As the World falls down... a moment to remember the Goblin King.

"You remind me of the babe..."

"What babe?"

"The babe with the power!"

"What power?"

"The Power of Voodoo!"

"Who?"

"You do?"

"Do what?

"Remind me of the babe!"


If you grew up in Iloilo in the late 80's to early '90s, you probably know these lines. You knew them because television was awful and mostly pre-recorded. So much so, that one TV station (IBC-12) was notorious for keeping irregular broadcast schedules and showing programs and movies randomly. The one benefit was because it was so limited, more often than not you ended up watching the same movies over and over again. So much so, that we memorised just about everything about these films.

One movie stood out even then when I was a kid. It freaked me out when I was a lot younger, which did surprise me. Before watching this film, I had only known Jim Henson for Sesame Street and The Muppet Show. This movie had creepy goblins, talking door knockers and beasts who loved to toss their heads around... literally. But it also had an enchanting young actress named Jennifer Connelly, years removed from The Rocketeer and even more so from A Beautiful Mind.

That movie was The Labyrinth.

And playing a most fabulous Goblin King, the late David Bowie.


The tributes continue to this late hour, coming from all corners of the world. It is often so when such influential figures pass on. The music was undeniably brilliant and remains so. I took a moment today to review just about how many of his songs I knew. I was equally surprised by the number I could sing along to and even more by the many more that had passed me by. It is a testament to his talent that he was known by different persona to different people.


However on a most personal note, David Bowie will always remain Jareth, the Goblin King. I am not alone in this. A quick view on Facebook had me smiling, realising that many of my contemporaries were equally fascinated and freaked out by that character. As much as he portrayed the antagonist of the story, he was both equally charming and menacing. So much so that even at a young age, I felt a twinge of sympathy towards his character.
After all, she did ask for the baby to be taken (Spoilers, but if you haven't watched the movie, go watch it now!)

In the end, there was always the music.
I smile and remember singing along and dancing to Dance Magic Dance.
I probably still know the words.
Perhaps you do as well.


Perhaps he has gone up beyond the stars.
Perhaps he turned into an owl and has flown into the night, back to his Goblin kingdom.

David Bowie was many things to many people.

But to me, he was a part of an enchanting piece of my childhood, as Jareth.
Thank you and Farewell, Goblin King.


Please enjoy the following. It remains my personal favourite Bowie song.

Broken slippers and bouncing balls.

"So, when are you going to join the football team like your brother?"

I must have been asked this question countless times during my primary school days. After all, my brother was arguably one of the best football players of his generation. By the way, that was the consensus of the our school at the time. Goalkeepers rarely get groupies, but he was kind of the exception to that rule. I must have gained a couple of kilos with all the free snacks I hoarded from their bribes. Many a bag of corn chips passed my way in exchange for an introduction to my brother.

And would I keep my part of the bargain? Sure.

"Yo 'To!, " the younger me waving to my brother.

Pointing thumb in general direction of nameless girl, " This girl wanted to meet you."

I would then exit right, leaving a red faced girl and my brother bemused and chuckling. They must have thought of me as a brat. I think I was channelling my inner Godfather. Even though I hadn't even watched the Coppola classic yet.


(By the way, that's short for Toto. For non-Ilonggos, that's what younger siblings called their elder brothers. Nothing to do with the legendary ensemble band. Nor is it in reference to Dorothy's dog. Now you know.)

The truth was, even if I was interested in football (which I was), there was no way I was going to join the football team. As my brother once made clear, I had no skills. The only time I was going to score a hat-trick was if I had a game controller in hand.

So I would just stare back at anyone who would ask that question and smile back bemused.

My brother was my hero. Every time, he took to the pitch we all roared in unison. Every save he made, we felt we were blocking the shot ourselves. Every goal that went in, we shared in his agony.

I knew I was never going to be good enough, so I wasn't going to even try. But that didn't stop me from cheering him on.


Years later when I hit high school, I managed to play basketball well enough to challenge him. We would often play until dusk battling it out one on one. Dust flying everywhere, rubber slippers falling apart, sweat dripping in buckets... those were the afternoons we would battle it out. It would be in basketball where I would finally find a game that I could actually challenge him with. He had the better low post game, but I had the better range.

