From Hell to Eternity

Have you noticed how certain people get into you; hit a raw nerve even if they are not aware of it? Or maybe they are, but they choose to be on the dense side and slight you anyway? Because I could never believe that everyday I go to work with these kinds of creatures that most definitely come from hell. And I am eternally sorry that I am in this kind of rut that pulls me deeper and deeper into emotional insolvency.

Oftentimes, when I recount my miseries to my husband, he would off-handedly tell me to quit my job and look for brighter, if not greener, pastures. I know what he means by that, although sometimes it appears to me that he doesn’t care one bit about what I’m going through. I should know, he has his own corporate hell to grapple and listening to mine is too much to deal with, although he admits that he, like me, finds it easier to gripe than to leave his job for his own peace. We are not at a stage of our lives to take things with nonchalance and impulsiveness, we have a kid now and everything focuses on rearing him and providing for him materially.

The same goes with these people I am ranting about. They have kids, and sisters and brothers and friends. So, to co-habituate with one another, we need to give up certain prejudices and self-importance, right? Wrong These people only put their pretty asses on your shoulder, and you, the whiner, have to do as they say.

Believe it or not, I have made the most stupid mistake of befriending him once, and now he sees me as a boil in his ass that he’s trying so hard to get rid of. Or at least that’s how it seems to me. He has this annoying habit of bossing me around, which aggravates my situation all the more because I hate being pushed to do things. It’s not that I am almighty and all. How do you deal with people who abuse office rules, make lunch a whole afternoon siesta, and yet have the gall to demand things from you, and impose themselves on you as if you are subordinate to them? I have not the audacity to confront people of what annoys me about them, but can they be too opaque as that? Whatever happened to consideration and sensitivity?

Once or twice in my life, I have experienced a situation that totally put me off, and however inconsequential it seemed, made me lose my faith in the person who put me into that. People who cheat on you, in spite of your well meaning, and who make you feel you owe them for something. I am not inclined to talk what happened, but let’s just say that I was used and abused. My abuser saw the opportunity to drop me off a cliff of embarrassment and self-loathing as to why, why, why I was incredibly naïve and stupid to have trusted them in the first place. And that’s where my hell came from.

My only regret is that I have not learned to just leave them shit and move on….

Odyssey

I have just put down the Dan Brown bestseller The Da Vinci Code which I took pain to finish, having just borrowed it from an officemate who expected me to return it ASAP. I admit, even on my beading foray to Quiapo last weekend, I had the impetuosity to take the book with me and cram through the last few pages while waiting for my bus stop. Everyone I know, this blogger friend included, said it was superlative read. Sure, it was. Or maybe, I have missed the whole point.

Undeniably a fun read, replete with all the ingredients of a bestselling thriller, I devoured everything I saw . It was so easy to give way into one’s indiscretion and accept what the book said as gospel truth. Hell what do I know of the gospels, to pun that (since The Bible has just been put in a very damaging light here). I have been nowhere near criticizing the papal nuncio in the Vatican, although I absolutely feel the Catholic domain needs a lot of washing down to do to remedy the bad jinx they've recently ran into.

Would you believe that one local broadsheet even ran a quarter-page commentary by a Catholic bishop, about the veracity of the author’s claims on the clandestine brotherhood and Jesus’ bloodline and the Vatican's real identity? Is everything real or theoretical in the first place? This book was eliciting both raves and rants, and I bet a lot of paranoia and defensiveness, from the four corners of the literary or literate world.

Who could not have wanted to read it?

Momentarily though I had to go back over my previous conclusions about the book, weed out those that I didn't find plausible. And, trusting my isms, this is what, an ordinary reader like me, have discerned:

It’s all just FICTION which, however too good, the writer simply fiddled with in his mind. And whatever historical congruence it may have to the past, I am loathe to leave it to the experts. It was nothing more than an odyssey for me that fell right smack to a category that I would call “highly entertaining”. I am Catholic, and given that I have issues myself, this one doesn’t make me rethink about my spiritual viewpoint, or the limits of it.

It’s great that I have seen the other side of the travesty, although that piece about the smiling Mona Lisa most certainly got me off. However storybound that part may appear, I think that my heart can rest well and not ever wonder why SHe’s forever smiling that beguiling half-mocking smile. What a secret she keeps...

Even Sappho would have acquiesced.

