Writing in invisible ink.(Part 2)

When I restarted this blog, I pretty much did it with much prodding from a particular lady friend. I didn't put much hope in it, truth be told. I had tried previously and those attempts proved unsuccessful and short-lived. While I have not kept up as regular as I had hoped, I've kept at it longer than I thought or even hoped. Previous tries had faltered, mostly because I lost interest or kept leaving things off.

Actually, that would be a lie. I just really didn't have the heart to write.

To be honest, I never grew up wanting to be a writer. It just wasn't my thing, growing up I was always more of a reader. From a young age, my parent pressed upon my bother and I the importance of reading. Actually, out whole family are avid readers. Ma is a thriller and romance reader. Dad is a non-fiction and DIY devotee. My brother is more off the beaten track sort. And myself?

I grew up with Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and Hans Christian Anderson. I suppose that's a strange mix of authors. Blyton's "The Adventures of the Wishing Chair" was the first book I read repeatedly. It was a collection of tales  of two kids who find a magical chair that grew wings. The chair would the take them off to strange lands and  meet magical people. I guess the idea of travelling to strange new places was exciting to a young boy growing up in Greenwich, England. Funny enough, when I finally left for the Philippines, reading the book was my only connection to England. The familiar humour, the odd English eccentricities and the fact they always had tea time, made it so comforting.

As I entered, primary/elementary school, The Hardy Boys detective series was my drug of choice. Frank and Joe Hardy would enthral me with their adventures. It seems almost corny now. That fact is I could probably breakdown their plots and the flow of each story. It's actually predictable! The brother's stumble on to a case. Frank uses his nerdy detective savvy. Joe would pull off some athletic feat. Chet Morton (their best Friend) would bumble about. And Chief Collig would pretty much overlook their meddling in police business.

But I didn't care.

I must have read every book in the Elementary Library, even the encyclopaedia! All of that, just for kicks. While other kids would be running around the playground, I would sneak off to read. I think I must have gotten into trouble, dozens of times for reading a book during class.

I guess, it started then. I would scribble down small stories about me and my friends at school. We would be super heroes, flying around the world, dressed in ridiculous costumes. We would be complete Japanese Anime rip-offs, fighting in our mecha. Later, we would clamber around in our armour, fighting every dragon we meet.

Small tales, that I would scribble down in my awful handwriting. I wish I kept those stories. They could have been the great stories I would be telling my future grand children. Shame that they are lost to time and memory.

Plus I could have sold them for the Kindle.

The beds we choose to lay in...

Waitin', watchin' the clock, it's four o'clock, it's got to stop
Tell him, take no more, she practices her speech
As he opens the door, she rolls over...
Pretends to sleep as he looks her over

She lies and says she's in love with him, can't find a better man...
She dreams in color, she dreams in red, can't find a better man...
Can't find a better man
Can't find a better man
Ohh...

(Better Man by Eddie Vedder [Pearl Jam])

When Eddie Vedder first wrote this song, he was in high school. He actually performed it with one of his earlier bands. Strangely enough, this song was initially rejected when Pearl Jam  were planning on recording the “Vs” album. He wasn’t even comfortable with releasing this as part of the “Vitalogy” album. The song lyrics are full of sadness, sarcasm and an air of resignation. It also helps that there is a fantastic tune to go along with it.  To those unfamiliar with it, the song recounts the conflict face by a woman who is in an abusive relationship. Tired of the abuse, she plans to confront her partner and finally makes a stand for herself. But when the moment comes, she backs down, pretends to be asleep and decides to let the status quo remain. To add to this, she decides to stick to the relationship, saying that she can’t find anyone better.

When I first heard this song, I never really listened to the lyrics. I just dug the tune. But as time passed, I really began to listen to the song and realised just how dark the song really was. The subject matter is just so desperate and dire, which makes the ending resignation all the sadder. It makes me always wonder why people sing it so gleefully when it is performed live. I know it is a fantastic sounding song, but the dark nature of the song always makes me feel uncomfortable.


This song made me think very carefully about every relationship I had and chose to be in. It scared me that anyone could use love as tool, even manipulate a loved one in such a manner. Such abuse is not limited by creed, gender, religion or nationality. It can exist in relationships familial, romantic and even platonic.

This is not a happy song. It’s a song of sad resignation to being trapped an abusive relationship and ultimately choosing to remain in it. Why? Because they can't find anyone better. In this case, there isn't a better man. Now that is a terrible reason to stay. A love most... "meh."

Abusive relationships are something I have never been able to understand. The idea of someone trapping someone else into a relationship my pure manipulation and at times violence, has repulsed and scared the living daylights out of me. I must admit, I used to have very simple ideas regarding the nature of abusive relationships.I used to believe that it was merely a violent tendency that drove the relationship of the abuser and the abused. To which I used to scratch my head at why anyone would let anyone themselves be hurt so much. In my naivete, I even thought the victims as cowardly. After all, anyone that subjects themselves to such only ends up that way if they allow it to be.

In an effort to understand, I took to reading up on the subject and was even more disturbed by what I learned about the subject. There is a whole cycle that can emerge between the abuser and the abused. There is the grace period, where everything is fine, pleasant, even good. Then there are the small outburst of anger, and threats of violence. This can simmer until there is ultimately a burst of abuse. Now I often thought abuse was purely in violent action, physical pain. But abuse can be manipulative, psychological. There is the chess game of denial, even restricting the victim, leaving them completely dependent on the abuser. Then this is where it gets hazy. The abuser can then switch it around either by begging forgiveness for their actions.

" I can change, "
" It was a one time mistake"
 " It won't happen again."

And that is if you are lucky. Other times the abuser will switch it around an put the blame on the victim. Everything is therefore, the fault of the victim. They caused this to happen, by their own actions or inaction, they are the person responsible. Which fills the victim with guilt, ultimately wishing to make amends. Creating the period of grace. After all, they have made their bed. Time they lay in it, right?

And the cycle begins again.

There are many critics of this model, saying it is too simplistic and they may be right. It may never apply to all cases, but it does hold many truths.

The sadder fact is to see it unfold before your very eyes. You see the abuser and you see the victim. You see it happening before you. You realise what is going on, but you can't do anything. It's your word against theirs. And when the victim refuses to admit they are are a victim, either out of fear, ignorance or denial, you have no case.

Sometimes, even if you try, you become the bad guy.

What then?

Eddie Vedder famously dedicated one particular performance of this song to, what he said was "the b**t**d who married his mother." I guess he did not  like his step-father very much. While the nature of that particular relationship is subject to speculation, the intensity of the song is undeniable.

I sometimes find myself listening to this song quietly in my room. I have seen people trapped in these relationships before. It has been my regret that I have never been able to help anyone, successfully. And it breaks my heart living with that fact. I don't ever want to be the person that Vedder wrote about. I don't want to be the person trapped and more so, I never ever want to be the person who hurts another person that way.  

We all deserve to be happy, truly happy.

I pray I can be a better man.

And someday, be found.

(P.S. Thanks to Wikipedia. I had remember reading about the song's history before, but it had been a while.)

"Tagay muna!" One for the road... now one for the sky! (Part 1)

A couple of weeks ago, some of my high school friends met up in Bacolod, Philippines for the annual MassKara Festival...

Oh, finished that line of thought last time.

But it does lead me into something that came to mind. Three of my old high school friends met up for the weekend to catch up on old times and to simply enjoy the festivities. Of course they had to make me jealous as I could not be there by giving me a run down of what they were up to, but that was fine. The thing was I was comparing notes with my best friend Paul and he was joking about how little alcohol was consumed. It was mostly a foodfest. When I raised a virtual eyebrow over this fact, he just joked that we were probably getting old.