And one night I finally beat him. A jap-step forward, he edged backwards and then I rose up, throwing up a high arching shot from the outside.

Swoosh.

I celebrated like crazy that night.

And I haven't beaten him for years since.


He's still my hero.
So for taking the blame for the mess I left in your room...
For scripting some of the best G.I Joe battle sequences with my action figures when we were kids...
For cheering me on when I went to university...
For letting me win that game...
And for always watching out for me...

Happy birthday Toto Bryan.


P.S. I did play one football match in a pick up match at my university dorm.

I was the goalie.

And I was terrible.

Because Bambi still makes me cry.

Disney films were a staple of my childhood. In fact early, our family had a cinema rule in place, which meant we mostly watched if it was a James Bond film (we are all big fans of the franchise) or if it was a Disney film. The latter shouldn't be a real surprise as almost every generation has their favourite Disney movie. But I won’t bore you about present movie favourites as that will be a discussion for another time.

One of my earliest film memories was watching the classic Bambi. There is no other film I know that can potentially scare and scar a child upon first viewing as it taps into one of the most fundamental fears any child can have. If you have watched it, you know the scene. Its winter and Bambi and his mother are walking in the snow covered forest. The mother stops, senses the danger and commands Bambi to run. We see the hero scampering away. We hear the mother’s desperate cries to flee. The images become ever frantic, the music matching the pace. And then…

BANG!

A gun shot.

Bambi finally stops, looks back and calls for his mother. She is never found. Instead he meets the great stag who hauntingly tells him that his mother cannot be with him anymore.

All fades to black.

And then it’s spring and over-excitable birds are singing. The story continues

As a child, I often forgot the movie kept going. At that point I was bawling my eyes out and crying uncontrollably. That was just devastating to me as a child. There have always been sad moments in movies that upset me event then, but that just scared me like nothing else.

I recently revisited this feeling when I was babysitting my nephew. He woke up from his sleep and clambered out of bed. I carried him back to bed, trying my best to console him, but even as his crying eased into soft whimpering, he still called for his mommy. I stayed with him, waiting in the dark as he calmed down and slowly fell into a restful sleep.

Even then, it came to mind that so many years ago, that was me. I was the crying child looking for my mother.

And sometimes, even when I was no longer the infant, I still needed my mother when I found myself surrounded by the darkness.

This part of the story, my mother knows. I once stood at the brink of making a very poor and selfish choice. But even as I closed my eyes what broke me out of that spell was the voice of my mama calling out to me.

Nothing dramatic.

In fact, I think she was scolding me for letting my mind wander.

No matter how old I get, part of me will always cry out for my mama when I am lost.
Often, I forget to tell her that and for such I apologise.

Thank you Ma for being the voice in the dark that helps me my find peace again.

That and for always reminding me that there will always be a spring to look forward to.

Even if we have to put up with the over-excitable singing birds.

Just as my Father would often joke, good-humouredly, " That's your Mother!"

I wouldn't have it any other way.

Happy Birthday to my very wonderful Mama.

All the love from a very blessed and lucky son.

Long-haul lights and cold dinners

Ma never got to go to my high school graduation. I know she was really bummed over that whole deal as she thought she was missing out. This is correct but also incorrect. She missed the day, the whole toga-wearing, speech-making hat-throwing occasion. I did feel bad about that, but it just couldn't happen at that time.

The fact is, she didn't miss it. Throughout my formative education years, Ma had always been a driving influence. Pa was the drill sergeant, making sure I always kept on point. But he always made sure I remembered the sacrifice that Ma was making being away for great period of time. When I screwed up, I mostly felt bad because I felt I was letting her down. And I screwed up a lot.

Truth is, I could never have made it without her making a lot of sacrifices.

While it has become commonplace in the Philippines to have one or both parents working abroad, during that time it wasn’t the case. People had certain perceptions on what it was like and often, they would get it largely incorrect. No, we didn’t have money coming out of our rear ends. No, we did not live in a mansion. No, it was not a cakewalk.