To Envisage Belledejour

A picture of the unflappable Belle in my mind...reminds me of the beautiful Malena.

French Leave

It's a sad day for bloggers who have made belledejour's journal a staple in their daily literary breakfast. For me particularly, she's become a ritual, that an almost-dependence has been created between my coffee and her diary, she being on top of my "daily fix" of favorite blogs. A lot of things were going on there for a while. But just today, I got there and read her goodbye-abrupt, albeit announced.

I feel I'm losing much. Like having just put a good Louise Brooks biography down.

Belle's blogspot is a non-descript layout which she never bothered to change in spite of Blogger's recent offering of eyecandy templates. But the moment you walk past her, you will be intrigued by the words "Diary of a London Call Girl". Who would have thought anyway that women who give pleasure for money like her can keep an online diary, much less write a very good one? She, or He, might indeed be a writer who poses as, she calls it, "the whore without portfolio". But I choose to see her with a simplistic eye--not the pedants she detests--and believe she really is someone who holds the world's oldest profession.

Belle speaks (or is it spoke already?) in a cryptic yet very confident tone about her sexual encounters with "clients" and, pardonnez, "fuck buddies", but hints every so often of her personal life and her true relationships. Yes, the lady is real and does get bitten by the lovebug.

What makes her even more intriguing is that she doesn't leave an online comment feature on her blog, but links her email address with--

"Write me. Who knows, I might even answer..."

Written I have once out of naivete, but what do I know, I am simply one of those who did not make any impression in her terribly inundated mailbox. Why, there must be a thousand letters from fans and men who are dying to know her real identity and would be offering to pay pounds and euros just to have a glimpse of her, if not exactly enjoy the pleasure of her services.....So what is a married obscure woman like me doing in her mailbox, gushing like an awestruck fan, raving about how I fancy her? Or her blog at least.

I admit I got titillated with the prospect of her meeting up with someone who has been for ages haunting her blogspot and email. Belle always seems to me like a beautiful lady ready to pleasure a stranger, and yet has the quotient to discourse politics and highbrow subjects at any given day.

There is nothing substandard to read in Belle's blog, although at times her encounters may be too salacious for a mother like me to indulge....i'm not just cut out for the really spicy stuff, see?

There has been a book and television deal, and from the looks of it she's going fulltime with her newfound enterprise, thus the sudden unexpected goodbye. But I will grudgingly let this good one go, while hoping that one day she'd come back and write for herself and the exclusive us again.

Sex and the City

I must admit husband and I are big fans of Sex and the City. We stay up and cuddle together on late Saturday nights to watch SATC on HBO, I because of the clothes, and he because of the steamy scenes, usually between Samantha and her lover/s. But now that the last episode of the last season was aired, it feels rather sad that we find ourselves not having anything to look forward to in the coming nocturnal sessions of tv marathon on weekends. There's Alias for sure, but it's beginning to get more incomprehensible than it ever already is. And again, Jennifer Garner mania is starting to wear off on me. Anyway, I digress. It's understandable that SATC has decided to retire at the peak of their success. I for one wouldn't want to remember Samantha, Charlotte, Miranda and Carrie in their decrepit state still battling to find Mr. Right and the real meaning of sex. They are alright in the icons that they already have become these past 6 years, and the ending, which husband and I openly wondered was really the last, snapped in true fashion of the SATC atmosphere. Fast and explicit.

Sex and the City, despite its shallowness and materialism, teems with urbane complexity and humor that shallow people like me indulge into. It's like watching a fashion show all the time and yet appreciating the fact that the four main characters have flaws like real people. Like me.

Carrie Bradshaw, who prefers to see her paycheck up her closet by splurging on clothes and Manolo Blahniks has a physique that is not even close to gorgeous. And yet, when she struts her stuff around, it's just totally hers. And so with the other girls. I think thus they all make equally unforgettable characters that will linger in the consciousness of thirty-year old single women who find themselves thrown in similar situations and dreaming of their eventual pas de deux.

My husband would never understand how my eyes get bigger and the asides I make when I see a beautiful dress Charlotte wears, or the interesting bag or bangle on Samantha's arms. Yes, I am a sucker for fashion too, but I have no qualms about acquiring my Pedro Garcias from ukay-ukay. They say a fashionista will fend her stand just to be on top of everyone else's mediocrity until it hurts. But I'm no fashionista. I am just someone who appreciates good clothes. A lot.