Looking back, there does seem to be a huge trend with my peers, drinking wise. Growing up, drinking alcohol was pretty much a given in Filipino culture, especially amongst males. Even at a young age we pretty much accepted the smell of booze. My mother to this day refuses to be in the same room as my dad if he decides to drink "tuba" (palm wine). On the other hand, she does agree it makes great vinegar.

Like all teens we decided to sneak a drink in our high school days. I guess it was a bit of a evolution. We used to play basketball and cool down to the odd carbonated drink. Later that would evolve to a bottle or two of beer. Later on days would end with all of us splitting a crate of beer.

My parents had a practical solution to my evolution into early adulthood and subsequent drinking prowess. They would teach me the ins and outs of drinking alcohol, socially. Unfortunately, they forgot to discuss the matter between them. This would lead to my mother introducing me to the intricacies wine drinking and my father on beer and spirits. And they did this separately. Who was I to complain? They were picking up the tab.

My father would put me to the ultimate test. Freshman year, Christmas break, New Years Eve. This would be the first time my dad and I would drink together properly. I was excited, obviously as this was going to be my way of proving my manhood, earn my spot on the grown ups table.

So, amidst the fireworks displays in the sky and the cooked dishes on the table, me and Pa went at it. One crate of Gold Eagle Mucho (I doubt they make this anymore) each , a box of Tanduay Rhum 5 years (Got to love the extra Filipino "h". Guess it makes it more "H"ardcore.)  and a bottle of Napoleon brandy.

The rules were simple. Match him drink for drink, but we could eat as much as we wanted. But no one stops until all the alcohol is consumed. We started off pretty well. The beer went down easy, helped by my dad roast chicken and lechon kawali (deep fried pork). I have to admit, Gold Eagle was a pretty light beer, but the volume of a couple of Muchos (500 mls) does catch up. The "Rhum" was a different matter. Back then, they never really put the alcohol volume on the bottles. This wasn't for lack of trying, just that they never really measured it.

It must have been nearly two in the morning by then. The food was pretty much near done, all that was left was the brandy. I decided to kill off the bottle. I got a tall glass, filled it with the remainder of the brandy and topped off the rest with  Coke.

I raised the glass, toasted to my father's health...

Then I down the glass.

Straight.

My father cheered.
I put down the glass, beaming triumphantly.
Smiled.

And then promptly passed out.

I woke the next day, opening my eyes to the smell of coffee. My dad was holding it up to my nose.

"So," he asked, "Still want to drink?."

I just groaned my response.

Hala-Bira! Memories of Dinagyang, an Iloilo festival. (Or any other excuse to party)

A couple of weeks ago, some of my high school friends met up in Bacolod, Philippines for the annual MassKara Festival. To the uninitiated, this is a yearly event is a spectacle of dance, procession and food festivals. Oh, and masks. The highlight would be the street dance competition with people wearing elaborate costumes and well, masks. Its a cultural festival as well as a celebration.  Some may argue that it's manufactured via a presidential decree in 1977 to promote regional tourism. To be fair, many of it's counterparts were celebrated before the decree came into affect. It just got the presidential stamp of approval.


So what does this have to do with what I'm writing about today?

Almost, pretty much nothing at all.

Or nearly nothing at all.

I actually haven't been to MassKara, which is to my own embarrassment. Come to think of it, it has been more than as decade since I have seen any of the major festivals in the Visayas Region. Cebu has it's Sinulog Festival, Aklan has Ati-atihan and my home province has Dinagyang. Well, to there is also Halaran in Capiz and Binirayan in Antique, but I was always less familiar with those two. When I was younger, I would always take time to check out the processions whenever they would be televised. It was fun. Probably the closest we get to the New Year's parade in New York. Except with Ati-Ati tribal street dancing. Drums and all.


So, maybe it's nothing like the New Year's parade then.


Dinagyang then. Once a year, the heart of Iloilo City would be a nod to several concer driving zone. All this to accomodate a whole long weekend of festivities. Now, while the actual celebration is a two day event, covering the fourth weekend in January, I always preferred the Ati-Ati part of the celebration. There is the Kasadyahan street dance, where groups, usually schools perform artistic street performances. It was fun, but that always played second fiddle to the main event. Oh, and the food festival. Every restaurant, catering company or hotel would setup and outdoor eatery, inviting people to gorge on the best food there was top offer. And there was a lot to on offer. This would always coincide with the nighly sound system competition whch would result in impromtu discos in the street. I think this has evolved to concerts being staged as well, but I digress. Let's just say the nightly events were a great excuse to go out, eat, drink and be very merry.

But on to the main event.

To the uninitiated, the Ati-Ati street dancing is a competition of teams composed of 50 odd warriors and supporting musicians, primarily drummers. The tribe members are painted in brown, and garbed in elaborate headdress and outfits. The outfits are usually made of indigenous materials  (Hurrah for the environment! Just don't ask how these acquired. You may weep.) Most of the tribes are based by town or even high school. My own alma mater Iloilo National High school was a multiple event winner. (Ok, we were in the SCC part of the school, but tenuous connection. And I am proud of the old school. ) The whole tribe would then perform a dance routine to a beat of the drums and whatever accompanying instruments. Usually in various sequences and artistic formations stopping only to cry out praise to the Child Christ Jesus, to whom the festival is dedicated. Oh, and " Hala- Bira!". You will hear that a lot. Did I mention each tribe had to do this about five times at a specific checkpoint.


A long day for them, then?



We could spend hours talking about the cultural significance of these festivals. Protection of  regional heritage one might say. We could also ramble on the tenuous religious connections that are lend to each festival. Pagan festival plus religious undertones equals justification to celebrate a festival. Still, as much as my natural skepticism will love to rip these festival apart, I cannot deny that they are just so much fun. But more importantly, it's a great excuse to hang out with friends and family to celebrate.


When I was younger, it was tradition in my family to go to the Dingayang Festival to watch it live. My dad would go to the city before the roadblocks would set in and park our jeepney in a strategic position to watch the Ati street dance competition live. He would then send for us to follow and we would pack a huge lunch spread. We would then get to the site, clamber on to the roof of the jeepney and wait for the parade to begin.


One year, we followed the same routine and got a great position to watch the procession. On top of our jeepney, of course. Pa had as usual, forgotten to shave and to get a haircut. For several months, in fact. At this check point, one of the local radio stations was covering the event, giving live update. It was also being broadcast on load speaker. The pair of DJ's decided to talk about the atmosphere.

"So it looks like everyone has come to watch this year's Dinagyang." DJ 1 exclaimed.


"Ah, yes, everyone has come to town," his partner DJ 2 agreed.


"Even Jesus has come to watch!" DJ 1 continued.


DJ 2, thinking his partner had decided to take a religious spin, droned piously, "Of course, He is always around my friend!"


"No, there He is! On the roof of that jeepney! " DJ 1 proclaimed, pointing.



A couple of hundred heads turned at once, in the direction he was pointing.

He was pointing at my dad.



We all looked at my dad quietly, as we all went red with embarrassment. We waited for my dad to explode in anger.

He looked back at the crowd. Winked. Smiled. And took a sip of his beer.

Back to the party then?

It's been years since I've seen it all live. I stopped going, because it didn't seem worth the effort. I preferred to watch it on TV. Then, even that went to the side. It became all too commonplace, not cool. I always said I would go again, but time continued to pass. Soon, it was all but forgotten.


I always said I would go and watch the festival live again. I know, it might be a tourist trap, but it is  a fun event. Even better, when attended with friends and family. Maybe next time, I'll even go to the other festivals. An excuse to go to Cebu for Sinulog! (Not that I need much prodding to go there!)Who knows, maybe I'll grow my hair and beard long again.

Maybe I'll get mistaken for Jesus!

Avoid pointy objects, alcohol and elevated areas (Part 3)

"Dude, that was eleven years ago!"

There is a real danger of reopening wounds when confronting the past. Usually things that are at least a decade old should be left alone. In the words of a friend of mine, it this event were a kid, it would be in grade school by now. It's a silent movie, only relevant to the time period. But bear with me.