It was very hard on everyone. It was sad when she missed out of the big occasions. Here is the truth. Every achievement, every victory my Ma helped make that happen. All those years, she spent Christmases alone, ate dinners solo and suffered through terrible long-haul flights. To be honest, even though I knew she went through all that, I never really got how crappy it was until I lived here in London solo. Don’t get me wrong, there are a lot of perks to living alone. But when things go rough and when things go wrong, coming home to a darkened house is not something you look forward to.

She did that for nearly thirty years.

Here’s to you Ma, Happy Mother’s day. Well, at least it’s Mother’s day on this side of the world. Knowing her, she will bug me to greet her again in May when it’s Mother’s day in the other side of the world. But she deserves it.

Happy Mother’s Day Ma.

Potatoes, Wuthering Heights and the Squared Circle.

My memories of my maternal grandmother are intertwined with my earliest memories of the Philippines. I was a fussy eater as a child and changing to a rice-based diet was torture. Ok, there was the tocino, longganisa, pandesal, fresh carabao’s milk … ok, there were a lot of nice things to eat. But being a kid, I would make a huge fuss over it. Now my parents would put their foot down and tell me to finish my food. My grandmother, on the other hand would painstakingly peel potatoes to make chips to entice me to eat. Did I take advantage of this fact? Of course I did. Did it annoy my parents? Absolutely.

It was not to say, that I did not return the favour. I was quite snobbish of watching Filipino films when I was younger. I never even went to the cinema to watch. But one day my grandmother asked me to accompany her to watch the latest romance flick. Now I went along for perfectly good reasons. One being, I could find no reason to refuse her. That and she promised popcorn.

So we headed off to the cinema (I think it was the Regent. I miss the days when the cinemas had fancy names.) It was entitled, “Hihintayin kita sa Langit,” (I will wait for you in Heaven). This film was a pretty big deal back in the day. Given I had no real point of reference, I had no real expectations. I remember the cinema being so packed, I had to stand while Lola sat transfixed by the story unfolding on the silver screen. Soon, I too was caught up in the story. I looked over and saw my grandmother shedding a tear as it reached its climax. I wondered why my vison was cloudy and then realised I too, was crying. It would be years later that I would find out that it was an adaptation of Wuthering Heights. Regardless, I still have a soft spot for this adaptation.

But the most unlikely memory I have is of the Wednesday nights when she would let me stay up past bed time. All for sixty minutes of watching men in spandex, indulge in faux combat in the middle of a squared circle. Yes, my grandmother was a professional wrestling fan.

There is nothing more surreal than seeing an old lady scream at the tv screen, demanding that one participant to inflict maximum pain upon their opponent. It soon wears off, you get with the program and then join in the yelling. She cheered every suplex, booed every villain and roared with every victory. Some families bond over cookies. We bonded over Hulk Hogan. Watcha gonna do?


My grandmother passed away several days ago. She was 89.

I had not seen my grandmother for several years. Nevertheless, I am grateful. Without her, I would not have my mom. I know my Mama is grieving and I wish I could be there with her. I cannot take away her pain, but I can tell her that will always be thankful for Lola because she gave me my mom. All I can do is close my eyes and hug Mama from afar. I’m sorry I cannot be with you right now.

As for all that remains, I will always remember the potatoes, Wuthering Heights and the late nights watching professional wrestling.

Goodnight Lola and sleep well now.

Tea at Wimpy's

On one December day, a man and a woman walked into a Wimpy’s restaurant in London. (I don’t think they had much choice back then. I don’t think McDonald’s was in vogue back then. (Though I might say, the “beef burger with a sliced, grilled sausage on top,” is one of the Wimpy’s signature dishes. If you can find one, do try it,). Knowing the man, if he had a choice, he might have gone for KFC, his personal favourite. But this story has little to do with fast-food dining. In fact, the two quietly had a cup of tea. He would have had two sugars. The lady would have declined. They probably shared a joke or two as the rest of the world around them remained oblivious to the importance of the day. You see, this couple had just gotten married, that very afternoon.

