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.