Here's the truth. It is very easy to talk about the good times and the funny anecdotes. It is much different when you realise that you are the villain. Let me make it clear, I acted appallingly, selfishly and over all stupidly in the months following the breakup.

I was an idiot.

I was 19 and I thought I knew everything. I soon learned the hard way that I didn't. That was the sad truth. It nearly cost me one of the most important relationships I have ever had in my life. Ultimately, at time passed I realised what was really bothering me. It was not the end of the relationship (sad as I was about that.). It was not the hole that appeared when it ended either. The problem I had was my feelings for her. I knew how I felt. I knew it was real. I just wasn't sure she believed me.

This is not arrogance speaking here. The problem was that if someone I cared for so much doubted, I began to doubt myself. Someone even asked me why I loved the person so much and I could find the words to answer. Did that make how I felt any less true? Or were these merely the idealistic desires of someone in love with the concept of being in love?  

This would lead to a journey that has evolved over the years. I had resigned to not being part of her life. I will even admit to instances of acting immaturely. One minute I would quietly campaign for support for her when she assumed a particular position in of residential governance. Strange how easy it is to freak out a freshman by quietly telling them it would be in their best interest to support her. Later on, I would undermine her authority. I guess I just wanted to provoke a reaction, any reaction. Kind of like when kids tease the person they fancied.

From my last years in university, it became important to me to see her succeed and for her to be happy. I was glad to be cheering at the sidelines to every victory she had. I kept tabs though, breaking out in a smile with every good fortune she had. As much as I desired to be in her company, I moved to the sidelines. I missed the friend I had in her, before all the drama took over. I missed that sparkle that she brought with her, making even the crappiest day brighter. I missed mattering to her, being able to a blessing and not a burden.

But it wasn't about me. When it  stopped being about me, that's when I began to appreciate her truly. I began to look to what made her special to me and why I cared about her to begin with. Soon, she no longer became the ex-girlfriend, but became what she was to begin with. The person who made me better and made me want to be better. She taught me more about patience and compassion than I thought possible. That and how to have the most wicked humour around.  Slowly, the cold war ended. Mostly, because I stopped acting like  jerk.


I once asked her if she loved me.
She said yes.
I said, "that was all I need to know. "

Years later, I was about to leave the Philippines. I asked if I could see her. People knew I was leaving. It was a decision I made painfully and reluctantly. I thought it was the best decision at the time. But I was having issues saying goodbye. I didn't want to let go. I was afraid this would be the last time I would see her. It was breaking my heart again.

We had coffee. Small talk dominated. She could have said no, but she didn't.

As the evening came to a end, she looked at me.

"You really love me don't you?"

"Yes, " I replied.

"Thank you," she said.

In all my years to that point, no one had ever thanked me. I knew then I could leave at peace. I knew that wherever I went, I had a her with me.
In many ways, some of the better parts of me are because of her.

Years later, in the darkest period I have known personally, I reached out for a friend. She was there. I could not have gotten through that time without her putting up with me. I am and will be forever grateful for her patience and compassion.

Idiot as I was. (One day, we'll open that chapter. But not yet.)

A year ago, she dropped by. We had coffee. On rainy day, in a small cafe overlooking the Thames, I told her that I loved her. She told me she loved me. Ten years. She didn't have to to say it. She didn't need to. But it was nice to hear. It was worth the wait. This was not the romantic love of couples. This was the love of people who cared for each other as individuals. A love for the person, without expectation. One true love.

This, I learned from her.

Once, I was 19 and I fell in love.
At the test of honour, I let her down. 
I made some poor choices and acted foolishly.
She stayed a true friend, regardless. Much better than I was.
I was her friend.
That's all she needed to know.

For all my faults and weakness, I am truly sorry, E.  

I pray I will always be able to show grace and kindness to all those that I love, just as she did.



I hope one day, I can make her proud.
I'll keep on working to make myself a better person. Keep on loving those special to me as true as I can. Without expectation.
Maybe then, I'll be worthy of that one person I am meant for. 



Until then, I'll look forward to the days of sharing coffee,

Like old friends do.

Apologies! Silence is deafening!

Writing blocks are easy to blame. But I would rather admit to pondering on how to finish a trilogy. I'd rather make a "Return  of the King, " rather than a " Matrix Revolution."


Now... back to action!

Avoid pointy objects, alcohol and elevated areas (Part 2)

Ever wanted to have a time machine? I wish I could hop into one right now, go back eleven years, clamber up to that balcony and slap my younger self.

Hard.

I know that hindsight is the most accurate. We gain an impressive amount of wisdom when look at our past actions. We can accurately determine where we went wrong and what proper actions we should have taken.We can always wallow in the "could have, would have, should have," scenarios. But all I can think of when I look at how I acted, how I dealt with the situation is an overpowering sense of anger.

At myself.

I was so self-absorbed, so very selfish. Every thought I had was about how "I" felt, how much "I" was hurting and how lonely "I" was without her. I never at any point thought about her and how she was feeling. It was all about me and my pain.


I pretty much struggled till the end of semester. I was really dwelling in self-pity at this point. I pretty much took up residence in mopeville and melancholy. I wasn't very good company at this point. How my friends even put up with me, I have no idea. Worse of all, I was feeling so very bitter towards her. I couldn't stand to be around her. Even when we passed each other in the hallways, I wouldn't meet her eyes, ever.

I managed to scramble things together to pass my classes by the end of the semester. I then did what I deemed the most reasonable way to deal with my heartache.

I ran.

Or in this case, I flew.  On a plane, of course.

Now you have to understand, my parents and I were in a rough patch at this point. I hardly spoke to them while I was in college. I rarely answered their e-mails. A phone call to them was pretty much limited to single word responses. Perhaps a grunt or two. So imagine my mom's surprise when I asked her for a one way ticket to the UK. No questions. She knew something was wrong. All I said was I needed to get away. I never liked asking for things from my parents. It was not the way we were raised. If we wanted something, we either saved for it, worked for it or earned it. We never asked.

My dad just told me to book my ticket.

I wasn't sure what was going to happen. My best friend Paul just said I could stay at his condo when I got back. My roommate Benny said he would see me when I returned. I packed my things into boxes, sorted out my suitcase and waited for the day of my flight. I didn't know what I was thinking. But it didn't hit me that I was really going away until one of my batch mates Alison just stopped me on our last day together. "You are coming back, right?"

I wasn't sure.

I flew several days later. I just had a backpack and a small suitcase with me. Usually trips to England were fun. I think I even got a free upgrade to business class. But I was just full of dread. I wasn't on speaking terms with my parents. I was halfway across the world from the one person who occupied my thoughts. Even as the plane touched down a Heathrow airport, all I could think was that it was going be a long cold summer.

I was wrong.

It was actually quite sunny that year.

Avoid pointy objects, alcohol and elevated areas.

Relationships are strange endeavour. They are the one field where the smartest person becomes a fool. Everyone has an opinion about just how exactly we are supposed to handle them, but once involved, we will gladly take the rulebook, crap on it, set it on fire and think we are above it all. We all think that our relationship at that point is particular special. It's probably true, from a certain point of view. 


But when the curtain falls, how do you respond? All of a sudden, the music ends and the dance is over. I always believed that I knew exactly how to respond. I would be cool and meet it with a wink and a smile. 


I didn't.


If you are reading this and were expecting for tips on how to deal with heartbreak, you will be disappointed. This is not a help column. This is a re-examination of my own shortcomings. How do you expect to keep your dignity and rise above it all? 


The Philippines. 
It was the millennium. 
2000. 


This was supposed to be the start of a great new year and new century. I was not greeting the new year with any smile at all. It was bad enough I spent most of the holiday season bed-ridden with flu, but ever since I got back things were going wrong. I was not in the mood. The semester had started with great promise, but was falling apart. And it came down to one small event. 