My parents.

This story has become part of the folklore of the family. It is still a bit head scratching to be fair. Two people, both from the Philippines, but different islands, leave to see the world. They strike out separately, seeking their fortune. They go half way across the planet, end up in the UK and then meet.
I don’t think meeting each other was part of their plans. I believe the priest who officiated their weeding even asked them if they were sure about getting married.

Twice. During the ceremony.

Sometimes, I wonder about the story of my parent’s wedding. They always seem to have a chuckle whenever they tell the tale. The Wimpy’s is a fact because no one admits to dining there. (Except for one who shall remain anonymous).
What is also a fact is that they both knew, even then that they hadn’t figured it all out. They still haven’t figured it all out. They didn't have a big wedding, but they have been having an interesting marriage. It’s not been perfect, but they are OK with that.

They are still working on it.

So, to my mother who taught me grace and my father who taught me patience, a very happy anniversary, Mama and Papa.

I love you both.

(Belated, I know. I’ve been having trouble with the writing!)

That must have been a very good cup of tea. I hope I meet someone to share tea at Wimpy’s too.

And that's why dad gets the big piece of chicken.

So one day, I'm crazy enough to agree to babysit my nephew M. I must have been drunk or just not thinking straight at the time. Now I love my nephew, but at the time the prospect of watching him scared the heck out of me.

Have me face a charging mob? Been there.
Get pummelled in a basketball game by guys twice my size? Done that.
Be responsible for the little boy (cutest there is, but still)?

Can I face the charging mob again?

Taking full advantage of the Orange Wednesdays (a weekly two for one movie ticket promo), my brother and sis-in-law asked me to watch my nephew for the evening. I couldn't hold it against them. It had been months since they had seen the inside of cinema an after watching the wee man 24/7, they deserved a break.

Scared out of my pants, i still agreed as I had a trump card.
Pa was in town on holiday!

We get to their house, my nephew all fed, bathed and dressed up. A quick hug and last minute instructions and they were out the door,literally  leaving me holding the baby.

Now my nephew takes one look at me, looks at the closed door and realised that he was stuck with me.
What does he do?

Now I could tell you how I gleefully bounced him in my arms, pulled a dozen funny faces and sang completely off key to entertain him, with great success. Except the last part would be a lie. He just kept on bawling loudly, tears streaming down his cheeks.

At this point, I am desperate and pretty much freaking out, when a voice from the couch rang out.

"M, look over there." 

I half-turn to the couch and see Pa, pointing  casually into space. As one, both M and I follow his pointing finger. I raise my eyebrows as I can't see anything in particular. So I keep looking back and forth, all this time M is staring intently in the same direction.

And then it dawned on me. I spent several minutes trying to calm my nephew down, pulling out every trick I had and failed.

Pa used one sentence and one wise index finger.

We spent the rest of the evening watching Disney movies until we all fell asleep on the couch.

So the lesson learned?

There is so much that I yet to know. Especially about being a dad.

So  this is my salute to the fathers.

To the professional dad, Pa who will always end up teaching me something new. Thanks Pa!

To the novice dad, my brother whom I one day bug endlessly if and when its my turn. I apologise in advance!

To the new dad, my best friend Paul. Congratulations on becoming a dad! ( you are a brave man than I!)

And to all the dads, raise a glass, pat yourselves on the back and look please with yourselves.

Happy Father's Day!

Perhaps one day, I, too will join ranks.

(But not yet!)

Ink on Pages (or "how I love the smell of books in the morning... and other times as well") Part 1.

Remember Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series? It made a star of Sarah Michelle Geller, propelled Joss Whedon to fame and pretty much defined a generation of young adult TV entertainment?

This has nothing to do with that.

Season One, Episode 8, “I Robot, You Jane, ” Giles, (Buffy’s watcher. Again, not important at this junction, just stay with me on this. ) gets grilled over his attachment to books.

He replies:
“Books smell musty and… and rich. The knowledge gained from computers has no texture… it there and then it’s gone. If it’s to last, then the getting of knowledge should be tangible. It should be, uh… smelly .”