Apart from the clothes though, the funny-ness that every girl can be subjected to in her elusive search for a perfect partner in life, and Carrie's instrospections on their daily struggle to achieve this, is what I will sorely miss. My husband's sentiments are a totally different story.

Photos in my Blog

Decided to put some life in my blog today, thanks to one of my favourite bloggers Ruth whose humorous and insightful posts I don't only enjoy imbibing daily, but makes me appreciate the use of our mother tongue better. Now my blog has some rather old but personal snapshots by Flickr, and a referrer's tool (not that I really need one since nobody ever walks past my spot anyway). Just the same they are there for a little trimming to make everything just a wee bit better than the usual. Zilch.

The Little Guy

Amidst my beading preoccupation nowadays, I've had a few moments to look over my shoulder and see how Gabby is. You know that worrisome feeling that your child doesn't seem to grow an inch taller or bigger? Maybe it's because he's right under your very nose all the time that his physique doesn't spell the littlest bit of difference than from the last time you noticed. But try to be busy about other things, and you'll realize how fast your little stork grows in a matter of days.

Proof of that is the number of times I've bought him clothes in a matter of 20 months.

Last weekend, I had to get my little guy a few sets of houseclothes because he can't manage to snuggle into his old ones anymore. His kiddie closet has seen stuff come and go, and now that he's definitely past the layette and over-alls stage, we've had to rethink about getting him new clothes, or recycling. He has plenty of those long-sleeved shirts that I made him wear when he was teeny child during the cold season, but now that it's sweltering hot, it would be useless to stash them away inside the closet and buy new clothes that he would wear for what, three-four months. See, I have this partiality for big clothes. I will not have Gabby wear clothes that are way too big for him that he would look like Dopey, or too small for him that he would like Pooh. I just want it right and snugly.

So anyway, about the old shirts, that recycling idea never really left me. I took a pair of shears, cut the sleeves short, and voila! New old houseclothes for Gabby. However, I saved the special and nice ones for when I'm going to carry another stork again. I type that with fingers crossed. You never know, if God remembers my address ( to borrow Mr. Goldenblatt's phrase in SATC) and send us a beautiful daughter that I will definitely name ISABELA BEATRIZ MORENO.

Hmmm....daydreaming again....

Back to Gabby, I read today from BabyCenter.com that he may be in the phase of being called the TT- Terrible Two's. I should agree that most of the things he does nowadays are within normal and expected behaviour from an 20-month old. His tantrums, which used to be few and far in between, are now becoming a daily scene in my household. Without warning, he would throw himself to the floor and bawl his soul out, with one eye keeping watch whether he's getting anyone's attention. If not, then he's all systems go for another bout of whimpering. I just let him be until he's rasp and exhausted. Which normally begins after three minutes.

Sometimes, it gets into my nerves---but more often I experience a sense of calm and feeling of love and understanding for one person. Did I say person? Yes, I think my little son has a mind of his own now, although his inability to express himself in proper words may impede him from getting his message across clearly. But he charms me impossibly that I would forget these little failings between us. It more than makes up for everything.

What mother wouldn't soften up when she hears her child sing, videoke style, with relish. And I have a big suspicion that he's learning to read words by following through the highlights in the song's lyrics. He gets excited when it's time for George Benson's song he knows just by looking at the title, and that he doesn't forget there are beautiful fishes in that video. I think Glenn Doman's theory is actually right! We haven't been regularly doing the bedtime stories, but I see that words, letters and pictures fascinate him, and makes him a bit obsessive about his books that they are now frayed and tattered.

It's only a matter of time that Gabby and Mom and Dad will be sitting and talking, and maybe even singing, around the same table. That I'm sure of.

life up at the 16th floor nowadays....

The Closure

Do you ever find yourself musing about the past and what-could-have-beens at times? Especially if you're a married, middle-aged woman who seem to be in a cul-de-sac, longing for some warmth in your relationship, in the midst of everyday things that ground you to what is truly real? Because I am. My marriage is a-okay if you care to ask, but I have often felt that in spite the hustle and bustle of my household--you know, caring for the kid and the husband---deep down is an abyss of vacuous feelings, where I am entirely on my own, and no amount of nostalgia can ever justify. I have often felt the inclination to get in touch with old friends, or past loves long dismissed to oblivion. Hang on, don't get me wrong, I do not contemplate on making any intimate connection at all. No bridges of madison county for me. Just maybe, a closure. Sadly, this is not an easy task. Especially with a person who left too much damage in my life.