My girlfriend and I were breaking up. 


I should have seen it coming, but I didn't. A stray word here. An odd look there. You have to understand, this was my first real relationship. This was not a simple ego trip or desire to not be alone. I really cared for this person. She was special. She made me happy. I didn't know how to deal with being happy. For once, someone actually decided to take a chance on me. So I took it seriously. But I never really knew what I was doing. I had always prided myself on having a game plan or a strategy  in handling a situation. 


I learned the hard way that there was no right way to deal with it. Was I just that naive? Probably so, and very idealistic. Was I just not looking at what was in front of me? Perhaps I chose no to.


I can't remember why, exactly. We had taken a walk and had "the talk." There were some raised voices. Gritted teeth. We stormed back to her dormitory. I kept on delaying each step, trying to buy time. But still we came to the doorway. I said that maybe we should just end this. She said fine. 


Then…  I remember grabbing her by the wrist as she turned away.  I knew that if I let go, if I let her pass through the door, it would all be over. I pleaded with her. I didn't want this to end. But then I looked at her.  There was this look in her eyes, pleading me to let go.

So I did.

What did we fight about? 

Was it something I had done? 

Or was it something I failed to do?

I know that the short walk from her dormitory to my own seemed to go on forever. The five minute journey seemed to keep on going. I think I walked past my dorm, turned left walked don the pathway and just kept on going. I had probably walked halfway around the campus, when I stopped under a street light. There right next to it was one of the many trees that lined the roads. 
I picked one.


Then proceeded to slam my fist against it. 


There was no scream, no groan. Just a silence interrupted by the repeated thumping of my hand against the bark. After a while, I stopped. 


I felt nothing. 


I then turned around and proceeded home. 


The laughter in the background of my dorm sounded only like a buzzing noise. It felt alien. I cleaned my self off and readied my self for bed. Perhaps I would feel better in the morning, I told myself. Yes, sleep. I could hide away there. Perhaps in a dream. 


I woke the next day, without rest. Sleep didn't help and dreams had abandoned me.  So I crawled to the balcony and sat in the corner. Then I curled up into a ball and cried. 


Red eyes. Throat dry. No matter how painful, all the tears didn't seem enough.

I was pathetic. And I knew it.

I could hear my room mates scurry around getting ready for classes. I kept quiet. I didn't want them to know what had happened. I think it was Walter who noticed I was there first. He popped his head through the doorway. We did our nodding thing. He asked if I was ok. I lied and said yes. He nodded back. He got the idea. He went off to class. I went back to looking off into the distance. 

Benny came by later. We did the whole nod and lie routine as well. He sat for awhile until he had to go to class. I lied again and said I would be fine.  He kept on checking on me between classes, sometimes just sitting quietly beside me. He got me lunch as well. 

It was a long day. 


But all I could think about was how much I already missed her. 


And that I never really told her how special she was. 


And that I never told her how much I cared. 








On a side note, I still owe Benny for the tuna sandwich.

Fondness

Waiting at the train station

Measuring time in coffee cups and sandwiches

Watched you throw your head back in glee

Over an old story

Where I probably made a fool of myself

Somewhere between a drink and laughter,

I found myself in wonderment,

Slipping through the cracks of affection.

Entering into quiet realisation

Of my fondness for you

Until we laugh in chorus,

Wanting your hand to fill mine,

Here, I remain,

Still the boy at the train platform

Waiting for the girl to come home.

When it rains... we pour! (Part 2)

Have you ever been to a Filipino family's house? Take a look in the kitchen. I bet you will find a whole bunch of canned goods around as well as instant noodles. If it was in the Philippines, that would mean sardines or tuna. It's abroad, it would be lucheon meat, SPAM or corned beef. You might be lucky or unlucky to see the occasional canned squid or lechon paksiw (roasted suckling pork stew). I wonder if they still sell the latter?

The reasoning is quite simple and actually very sound. It's all about being prepared for natural disasters. If you look even further, there would probably be flashlights (torches for you British readers), spare batteries and candles. I would mention lighters and matches, but that would be a given. Any family that has grown up with the number of typhoons we went through, you would be remiss not to take precautions.

It doesn't mean you can truly be prepared for what comes. There are two things that you look out for, the wind and the rain. The wind is unpredictable. It's not just the speed, but it's the sudden changes of speed and direction that can be worrying. When you are in the eye of the typhoon, it is when it is most scary. It is completely calm. It might even be sunny for a while. But when you look up and the clouds begin to gather, it is the silence that is most troubling. Because when the wind begins to pick up, it doesn't stop. It keeps going on and on until it literally screams. There were moments when growing up in the farm where the sound of the wind was eerie. At night you prayed for morning to come. In the day time, you closed your eyes as you saw buildings and other structures torn apart bit by bit.

What was scarier, seeing the aftermath or seeing it happen right in front of you?  One of the first typhoons I went through I remember peering out the window with my cousin Nati. We were living in a flat in the suburbs back then. We were watching this small wind mill over at a nearby house. We looked on fascinated as every couple of minutes, a fan would start dropping off. We started making a game of it as to how long it would take for the next to go. Only one was left in the end, still spinning on it's lonesome. At the end of every storm, we would pile into the jeep and go for a drive around town to see the aftermath. I remember being in shock to see my school after one particularly strong typhoon and find half of the trees uprooted. A century of living nature, gone. Still we would ride on. Morbid curiosity, I know.

Then there is the rain. Sometimes you may wish for stronger winds and less rain, because while it may sting, it would be less damaging to the crops. We did and still do reside on a farm remember? But when it just rained, it seemed to go on forever. My dad got so tired of the flooding that would happen, he raised the foundation of the family home to what most people thought ludicrous proportions. No one laughed later on when the floods began to go higher and higher. So much so that during the worst of the floods, our house would resemble a small island in the middle. Little wonder that some of the people would take refuge in our house at times.

I was reminiscing with my brother several days ago over one occasion. We decided to make the most of the waterlogged area around us and went on to make a raft. We got some bamboo and tied it all together, got a long pole and made like a gondola. We took to the flooded outskirts, moving steadily along. That was until a section of the raft started coming apart at the seams. My brother yelled at me to grab the section and keep it together. I did the first thing that came to mind.

I jumped off the raft and waded home, leaving my brother with the sinking raft.

He dragged the remains back to the homestead, only to find my dad waiting for him. I duly popped up behind my dad feigning ignorance. My dad duly laid into us for doing something very irresponsible and dangerous. He would have grounded us, but since we were stuck at home and there was no electricity, it would have been a moot point.

We woke up the next day, the house still surrounded by high waters. We looked for our dad as he seemed to be missing. After a while, he came around... on a raft of his own making. He had taken some banana plant stalks, tied them together, then nailed a sheet of plywood on top for a platform. He had taken his raft for a spin all morning, even going to the local bakery to pick up some freshly baked bread.

We still got a lecture on proper raft construction.

But we did go for a ride later.

When it rains... we pour! (Part 1)

It's the hottest weekend in October for nearly a century. Having the weekend off for once has it's benefits, especially when being able to write this in the garden. But I feel a twinge of guilt as well. All this sunshine is in sharp contrast to the stormy weather that is hitting the Philippines at the moment. It seems that the only time that country makes international news is when something bad happens. And with an average of 20 typhoons hitting the archipelago a year, it is somewhat a certainty.

Here in England, it is commonplace to complain about the weather. About how it rains all the time. How cold it is. How it is better abroad. Having lived abroad, I know just how green the grass just is on the other side. For all the sunny days in the tropical climate, the stormiest days are truly terrifying. Especially when witnessed firsthand. It is quite ironic that the name of the weather bureau in the Philippines is PAG - ASA ( Philippine Atmospheric, Geophysical and Astronomical Services Administration) which is supposed to mean "hope" in Filipino. We usually though of any news reports from them as "impending doom" to be honest.