For as long as I can remember, I have been surrounded by books. Growing up, the bookshelves of our home lined with a complete set of Encyclopaedia Britannica. My Mother’s handbag would always have room for a battered, dog-eared paged paperback novel, perhaps a Sidney Sheldon or a Judith Michael. A quick glance in the glove compartment or car seat pocket and you would find a book stuffed there by my dad. My brother would painstakingly spend hours on end making catalogue cards for our meagre library and sorting them respectively. (Of course I never put them back in order.) As for myself, I never went anywhere without several books on hand. Even if we went around the corner to shop.

As a family, we have always been reading. Growing up in England, my brother and I were only aloowed a limited number of hours watching Tv during the week. Reading on the other hand was allowed all the way till bed time. Of course, we were not beneath sneaking a flashlight to bed to read another chapter.
This trend continued even after we moved to the Philippines. Whether it was the cramped apartment in the city, the creaky bamboo and concrete bungalow in farm or the current homestead of the family, the Apura library has followed and continued to grow.

Even in our darkest days and lowest points, we have had our books and kept on reading. When the flooding waters would enter our homes, we would scramble to take them to higher ground. When the typhoons would ravage the landscape, shatter our windows and rip off our rooftops, we would grab our blankets and cover our collections the best we could. We mourned at the loss of any book as the loss of an old friend.

I have read the books on our shelves several times over. I’ve read by candlelight when the power has gone out. I personally bought enough books to fill several crates. (On that note, they did fill several crates. Thanks Pa.)

And yes, I have moved on to e-readers, mostly out of necessity. But I still prefer the weighty feel and smell of a good book. It takes me back to when I began reading. Today, my Shakespeare is next to my Pratcett, my Cromwell snuggled next to my Gaiman (I never put them back properly.) And did I mention my comic book collection?

I guess that is a story for another time.

P.S.
This is for my brother who would read to me as a kid,

Ma, who would haul several books for me on her trips home,

And lastly for Pa, on his Birthday, who would carry me to be countless times to bed long after I had fallen asleep reading.

And at times, even when I faked being asleep.

A little late night of cooking...

It was a humid Wednesday evening. I had been home for hours and had probably finished with my homework by then. I must have been in my freshman year of high school. It was close to 9 in the evening when I heard the rumbling of the very distinct engine of our jeepney. Distinct as it was difficult to not hear the loud growl of a V8 engine (it had been meant for our old truck) running in a PUJ (public utility jeepney, for non-Filipinos, this would be the most common means of public transport. Pa was a driver.). That meant that Pa was on his way home from driving the local route.

Pa came through the door, the scent of sweat and motor oil following him. I greeted him at the door with a smile… and an unmistakable sound of a grumbling stomach.

Pa looked to the table and realised I hadn’t eaten dinner yet.

“So you haven’t cooked anything?”

The annoyance and exasperation was evident in my father’s voice

I stood there meekly and embarrassingly in front of him and then replied in the most matter of fact manner.

“I don’t know how to cook.”

Pa stood there, mouth wide open.

He shook his head and marched straight for the kitchen.

Nope, we weren't having sandwiches. (No Bread.)

We weren't going to be ordering pizza or any delivered food. (We lived on the farm. We didn't have a telephone. The mobile phone was not mainstream. )

No Instant noodles. ( I had probably eaten the last batch several nights previous)

No, that night was the beginning of my real introduction into cooking.

Now you have to understand, I was a selfish brat growing up.

I hated cooking.

I hated helping in the cooking.

I hated it so much that I would make the extra effort to guarantee I got kicked out of the kitchen. ( My family would testify to this).

My dad is so good at it, I would find the most creative ways to avoid pitching in.

Mind you, I didn't mind eating (as evident in both past and present pictures!) but I was especially picky as a child. (I'll probably have to return to this discussion at a later date, as I digress.)

I guess I got too used to it.

In any case, that was the first night my dad properly took me to task with cooking.

The dish?

Beef steak, with pan-fried potatoes and onion rings.

I think I still remember the basics.

The Beef steak.