Today, I found this letter from among the trash that I have intended to get rid of. Written some three tearjerking years ago. I wonder how we would have fared, had I sent this to him. It is truly a hateful missive for a someone I gave too much for, but now has become only a speck of shadow in my periphery. A goodbye I have never said and have never truly meant....

FOR G

I don't know what happened between us, but I just would like to say, before you finally disappear (again), that I am thankful for the times we've shared together. God gave me another chance to be with you, and in those few times, I realized that you are someone I can never really own. Despite our lofty claims about fitting so cunningly into each other, I sense the ambivalence and isolation. You were there but away, and a lot has ruminated in our hearts and mind. I must admit that I find it difficult to simply take things as they come. You have no idea how badly I need to be your friend. And that's probably the root of all these unfounded pains. You just touch too many aspect of myself that I find it hard to believe why things couldn't be better between us than they are now. why you come into my life without warning and leave just when I am ready to bask in the thought of you being close by. In so many unspoken words, you make me think about my worth in this world---and it scares me that I am nothing.

How unfair can your existence in my life get. And sadly, it's not something that you've thought of deliberately. It's no fault of your own, because no matter how we relinquish the truth, we both exist in a cusp of fiction--everything happens in surreal dimensions, and you are merely a mirage I have been doggedly trying to convince myself of as reality. Strange that when we were together I could never really relish you as something human like me--feeling ennui, suffering love, tasting death. I only thought of how perfect it was to be with someone whose actuation, whose intentions, whose being I could never really comprehend nor take for granted. You were pretty much holding my heart in your cold, unfeeling hands. But how should have I known? How naive indeed can love make the most erudite and jaded person. In knowing you, only the consequent pain seemed undeniable. That's what strikes me now as reality. That wasn't so then...

I'll probably never be content knowing that you walked up the beaten track and did not even know you have trampled on a hapless flower. All these times that I had been listening to your angst about poverty and disenfranchisement, I was only wishing I could let you see how beautiful the world is, if only you would put a little of that empathy you fervently hold for these so-called destitute ones, for the person who sits beside you and relishes the importance of your thoughts and your philosophies. How can you possibly be so unappreciative of what is being given you and hold so much gripe in your head as though it would explode if you don't medicate it with yearnings of something inhuman like miracles and magic? I wish I could tell you we are the magic because we are special. But then again, your freedom to walk the beaten track and trample upon the useless flower and think that being with someone is mundane and of no significance to the salvation of the world--is something I have no clout over. I simply am at a loss.

If you told me you were gay, I would have understood....
Just two words though....fuck you!

Weekend Shopping

I finally hit DV. Yesterday was the second time I went there, to scrounge around for my bead materials. I'm a little disappointed because there are only about 2 shops that sell my needs in a hundred that I've been to. But getting my beading stuff is a good excuse for also shopping around for just about everything I want, at a neglible price. The last time I thought Tutuban Mall had the best price, but now I think they're overly inflated when they are just a stone's throw away from where the Real Bargain is. And by real bargain, I mean in the heart of Divisoria. I was every inch ready for my DV foray, I didn't wear any jewelry nor watch, and I was in my most comfortable with only a belt purse which was very handy as it was fastened right in front of me, and had my best caution. In spite of that, I lost my nafnaf shades. Lesson learned.

DV pretty much reminds me of Mong Kok in HK, although it was winter when I was there and I had no sweating and the oppressive smells to worry about. In the streets of Divisoria, people were huffing and pushing in stalls that almost leave no space along the aisles. The lady I first approached for rubber bracelet asked " Wholesale?". That's when I realized this place is for those who mean serious business. I was a bit overwhelmed by the things I saw. There were just heaps and heaps of bags, shoes, toys, clothes, accessories, housewares, and knick-knacks. But once I learned what the "wholesale" price was, my spending urge was itching like crazy again.

Anyways, I was as frugal as best I could. I got my jelly bag for P250 which sells at P750 in the malls near my home. Pretty, pretty shirts that cost 50 bucks which I wore at work today and accessorized with a fresh choker of pearls. I feel like a million dollars, but who would have thought all these cost duh? I have no qualms about brands anyway, except that when I see them at the flea market, I would not think twice about grabbing them. Oh and by the way, I got my beading stuff and I can't be happier.