Still, it was not always doom and gloom. It was always surprising when PAG-ASA would get it wrong. Now Typhoons are generally classified by Signals no. 1 to 3, depending on the wind speed. The higher the number, the greater the destructive power. Now there is the Signal no. 4, which is the designation for the Super typhoon. It is very rare that this is ever used.

So it came as a surprise one day while in elementary school, that the report was raised of an impending typhoon that was on its way. In response, my school decided to take precaution and send all the elementary students home.  My brother was in high school then and I had to wait for him to be released by his teachers. I waited at the elementary building with a friend of mine and came to a decision. I looked up to the darkening skies. I watched as the gentle breeze started getting stronger. I was going to do the first thing that came to mind in the face of a storm brewing in the horizon.

I went off to play computer games.

Yes, while everyone else was worrying about the oncoming winds and rainfall, people panic buying canned goods and covering their windows with plywood, I decided to blow some cash playing Street Fighter 2, Mortal Kombat 1 and Dragon Ball Z.

Hadouken!
Finish him!
Kamehameha!

My brother knew exactly where to find me after he was left off from class. And what did he do?
Kicked my butt in the games for the next hour or so .

We did get home a lot later. My dad did get a little ticked off that we did not get home sooner. We had to do all our chores pretty quickly and settle down for the night.

And the typhoon?

It never arrived.

I did! I did ride my bicycle!

I spent part of the past evening stuck under the roof of the bus stop. I hadn’t watched the weather report, unlike usual. Even with my raincoat as a staple, there was no way I was going to stay dry in this weather. I was stuck here, halfway from the bike shop. My bike had a shattered rear wheel. Three days to order a wheel and new gears to match. So, I took pause in the shelter and leaned back, listening aimless to the music from my I pod. While the rain continued to pour, I just had to think for a moment,

“Was cycling really worth all this?”

I did not enjoy learning how to ride a bike when I was a kid. I was a brat and was never one to take any risks, especially when there was a risk of scraped knees, bleeding and even the slightest pain.

I was a wimpy kid.

I admit not an admirable trait. I would probably laugh at my younger self for the ineptitude I displayed. To be fair, I had some excuse. I was a pretty sickly kid back then, so I was not a very active child.

We were staying in Pampanga at the time. My parents had bought my brother and I a couple of bikes. Mine came with training wheels. Now I may have been a wimp, but I also had my pride. The idea of going around with side wheels was not to my liking. Plus given the type of roads around, it wasn’t practical.

So I tried a couple of times, scaring my mom half to death, getting cuts and bruises to match but getting no nearer to learning how to ride. I think I tried for a whole day and then gave up. I used to quit really easily. Retreat was always the option! Wave the white flag!

The next day though, my uncle came by to visit. I really didn't want to let him down. So we took to the dirt road again, him holding the back of my seat. "Pedal faster!," he said!

Faster.!
Faster!!
Faster!!!

Suddenly, I was pedalling, like crazy, eyes wild open and screaming like a fool.My family all watching from the side of the road, cheering me on. I felt safe, confident after all, my uncle was right there behind me. I knew he was.

I just checked.

And then he let go.

AAAH!!!

Off I went. weaving like crazy. Eyes even wider than before. I wonder who screamed louder, me or my mom. Probably me.

But I didn't stop.

I didn't fall. 

I had learnt how to ride a bike.



Finally.

Now what?

It would actually be more than a decade before I would ride a bike regularly again. I did ride a bit in my elementary years, but it had lost its sparkle and fun factor. By high school, it was just a skill you picked up as a kid and dismissed like tying your shoes. You just did it it the occasion required , but otherwise, no. But by the time I had moved back to the UK, it looks like riding a bike may have come to my rescue again.

Now I live pretty much near the office. How close? Try two train stops by way of the London Underground. A thirty minute bus ride. If you want to put it in financial terms, I would be spending over £2.50 per day, 5 days a week, 4 weeks on a month. It kind of adds up. But I didn't think of it that way until I began to realise two things. First, I had less free money on hand per month. No body would be happy in that position. And secondly, I was seriously getting out of shape.

But one day, one of my work mates Laura came up with an idea.
" Adam, why don't you cycle to work?"

Really? Could I really see myself putting on a helmet, cruising down the street, getting all sweaty , just to save a few pennies?

I bought my bike a week later.

21 speed, Carrera Subway 1.0 Hybrid bike.
Lightweight, and fast.
So fast it scared my just how fact it went the first time I took it to the road.

Sure I had to put up with the needling from my workmates and the stress of having to plan out my routes. Getting wet in the rain, sweating through two outfits a day.But it was ok. I was saving money and was getting back into shape, gradually.

Until some idiot stole my bike. Seriously, I had to travel half way across the world to be mugged off by some fool with a hacksaw? Just remebering that night still ticks me off. I felt really silly walking to the police station to report the crime. It came to little consolation that I was not the first victim in the office. I was still angry.

But three months later, I was tired of taking public transport. I could feel myself getting more unhealthy. I was getting restless and couldn't keep still.

I missed cycling.

So I bought another bike.

18 speed Raleigh Venture mountain bike.
Oh, I got two locks and insurance too.

So what is it about cycling? Why do I keep at it?

Well aside from the money saved and the health benefits, its the personal time.

In that twenty minute journey, I can shut out the world. On my way to work, I can plan out my day, reflect on life and just think things over. On my way home, I can take out my stress, look at how my day went and just lose myself to the quiet evening. It's never perfect, never the same, but it is the one part of my day that I can claim as my own.


The rain had slowed down to a reasonable level. I walked on to the bike shop. Paid the due cost of a new rear wheel and gears to boot. Shook my head at the prices (In these harsh economic times, one always reflects on the cost.). 

But when they brought out my bike, all fixed up and ready. I couldn't help but break out into a smile.

"Hello old friend."

"Let's Ride!"

Gotta dance!!! (Part 3)

The great part about being young is that when it comes to dancing, it’s not about the choreography. Seriously, as long as you are below the age of ten and are completely devoid of self-consciousness, you can do pretty much do whatever you want. As long as you don't hit anyone, stays away from doing anything lewd and stay within the rhythm of the music, you can bank on  people going , " Awww, how cute!" Actually I lied, music can be optional. 
 
Being Filipino, you had to be on hand for the ritual embarrassment your parents will subject you to when they put you on display in front of friends and family. Usually, this means the whole song and dance routine. I sometimes wonder what goes through the parents heads when they do this. Since me and my brother have no talent with musical instruments and have a gagging order preventing us form singing, I guess that left us with dancing. And my brother ALWAYS pulled rank.

But hey, to be fair, he had done his time in the purgatory that was "parent's embarrassing their kids night." A five year age gap between brothers meant that he had to take center stage for quite a bit. Not that he needed much prompting.  If you know him or ever get to meet him, just mention Grease. My parents once went with a couple of their friends and kids to the movie theatre. It just so happened to be a re screening of the film. At one point during the film, my brother along with the other kids promptly got up and decided to dance along.

"Aw, how cute."

To be fair, the audience did give them a rousing applause. Not that I remember the incident. I was still en route to being born.

As you get older, you realise how silly you look while attempting to dance and failing completely. But, for some reason or another it always came into my life for some reason. I would try to avoid it. Nobody wants to look like an idiot in public. But, it was a losing battle. There were two things I pretty much ended up doing in elementary that would have me putting on my dancing shoes.

First of all, I was always being asked to be an escort in whatever pageant or event our school would have. I guess it was because I was tall by Filipino standards, even at a young age. That and I could pull off wearing a suit and tie without a problem. In the third grade, however, I was partnered with my friend and classmate Farida in this Valentine's pageant of sorts. She was competing for the Princess of Hearts crown. This would not be the usually usher from one area to another role, oh no.