Lean cuts of beef steak, cut thinly. Each cut would be the size of my palm. (And I had big hands. Still do)

The marinade:

Dark Soy Sauce. (Silver Swan, the most common brand)

Rock Salt (From a sack. Fresh from the ancestral salt farm.)

Ground black pepper corns

Calamansi (native Filipino citrus fruit for those uninitiated. A small lime.)

Vinegar.(Cane vinegar, with that post cane wine flavour)

Potatoes:

Peeled, washed and sliced in even rounds.

Onions:

Peeled, sliced in rings.

Garlic:

Crushed, sliced.

Now, we didn't do things with measurements and all that jazz. This was on the fly cooking,  especially that late at night. Pa taught me to work quickly and trust my own judgement in taste. The meat was cut to even sizes. The marinade was mixed together, liquids in equal amounts every thing else depending in taste. Steak was then left to soak.

"Heat up the wok," Pa said.

The family wok was a beast of a cooking pan. Every family should have one. It had a history of flavours  burnt right into it, every dish ever cooked had left part of itself. As well as inches of our burned skin as this was a heavy cast iron cooking utensil, handle included.

A generous amount of oil was left to heat.

"Watch the smoke," Pa pointed to the heating oil.

There was a point to learning how to read the flames from the stove, knowing when the pan was hot enough without having to look too much. Patience, even when hurrying.

"Brown the potatoes,"

Potatoes would always take longer to cook, so part cooking them was a smart idea. This is where careful preparation paid off. The more even you slice the potato rounds, the more likely they will cook at evenly and at the same time. Once, they had slightly browned, remove from flame, drain and put to the side.

"Fry the crushed garlic."

Now almost every other Filipino I learnt to cook would start with the frying of crushed garlic. There was just something about the scent of garlic hitting hot oil that makes me hungry immediately.

"Add the meat."

I remember beaming as I watched the meat  begin to cook.

" Add the potatoes."

I was wondering why we only half cooked the potatoes. I was still looking at them as individual dishes and not as part of a whole.

" Add the onions."

I guess the onions would cooks so easily, you didn't want to over cook them and end up with burned mush. The layers of meat, potatoes and onions seemed so inviting. I was ready to shove them all on a plate and dig in...

"Slow down the flame." Huh, weren't we done yet? I thought.

" Add part of the marinade to the mix." Weren't we done with that? I queried.

"Now get a cup of hot water." I wasn't thirsty. Maybe Pa was.

" ...and a teaspoon of corn starch(corn flour)." Eh? Now I was getting confused.

"Mix them corn starch with hot water." This didn't sound like a drink I fancied.

"Now add to the cooking."

Oh.

OH! So adding the corn starch mixture to the already cooking meat, potatoes and onions would make a thicker sauce to compliment the dish!

I quickly began to set the table for the very late dinner that we would be having. My father's irritation had now  begun to settle into bemusement. I was beginning to lick my lips anticipation.

" So did you cook the rice?" Pa asked warily.

Crap.

We finally did get around to having dinner at some point.

I definitely ended up with doing the dishes.

But from that day onwards, I stopped fearing the kitchen. I began to practise bit by bit from breakfast dishes to small dinner sets. Pa finally got used to the idea that I could survive in the kitchen to a degree. Even if it took a couple of sessions of undercooked rice to get there.

Pa would always say that better a small table overflowing with food, than a large table that was empty. I'm still  learning to cook to this day, reading the odd recipe and modifying it. The family pretty much says I have a tendency to spare the salt, but other than that, I do fine.

Before my parents went off to go to the Philippines this year, I insisted on cooking a roast lamb dinner for them. My dad loves lamb and I really wanted to cook something nice. Also, Pa had only liked one dish I made, mashed potatoes. So getting the thumbs up that night was gratifying.

Pa is still the best cook in our family, bar none.

We will gladly be pulled in to help prepare a meal and also not complain when he chases us out of the kitchen. It is impossible to go on a proper diet when he cooks, but we don't really complain too much.

So this piece is for Pa.

I'll be cooking this dish just for you even if you are halfway across the planet.

