, as a friend put it, oozing ars poetica from the thorax of an eyeless monster...


It dies, as I regurgitate into a poem
And rub its temples with thoughts of death, Kafka,
And a thousand black lies.
We had it in common, a spell
that hid commonness
As though perfect was the word for us
And the sense that I was truth
And he was daylight
And that both of us, combined, is uncommonly
Beautiful still Life.

It dies, because a Lover
Can't be himself anymore
Since I have flowered in two
While the baby wells inside me like a tiny celebration
And even I looked up the astral signs, knowing
He must be Capricorn in the future.
And even I dreamed of those little hands
Or sprout eyes, each to each, opening to my world,
While the Lover is gone into the ponderance
Of himself unto himself
To spite the baby's truth.
And all felt like a joke, chasing into me
Like a sad, sad attempt

It died, because I was heavy and blind
As if we could not look into each other's eyes
When the stars couldn't guide us to the edge
Of our unknowing.
Compatibility, or Love
If that is so they may call it. But I, heavy again
Weep for the nudeness of Life
The harmony of men
The meaning of the future
That dies
Away with my baby.

Tuesday, February 10

Today is tuesday. I just came back from a two-day sojourn to the netherworld. I got sick after soaking in the rain at the cemetery where my father-in-law lies. It's funny that when you're in a place like that, it's inevitable to think about your own mortality. What would happen if I die today, or tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow? Really, no one can predict his end, can he? I'd like to think that I'm not afraid of death, it being just a trangression to another life form, maybe a flower, an animal, an insect. I remember reading once that death is just a beginning of an immortal life...so it should not be something humans should cower from...But when I think about Gabby, how my eventual death would change his whole being, his whole future, it makes me want to seek solace from Someone to let me know I won't be taken over until my little son is ready to be on his own, or that someone with best intentions like his mother would be able to look after him when I'm gone. It's so tragic that mother left us at a time when we most needed her. But would she have had a choice? A gnawing truth like cancer is something somebody can't elude, especially if Death is knocking on her doorstep. It should not be such a unusual experience, everyone we know from time past has died....but sadly their departure shapes the way we think, we feel, we regard each other who are left behind in this mortal world. And it seems the sadness never really dissipates. Until we ourselves, die and join our great Creator.

I don't know if I'm still really sick, or is it the first day back to the office that's doing the works.

Friday, February 6

There's a poetry I've always remembered by heart. It was written by Alison Wailey.
It tells of a woman who never lost hope in waiting for a beloved in spite of her many tribulations

If only a seed shall fall, even among the waterless stones,
A tree will grow.
If you love, and I love
Can it be we shall never meet?

As flogged by tempests, a wave I have seen
Dash itself against the rocks
So in the bitter hours myself only
Am by my thoughts destroyed.

Likethe waters of the river, that in the swift flow of the stream
A great rock divides
Though our ways seem to have parted
I know that in the end we shall meet.
This is to be my first blog on the net. Here probably I will be able to post my poems and other rather inane stuff.
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