The organisers decided to add some pizazz and we were to have a dance number. So for nearly eight weeks, after class, we would meet on the flat roof of our main school building. Sweating out move after move, step after step, and trying to memorize each movement. It was the first time I really had a routine to follow. I wasn't doing things on the fly. Also, I had to dance to a song written and released a years before I was born, Paul Anka's "Diana." Not exactly cool points. I wonder if it would be sad to admit that I knew the song from listening at home.


The show went off without a hitch. The dance number was a surprise to the crowd. It was the casual wear portion of the pageant. Casual meant well-pressed denim jacket and trousers. After the girls strutted on stage, the struck a pose and out of nowhere the song began to play. Us, guys were hiding in the wings and then slowly, shuffled on to the stage to the beat of the music. The crowd roared in approval. It was was well received to say the least.  More importantly, no mistakes.  And my partner, Farida won pretty much hands down.

A couple of years ago I had coffee with Farida and we chuckled over the whole event. I think we still remember the routine as well. But you won't find me breaking into that routine any time soon. Plus I had a good dance partner.

Second of all, I was a Boy Scout. Yes, really. I wore the Scouting Green and kerchief with pride. I guess I thought it was cool as a kid. I always wanted to do the whole outdoors thing. Unfortunately, fears of health and safety limited whatever activities we could do. That and the school was pretty wussy when it came to letting us out. So we ended up doing most of our camping on school grounds.

Which meant we had to have entertainment. And what is more entertaining that having a variety show and what is this... a dance contest? So here we go again. But wait, we need to have a dance routine that will outshine everybody else.

We need to dance to THE hit song of the time.

It was 1989.

There was only one song and one song alone.

"Ice, Ice Baby," by Vanilla Ice.

I am so ashamed.

Now, we did have a great routine. And my brother, yes, my brother did the choreography. He does the better Running Man. We also only had an hour to get a routine together. But we went on stage first and pulled it off. That was probably a good thing. Not that we were worried about our dance routine. It's just that out of the six competing groups, all six decide to dance to the same song. Completely by accident.

Oh, we did win the contest by the way. Though it might have to do less with the quality than the fact that by the third act, everyone was bored of the song, us included. That and my Aunt Priam was in the audience and was screaming at the judges to vote for me. Nothing like intimidation to get the vote to swing your way.

As you get older, you get more conscious about how you dance. You feel like you have to look good and have to look cool. I miss the innocence of childhood where all you had to do was swing your hands in the air and bounce around the dance floor. Unfortunately, you just can't pull it off by looking cute.  No matter how much you try. So maybe I 'll dance around the room when I'm alone in my house, just for the heck of it. 


But never again to " Ice, Ice Baby. "

Never again.

An apology!!!

Puppet without strings would like to apologise for the lack of entries over the past couple of days. 


He had lost his smile for a while.


It's now back.




We now bring your back to your regular programming. 

Gotta dance!!! (Part 2)

Now dancing is well and good. After all, don't you find your self bopping your head, tapping your feet or breaking out into a spin out of nowhere? OK, maybe the last one was just me then. But even when we were young, my parents taught us to appreciate dance, especially different styles, cultural, modern and formal.Which would probably explain why I love watching ballet.

I have always believed that appreciating ballet was a combination of factors. There is the artistry and the technique by each individual dancer and the company as an ensemble. You can see the effort that has been put in by each individual as well as the backroom staff to make the production seem effortless. Each precise movement, formation, even the smallest gestures can be awe-inspiring.. Then, there was the story and and it's interpretation.I have always been a romantic and found the love stories really interesting when put to dance. Which is why ballet, especially at it's highest form moves me. It just brings out a pleasant feeling of  childlike wonder in me.

Perhaps that's how my father felt the first time he saw live ballet. To this day he calls it the best $10.00 he ever spent. Pa worked on merchant ships in his younger days and on one particular journey, he had a stop over at New York. Usually, they would get a free day for shore leave, just to have some free time. Pa decided to explore the ciy and ended up taking shelter at what appeared to be a theatre. It turned out that it was Radio City Music Hall. Having nothing else to do and wanting to kill time, Pa decided to pay the $10.00 (which was a lot even then) and see what was on offer.

He sat through a couple of comedy acts, a Rockettes routine and a movie. He pretty much thought the show was over, but then he got his big surprise. Now you have to understand, Pa was not a a big fan of classical music or ballet at the time. It just wasn't his thing before. All of a sudden, the orchestra revealed itself, the music began to build and the entire ballet company took to stage. My dad said that whenever he listens to classical music, it brings him back to that very moment, seeing the dancers move to the music in a most elegant fashion. Which is why to this day he has a great love for ballet. And he this is why he has shared that with us, the family.

Sometimes, I can be a bit too honest when it comes to watching performances. My aunt Prima used take up ballet herself. This aunt of mine is my dad's cousin and was pretty much closer in age to my brother and I.We had just moved to the Philippines at this time. Her ballet school had a big performance, so we all went in support. We had seats up in the front, along with all the camera toting families. Now, ballet was pretty much the realm of the upper classes. It shouldn't be surprising as lessons and shoes would have cost a fortune. This however lead to some kids taking up ballets even if they had little or no talent, nor were they physically adept to handle this sort of dancing.

So, there we were, sitting in the audience, the music blaring, flashbulbs blinding us with each picture taken and every family applauding their respective family member or friend as they took to stage. I sat and looked to the stage with a puzzled gaze. Something wasn't right. My aunt was doing fine and I thought she was doing quiet well. But I just couldn't stop myself from fidgeting around. My mother, growing impatient turned towards me and told me to settle down.

Finally, I broke my silence, talking in the loudest whisper, .

" Ma, this is supposed to be 'Swan Lake', right?" (I recognised the music and the costumes even at 6 years old.)

She nodded.

"It's not supposed to be, Fantasia right?"

She shook her head, a puzzled look on her face.

I paused for a second.

"Then why are there dancing Hippos? And they aren't very good dancers, either..."

Ma went red with embarrassment.
My grandaunt smiled broadly.
My brother giggled like crazy.

I was pretty much told to stay quiet for the rest of the performance.


I did get a big hug from my aunt afterwards.

Gotta dance!!! (Part 1)

I love Gene Kelly. I can watch "Singin' in the Rain," over and over again, if just to see the immortal sequence of him prancing around in a downpour. Yes, I know he had the flu that day. Yes, I know they had to add milk to the water so the rainfall could be captured on film. But those have little to do with my point today. It is just the absolute delight on his face as he whirled around, splashing around to the music and the look of happiness on his face.

Dance had a funny place in my family. When I was a young child growing up, we weren't allowed to watch TV on weekday nights. There were exceptions, Star Trek(Original Series), Mission Impossible(again, Original Series), Battlestar Gallactica( perhaps I am showing my age?), but most importantly Top of the Pops.

Now we did watch it to see what was the new music coming out. Yes, MTV was just in it's early years and was mostly in the US back then. So for a kid growing up in England, Top of the Pops was what you got. Yes, we appreciated the Soul classics, the 80's New Wave, but what we really were into was the dance music. My parents would always drag us to out feet and got us to hit it. We were young and completely carefree so we just wailed around like lunatics. The living room was our dance floor, and we had a blast.

My dad was actually a very good dancer in his youth and still is to this day. Back then, he did all the traditional Filipino dances for his elementary and later on his high school. He would often tell us about how he wouldn't be allowed to go class unless he trained first and that they would pull him out of class just to represent the school in some dance contest. One of the other kids would always have an extra costume on hand, just for him.

When we moved to the Philippines, things didn't change. There always seemed to be an occasion to dance. In my younger days, I was always being pushed to represent our side of the family during our grand family reunion in December. I used to always play coy about it, acting embarrassed, but when my grand uncles promised a gift for doing it, I would give in and strut my stuff. They would always throw money in appreciation. Funny, I always took the coins but refused the paper notes. Shows how smart I was back then.