I'll be keeping your share warm.... just until I decide to have it for myself.

Happy Birthday Pa! Love from across the seas!

Previously on puppet without strings...

So... What did I miss?

Ok, fine, I took a break for a several weeks. I needed to take a break from the writing gig. It seems strange that I would take a break from something that I declared was relaxing not too long ago. In truth, between work and the events of the past month or so,writing was the furthest thing from my mind. Sure I was still doing my free writing and pet projects, but those were always more spur of the moment, rely on inspiration endeavours.

I always promised myself that I would not force the writing, otherwise I end up finding the whole project more of a burden than a joy.

Still, the past Christmas season has been a very rewarding one. Yes, it was spent halfway across the planet form a majority of my friends. Yes, it was very cold here (Actually, I exaggerate, it was actually mild at times. But compared to the beach weather in Boracay... Arctic by comparison).

And yet, I would be lying if I were to say that I did not enjoy this Christmas season. This year marked a great turning point in our family in many ways. I guess in many ways the past several years have been leading to this time. We all knew that Ma was nearing her retirement and that she wanted nothing more than to finally be able to spend her days with Pa. You have to understand, my parent have been married for over thirty years, but have spent perhaps only a third of that time in one place together.

Over the years one or the other had but their dreams and careers on hold for us their children or for their spouse. Ma often jokes that she has spent more years here in the UK than in the Philippines. Actually, that is a fact.

There would be evenings when I would be sitting in my room reading and over hear their late night conversations and smile. Not bad for a couple that got married, had tea at Wimpy (a local burger restaurant) and not see each other for several months. Sure it wasn't the most romantic venue for a wedding reception, but thirty years on it sounds like a dream most people would love to have.

Perhaps I should have prepared myself better. I guess my brother had it planned out better. He after all, managed to get married and snag three receptions out of his wedding, albeit in three different countries. The pride and joy in our parents faces on that wedding day to see their eldest son married was incredible. Adding Sis to the mix has actually rounded out the dynamic, though it has prompted my mother to nudge me ever more so towards settling down.

Seriously?

But for the past years, we have all chipped in to prepare for this time. The house back home in Iloilo has been  made comfortable. Items have been packed up and shipped off. and soon we found ourselves counting down the days to this time. Yes, we have had our downs as well. The loss of the restaurant to the floods years back was a huge blow to us all. We did have quite good hopes for that one. Still, Pa came out of that one unharmed. After all, we were not the only ones to suffer in those days.

The evening that Ma finally clocked out for the last time from the hospital, really became the point of no return. She had finally put her mind set to retire. Pa had put his mind set into taking care of her. And we, the children were preparing ourselves for seeing them off into their happy retirement.

We did insist on Pa cooking the festive meals. Not that we were lazy or anything, but in this family we knew who was the best cook and if we were going to have to celebrate, he was the person for the occasion. I did however convince them to let me cook one roast dinner before they left. I cooked lamb, which I knew was Pa's favourite. getting his thumbs up was worth the hassle, given that prior to that he had only ever like one dish I cooked. Mashed potatoes.

Before we knew it the day was here. Ma and Pa would be flying off to take a well deserved break. Ok sure, they will be back in several months to visit perhaps, but the dynamic would be different. Before, I lived with my parents.

This time around, they would be coming over to stay with me.

As I waved them off, I couldn't help but shed a tear, wishing if I hadn't screwed up several years back, perhaps this day could have happened sooner.

Maybe there would have been less concerns.

Maybe I could hold my head a little higher.

But as my brother did mention, Pa did give me a hug before he left and say, " You'll be alright. " It was pretty much the same thing he got back in the day. So I suppose that does mean I have my parent's vote of confidence.


It's been four days now.

The house is strangely quiet and I have yet to master the silence. I find myself putting on the radio and the tv, just to have some noise.

It will get easier. There is a lot of work to be done. I may be the king of this castle, but it still needs to kept.

Still, I'll take the silence knowing that it means Ma and Pa are enjoying their time together.

I hope I will be able to make the proud.

Now... where's the vacuum cleaner?

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.