The Scream

"I was walking along the road with two friends. The sun was setting. I felt a breath of melancholy - Suddenly the sky turned blood-red. I stopped, and leaned against the railing, deathly tired - looking out across the flaming clouds that hung like blood and a sword over the blue-black fjord and town. My friends walked on - I stood there, trembling with fear. And I sensed a great, infinite scream pass through nature."

by Edvard Munch
(written in his journal in 1892. His painting above, one of the four he made, was recently stolen from the Munch gallery in Oslo, Norway)

Friends

Today I thought about many things, especially about people who have at one time or another been part of my life. There are people who figure prominently even if they are not really aware of the impact they make or the impression they leave on you when they're gone. Not to the netherworld I mean, but, just moved on to something else. When I was in highschool, I had a friend named Diana. I could very well say that her name suited her to a T because she was very pretty, intelligent, had a great personality, even if she tended to be painfully shy at times. We became very close friends because we both were interested in the same things--poetry and books. What struck me most about Diana is that she wasn't at all conscious of how beautiful she was, outside and inside. I thought I wanted to be like her, but she was always so unassuming and didn't think much of herself. We lost touch after graduation, but even now that I am an adult and am miles away from her, I will always feel blessed at having known humility and meekness in its physical form.

In college, I got to know Jo. Like Diana, Jo came from a well-to-do family. But she too was self-effacing. Jo and I were like peas in a pod, we were just inseparable and were always doing the same things together. I always felt a tad envious about JoAnn, although not in a bad way. I think she had everything, nice family, nice home, comfortable life---while I was a half-orphan living under the mercy of my relatives who put me through college a little grudgingly by making me do tons of household work than I could manage. Nevertheless, when I was in school, I forgot all about it. I was just happy to be with Jo.

When I left college, we exchanged letters, but soon we would drift away and lose in touch until more than ten years later. One day, I got a call from Jo asking if she could fly over to Manila to see me. Of course I was more than happy to see her. I was a little embarrassed to see her though because I didn't have a house of my own and was doing an 8-hour job, and had really little, if at all, to be proud about. But Jo was simply happy to see me. She stayed at my place for a couple of days, then took the route back to her homeplace via Bacolod. Or so I thought. Little did I know that she was staying in some seedy motel the whole time I thought she has gone back home. I was stormed with calls at my office from her family who demanded to know where she was. It was only then that I learned Jo has gone to me on the pretense of seeing me, but she had wanted a place to stay whilst she was hiding from a husband who was suffering from a chemical imbalance and had wanted to hurt her. She left her daughter with her mom, but didn't let them know where she was going. I felt so sorry for her. I could have helped her with what little I had. But that was the last I heard of her.

There are other people who've walked past my door and changed the shape of my life. At times they've hurt me or made me happy, but always, the notch that lingers is how they've made me the person that I am now.

Existence

Nevertheless it is strange
That spare mornings are unkempt
Among shameless mornings.
I anticipate likeaverystupidchild
To care for small things beyond
This pervert hour of
the
day
I shout capsules balls wanton minds
Asps wolves flower shaping
Dying
And dearly, my oaf figure moves out
Cross and inaudiable.
Therefore
It is to kiss my own craven kiss
I, am not wanting this
This constricting bed
This waiting swelling
half-colored
dawn.

sharon ignes c.88

Thingamabobs

Being an ordinary office worker who has a boss based abroad and no one looking over her shoulders all the time, I get my share of mind-numbing days when my routine is to finish all my tasks in the morning, and kill time in the afternoon. To achieve this, I do an assortment of things—which means read emails, visit news portals, read the papers, ym my husband about household matters, surf the net, blog or read blogs, check on my son at home, listen to my yahoo launch, wait for my chameleon clock to chime 530pm, and then pack up to leave. I should be happier with this arrangement, since my last job was so “toxic” I hardly had time to brush my hair, but everyday of this, and a large dose of “petiks” can really slacken my life. I simply had to find a way to do something more worthwhile.

I’ve read over the net about a job where you work offsite, and just surf companies and various stuff, in order to get paid. I wanted to ask, but never got around to doing it. I make needlepoint as a hobby, but it is simply too tedious and distracting to bring to work because of the intricate parts that will take too much of your attention.