The funny thing if that I would have done it, regardless. Why, because it was fun. There was an absolute joy in just letting yourself go and not caring about what anybody else thought. Pretty much letting the music take control. Even if it took you into doing "the Twist."

Because I have a bed.

I was talking to a friend in the Philippines. She told me a story. She was looking down the road and saw an old man pushing cart. The cart most like likely full of odds and ends, bric-a-brac, probably scavenged from the street. The guy looked like he was probably in his 80's maybe even his 90's. But the sad fact was that this guy probably didn't have a roof to sleep under, much less a bed to sleep on. This is a sad, but common fact of life in the developing world.

This kind of puts things in perspective. The troubles of one man, truly does not amount to a hill of beans in comparison to the woes of the world. In face of even the most personal of heartaches, one must look to what we are most grateful for. This list will be incomplete, naturally, as the list would go on forever. But at this point in time, let me look at what I am grateful for.

These are what I have been blessed with:

My Parents. The journey has been rough at times, but they have always been there. More than just their love, they gave me their respect. One day I hope to do something that they can look upon as truly worthwhile, be it a best selling novel, or just remembering to take out the trash.

My Elder Brother. We have gone to extremes growing up. He was my hero growing up and still bails me out at times. He may be the better football player, but I still can drill the three pointer better. He still tells me like it is. Sometimes you need that.

My sister in law. Because she makes my brother happy. And she makes this family all the more fun.

My elementary friends. Six years of growing up together. Still fond memories and they still make time.

My high school friends. The highs and lows of puberty, the nerdiest of educations and the worst dating record combined. Traumatising, but made some of the strongest bonds that last to this day.

My university friends. I came in a boy and left a boy, but ready to become the man I was meant to be. But you helped me find the person inside. Even if I still lose sight of that person.

My other family. The circle of friends that keeps on growing. To those here, those not, those long forgotten and those yet to come. 

My house. Actually, the one here and the two back in the Philippines. Keeps us warm and dry at night.

My Books and comic collection. I can still read them and be enthralled over and over again. I can travel through time, space and worlds, even for a while.

My PC. For work and play purposes, a most excellent gadget.

My Garden. Dad put in the effort. Only now have I begun to appreciate it. Writing drafts while sitting in the swing chair is most relaxing.

My swing chair. See above.

My middle finger on my right hand. I nearly lost it. I'll talk about that one day.

My Bike. Replaced my stolen Carerra Subway, but does the job very well. Plus it saves me money in travel costs.

Every woman I ever dated. For going out on the date at all. I had to learn somehow.

Every woman I ever loved. Because it was a great kindness and I'll remember you fondly always.

My best friend who told me to leave my hand open and let the bird come to you. Sometimes it stays, sometimes it flies away.

My best friend who helped me smile this morning.

My friend who told me the story and told me to look towards what I was thankful for.

The woman who helped me start writing this blog again. Always the number one fan. All ways and always.

This blog for helping me smile.

The brunch I will eat after writing this.

And the bed I will sleep in tonight.


I am most definitely grateful. Sometimes we get blessings we don't deserve, but we need. Sometimes heartbreak is the journey of the soul, travelled alone. But there are always things to be grateful for.

Even if it is because I have a bed.

September.

Sunrise on a Tuesday morning.

September winds begin to settle.

Someones' mother, someone's father began their working day.

Do you think they could have stopped for another coffee? 

Or paused for another minute of sleep?

Did you see the the planes make their final approach?

From your window, could you avoid the view?

Someone's daughter, someone's son was working today.

Those below, desperately rushed to safety, 

Those above, sadly looked on in dispair.

Night falls on a Tuesday evening.

Cool September winds begins to settle in. 

Someone's sister, someone's brother, no more work from this day.

On a Pacific Isle, day comes to it's final hours,

But it is elsewhere where the sun was setting. 

It was a Tuesday.

Tuesday night.

Senior year of my University days. I was settling in on an evening of lively discussion regarding the creation of the dormitory constitution for the Cervini and Eliazo Dormitories. The past couple of weeks had been rife with arguments, but at this point we had settled into a groove and were working on each point, thinking of the legacy it would leave behind future generations of dormers.

I can't remember who got the first text message. Someone mumbled about a plane crash happening. We ignored it and went back to our work. One by one, the familiar beeps kept on coming in increasing frequency. I think we actually finished out meeting before we started reading the messages. One by one, we began to realise something was the matter.

Plane crash.
New York.
World Trade Center.

We all rushed to our rooms. Every PC appeared to be on. Every Radio. Every TV. People talked in hushed tones everywhere. We watched the events happening as it streamed to our screens.  Was this for real?

It was.

Here we were, half way across the planet, our day ending. While in the East Coast of the United States, their working days was supposed to e only just beginning. And yet, that would be the last sunrise for many. Long into the night, we gathered wrote e-mails to everyone we knew, sent text messages to every number, checked with every relative.

We prayed and cried long into the night.

I never got to go to the the World Trade Center. I had gone to New York, years before as part of my holiday before going off to university. I had to make a choice when I was in Manhattan, go to the World Trade Center or go on the NBC studio tour. I was an aspiring journalist, so the choice was simple. After all, the Twin Towers would still be there, right? 

It has been a decade since that fateful day. I had been back to New York, but did not go to Ground Zero. I had my own issues at the time and frankly, going there might have pushed me over the edge. The place still casts it's shadow over the city, long after the debris had been cleared away. It is a scar that will never heal, especially in memory of those who bear the deepest wound.

The events of that day in September still resonate. Though rightly so, the USA claim this as their tragedy, the world was a victim. We live a post 9/11 era. It has changed how we travel. It has affected every government's foreign policy. It has shaped our relations with each other, good and bad. We could debate for hours on the aftermath, the Afghanistan invasion, the 7/7 bombing in London, the Iraq war, all these events and more.

People got up on one September morning. They got ready to greet the day, to go to work, to travel, to seize a day in their lives. It may have been night time in the Philippines at the time, but the sun had set for so many.

It is for them that we pause.
It is for them we remember.
And it is for them we appreciate each love we have, each friendship we are gifted with and each day we greet the sunshine.

It was a Tuesday.

We, that saw Wednesday remember.

Writing in invisible ink. (Part 1)

“So, you want to be a writer?”

I was in sixth grade when I had my dreams trampled upon by the words of my then English teacher. We were asked to write about what our hopes and dreams were for the future.  In typical fashion, half nobly wrote the script that their parents had put in their heads, writing about their dreams of being doctors and lawyers, detailing how they wish to better humanity. The odd few made clear their political aspirations. I had to look at these as idealistic hopes, as my present day cynicism would only scoff at these ambitions. We were all young then, so such musings were admirable and (hopefully) were devoid of the inevitable lust for excessive material fulfilment and the trappings of corrupt power.

I remember perhaps one or two had hopes of success in sports. I can’t remember the particulars. We did not find these out of place, as I think they were pretty good at whatever they were into. I just can’t remember who they were in particular, only that we were not surprised with their ambitions. Perhaps they made it and I remain ignorant of the matter. If it was so, I humbly apologise for not keeping up to date with the history with my peers are concerned.

In any case, this leads to my story. I decided to talk about my dream of being a writer. Now, even then I knew then extent of my abilities. I was not expecting to be a high brow writer of modern literature. I just wanted to tell stories, be a novelist. This was a kid, who grew up fascinated reading the mystery novels, action adventure stories and the odd sci-fi/fantasy tale. (One day I will complete my Hardy Boy mystery series collection!). I went on to drone about how I liked to tell stories about people, events or for just for entertainments sake.