It was only serendipity that would get me to my new hobby, which is beading. I know that this is nothing novel about this; everybody seems to have at one time of another strung her own bracelets or chokers. But I never had in the past done so. I was very interested in what my aunt was doing, she was making a lot of money from her beading business, but she was remiss to teach me. Not that I didn’t ask. On several occasions I had hinted about wanting to learn the craft, and even offering to retail her beads so I would eventually learn how to do it. But all fell on rather deaf ears.

So, I thought if I wanted to learn, there’s always google to begin with. So google I did. But it was different to look at the picture and read instructions, than to learn it hands-on. Having discarded the prospect with my aunt as nil, and the internet not being much of help, I wafted through every tiangge in the nearby malls, and asked about beadings. The girls manning the little stores were either too preoccupied about selling their bracelets, or were too dumb to understand what I wanted. In other words, no bead materials, just ugly and hideous creations that cost a fortune for the easily duped. I didn’t want to buy their bracelets. I wanted to make my own.

I was on my way out of the mall when I was waylaid by another Muslim (they all seem to be) stall owner and offered her bracelets. I said I wanted materials, not the finished product, and she said she had some to offer. We talked a bit more, and I learned that she lived in the same apartment where we last rented. I had often been circumspect about talking to shrouded Muslim women because I had quite dismissed them as belligerent insular people who are suspicious of everyone standing next to them. But Ami was different. She was friendly, sweet even, and very helpful.

That’s how my little affair with beads began. She offered to teach me how to string, in exchange for my purchases and my loyalty to her store. Heck, she even gave me discounts. Well, I didn’t know if indeed it came in cheap since I haven’t really hit Divisoria and looked at the wholesale prices. More importantly though, I learned to make my first bracelets and chokers---and mind, it was THAT easy.

Consequently, I have become an entrepreneur of the smallest scale by selling my charm thingamabobs. What started out as a cheap subterfuge for many a boring days at work and off-work has thrived to be a business, and is now fetching quite well. I have somehow proved husband wrong when I said HE was going to help me sell the beads and he gave me that no- fucking-way glare from across the room . The condescencion I understood, but I nevertheless felt undaunted about hitting it off with the girls in his office. Never knew that panache in me.

Indeed, the beads sold like hotcakes and were gone by mid-morning. Orders are pending, and last I was told they are looking for more. I couldn't be any happier. I have at least something new to talk about now- if and when- I get to walk through my insipid blog spot again.

someday,love will perhaps be

someday, love will perhaps be
a courageous windflower
that will unbosom on my galoshes
and make me look to where it is
with my unassuming eyes.
but i
because of my rare coldness
will have but to cavort
past it
like it was
a
weight
less
cobblestone.

shane.ignes

An Attempt at Recollections of Childhood

I grew up in a close-knit neighborhood in Bacolod. It was a custom to call our place “compound” because we lived in an enclosure of about seven houses owned by the families my maternal grandma and her siblings. We belonged to the third generation of a big clan. My mother alone had 14 other siblings, and my first cousins were running close to 60, until the youngest was born in the late 90’s. My mother’s cousins were plentiful as well. We practically grew up next door with our first and second cousins, hence the impression of being close-knit.

But the truth is, each of the siblings had tacit rivalries and secretly considered their neighbor inferior to themselves. In our family, my grandma took pride in the fact that hers are the only grandchildren who regularly go to mass, clean up before bed, say the rosary everyday, and who have our respective chores in the house. She blindly believed that we grandchildren were of pure Catholic morals and should not often be in the company of our brash cousins. For us however, the years growing up under our grandparents’ despotic noses were the loneliest and most oppressive. We sometimes wished we belonged to the other families, who seemed happier.

Ours is the archetype of the extended family. We were about five families crammed inside my grandma’s 4-bedroom house, although we later had a house of our own. My parents had a tiny humble house erected at the back end of the compound when the second baby was born. My father and mother both went to work in the city and left us to the care of my grandparents in the daytime, only to fetch us at nighttime.

It was like that for a long time. Until my mother passed away, and we had to move in to my grandparent’s house. Without our father. He went home alone to our little house to avoid the spitefulness of my grandparents. And because we counted on our old folks' mercy, my brothers and I had to endure the cruelty of some of my aunts and the other nasty goings-on in that house. We were like the little orphans in lemony snickett's book. Until my father decided to take us someplace else. It was many years however that my brothers and I would finally reunite.