It wasn’t my best essay by any account, but I was pretty happy with my work. I always liked essay writing to any other form of testing. It was the only way to express an understanding and grasp of a subject as opposed to plain facts and figures. Yes, some people love to pad their writing heavily, with flowery words and the odd anecdote. But, that was allowable as long as there was a point to all of it. In elementary school, essays would be handwritten on a sheet of lined intermediate pad, with borders. Blue or black ball point pen, depending on what was available.

I happily hand over my finished work to my English teacher, satisfied on a well thought out piece of work. She took it, read through it quickly, looked up, smiled and said, “So you want to be a writer?,” loud enough for the class to hear. I smiled broadly, thinking that my writing may have shown her possibly my great imagination, fantastic prose and charming ingenuity. But it’s her next words quickly took the wind out of my sails.

“Are you sure? With YOUR handwriting?!? “

Cue laughter from my classmates.

Now, it was no secret amongst everyone just how poor my shorthand penmanship was and still is. It is terrible. In second grade we actually had penmanship lessons and I had to stay after class for make up work because mine looked like chicken scratching. Actually, that would be inaccurate. At least chickens could read the scratching. I would have usually taken things in good humour, but the English teacher’s remark pretty much left a very painful mark. After all, if my English teacher could not see past my penmanship and see the actual work for its own merit, what hope did I have for being a writer?

I shouldn’t have let the event affect me, but it did. So much so, that writing would take the back seat for a while. It was pretty easy to do as I was moving into high school and writing was not high on my priorities a fitting in. These were the growing years, when childhood and innocence to fade into memory and when we became our selfish self-absorbed selves. The writer in me would have to go on hiatus for several years before taking stage again. 

Hoop Dreams part 2

I remember coming to class the next day after the game. I was still smarting from the embarrassment. And like true buddies, they would not let me live it down. Damn.

So what to do? Now I could have just left it at that. After all, I was at a school that prided itself on academic achievement. It would be ok to let things be. Let's hit the books! Forget about hitting the hardcourt. Let's think about Physics and Chemisty and not lay-ups and boxing out. Yes, forget about the basketball.

Except, I couldn't. I knew I was bad at it. I was determined to learn the game. So, how else but to keep on playing it. Not that it would be difficult. You see, basketball is like breathing in the Philippines. It was part of life. We played at every opportunity. Every politician would even donate a basketball court, just in time for the election. I guess it was just their good will and nothing to do with trying to suck up to people for votes. But I digress.

So play I did. After school. During lunch break. With glasses on. Half-blind without them. In the rain. In the hot sun. I twisted my ankle to the point I couldn't feel it at times. I got my dad to set up a ring at home. I would practise my lay-up over and over again. I kept dribbling until my fingers hurt. I played until dark.

And I still sucked.

Nothing seemed to work. I still didn't seem to improve. I had the confidence level of a falling brick. So what now?

By this time, it was my sophomore year in high school. The school games were coming up. My batch decided to start putting a team together.  Somehow, regardless of how bad I was, the guys convinced me to join. I knew I wasn't going to get the first team, but I was happy and nervous as well. We kind of figured my role. Defence. Rebound. Don't even think about shooting.

I came on as relief. We were demolished by the opposition, but I didn't embarrass myself. A couple of rebounds. No turnovers. Great going! We still lost, so not a real victory. But hey, we had one heck of a losing streak anyway, so what was going to change?

But leaving the game, it dawned on me that I hadn't done badly. So I played about five minutes during the game. I played at least!

We came into our junior year. Basketball wasn't on out top priorities that year, but we still played every day after school. It became almost ritual. School. Basketball. Crash at a friends house. Make up some dumb excuse for coming home late. Stay up till 2 am studying. And repeat.

We went into the school games and this time, I was back up center/ forward. I pretty much came on for my best friend Paul. Which meant I was going to get a lot of stick for replacing him on the court. By this time, we knew how to play with each other. We knew our strengths and weaknesses. I  played the distraction. I knew how to look threatening, by just moving constantly. Faking them out. Grabbing each rebound like crazy. Blocking shots. And we won.  OK, we did play against the freshmen regular class, but we did win!

Last year of high school. Our last chance to leave a bit of a legacy. This time it was different. I was starting power forward. Suddenly, I wasn't afraid anymore. We played more and more as a team. I found my niche. It was like breathing. We actually began to compete. I scored my first points. I averaged double figures in rebounds. I blocked shots. Basketball was suddenly my game.

We came in third place that year. I started that game and played one my best defensive games ever. I did foul out of the game. But we took our nerd filled team further than any previous. It was a good feeling.

We graduated and went to college. We didn't get to play as often. Suddenly I couldn't get away with my height. I was too short to play forward. My skills were too poor to play point. I ended up playing a back up role  in any team I played. I finally learnt to shoot. It became my way, not shooting from the hip. I learned to shoot overhead, ala Larry Bird. An European way. Fitting, I suppose.

I finally beat Paul in a one and one match. I never beat him before. Perhaps he had slowed down but I felt good. He joked that I should have learnt to shoot that well in high school. I smiled back at him with quiet contentment.

It has been years since I played regularly. I tried on my last visit home and nearly keeled over from exhaustion. I was so out of shape. It was so bad that one of the opposition was asking if I was ok. I quickly subbed myself out of the game. I looked out to the court as I watched the others play. It was like yesterday again. But I didn't feel as bad. Perhaps one day I will be able to shoot as well as before. Perhaps one day I will be able to play with pride.

But not yet.

Perhaps it's time to hit the court again.

Hoop Dreams. Part 1

I was never athletic as a child. I guess I was because I was sickly as a child. I mean really sickly. We used to stock so much Calpol, it was like a pharmacy. I was taking antibiotics for my tonsils so much, by doctor pretty much started to ban me, lest I develop immunity. So, a pathetically thin kid was not going to be the first kid chosen in games.

To be fair, I was a pretty good runner. Not fast over long distance, but I could sprint pretty well. When I was very little, only one of my schoolmates could beat me. (Ah yes, Mulukumbala! I will beat you one day at a race.  OK, we were 5 years old, but that guy could run.)

As I got older, I knew that there would be inevitable comparisons to my elder brother. Don’t get me wrong, I was always proud of his achievements. There is a reason why he is arguably the best goalkeeper Central Philippine University ever produced. Heck, they still talk about him fondly, even now. Not that I would ever admit to it. But with that came the unceasing pressure of everyone asking if I would follow in his footsteps. "So when are you joining the football team? " " What position did I play?" " When can you start? "

Are you serious? I was more chess team material. I love football, don't get me wrong. But I wasn't about to join just to pander to them. And let's be honest. I sucked at the game.  Better to not tarnish the family name. 

Perhaps it was fortunate that I left CPU to go to high school elsewhere. It was typical that I end up in the nerdiest of schools available. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about athletic achievement. But it was here that my love affair with a bouncing ball and rusty hoop began. 

I had played basketball with my friends in my elementary days. There was a court next to the university church that we would frequent. It wasn't much, but it was far away that we could mess around even if we had no idea what we were doing. 

But in high school it was different. First of all, I was taller than most my age. So it was assumed that I played basketball. I couldn't even dribble the ball properly. It was embarrassing. Especially amongst the guys. I was awkward. I jumped like a hippo. Couldn't see without my glasses and couldn't shoot the ball to save my life. Not exactly the second coming of Michael Jordan. 

It would get worse. I got slotted with my best friend on a basketball team. He always was very good at the game. He also took the time to give me tips on how to improve. From positioning, dribbling, shooting to simply holding the ball. I probably learnt more from him than anyone else.

Unfortunately, I sucked. Badly. I blew passes. Missed shots. Couldn't defend anyone. I even tried to redeem myself by pulling off an ally- oop shot. That shot has gone down in infamy as one of the silliest exhibition shots ever. Thank God there was no You Tube back then. So much so I was crying after the game out of embarrassment. I had never been so humiliated. 

Where could I go from there?