I wanted to write about happy days and warm memories of my childhood, but all too often losing someone in your life as important as your Mother shifts the way you look at things and how they took place. This first endeavor is terribly futile in that it paints a picture of me as being the saddest act in the world. I just had to stop.

I hope to have a second take one of these days….

Change

This is the nth time I’ve changed my blog template. For want of something new perhaps. But because I am a total ignoramus in html, I have no choice but to make do with pre-designed templates. Good thing Blogger has a lot better to offer now. One hit and I get a new look on my blog, only to change it after a few weeks or months.

Which brings me to consider... It is inherent in my personality to be always moving and changing things around the house, in my workspace or, in this case, around my blog. Change is nothing I cringe about, especially if it is to satiate my labourious idleness and whet my visual appetite. I always like nice things around my space, never mind if they're not the real mc coy. If I had my way in fact, my house would be like a display window where I have a new color and design theme for every season. Not for posterity though. My husband doesn't give a damn anyway.

Sadly I carry this mind-set even in what I wear. I have a become a clotheshorse since I started earning enough to buy what I want. And then the flea came into existence. When I learned to indefatigably rummage my way through piles and piles of gorgeous clothes that could be had for a trifling, my mind was buried in the mound as well. Who could resist buying an original armani for less than a hundred pesos, or a pedro garcia pumps for 50 bucks, all in mint condition, as compared to run-of-the-mill tops which sells at no less than 700 pesos in malls, and which you would later realize are total rip-offs? I have mastered the art of sifting through racks of clothes and spotting a signature from a mile away. I never miss.

It's no surprise how I have amassed overwhelming amount of clothes. It has become in fact a dilemma as to how to fit them all at once in the closet I share with my husband. We have an enormous closet which houses most of my clothes, and a teeny bit of his. I have clothes in boxes and paper bags. It is almost embarassing to think that I have so much and always complain about not having anything to wear. I am an office girl, and it is a necessity for me to wear the "corporate look" everyday. Or so I contend.

As a result, I give some of these clothes away. It is almost always a cursory decision, but what the heck, I would think. I can always buy a new one anyway. When I was a kid my wardrobe consisted mostly of hand-me-downs from older cousins. Contrary to feeling a little sorry, I thought there was always something quaint and charming about old clothes. They're like heirloom pieces that you succeed into, but you take extra care in wearing them so you can pass them on to the one next in line. The clothes age, but the importance you give it, the gesture of generosity, are values that form inside you, if only inadvertently.

I am sometimes convinced that my inclination to bring change into my life, be it in the home, my personal circumstances, or as mundane a matter as to my choice of templates, are for reasons leaning on the little act of benevolence towards myself---to taste what life can give me, to ascertain my boundaries and what's beyond, and to learn to do away with excesses, for the benefit of others.

i don't know.
i am not making sense
this pleasure is propagating around.
on my regions
no songs. no thoughts. no windows.
i cannot even embrace
the shadow of the rain.

Trees

in one of our manila-bound visits to my inlaws, we passed by the south superhighway and i saw these signs etched on a metal plate every 1km apart. i thought whoever came up with that inspired idea about caring for mother nature, translated very aptly in kilmer's poetry, should be given the highest praise. i dream of a world where in all imaginable places we read the great works of men rejoicing the beauty of earth and humanity.


Trees
Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

The Washingtonienne

She could be your erstwhile college friend, except that she's not. She is Jessica Cutler, a 26 yr old ex-assistant staffer at Capitol Hill in DC who was fired off her $25,000 a year job sorting mails and answering phone calls, after her blogs, cleverly named The Washingtonienne, about her sexcapades with Washington honchos made big news in the US media. Looks to me like she has a bit of Pinoy (I sure hope not!) or Chinese in her, but the catch is that she got paid fat moolah by some of her supposed bedmates for her sexual services, which according to her, thankfully takes care of her bills. Her blog was pulled out from the net, but my husband has eagerly directed me to a mirror archive file of her blogs, which caused her, well, infamy. Hardly really. News is that she doesn't give one hoot about her dismissal and was in fact offered a six-figure book deal for all she has to say about her shameless meanderings, which for me, falls way below par as far as the writing style of belle is concerned. One site even hints of her being the american belledejour. But I beg to disagree. Belle is a classic, and Jessica is, as the online forums refer to her, just a slutty skank. I have no moral issues about what she did though. I just think Belle deserves more fanfare than Jessica is currently reveling into.

Nuff said.