Posterous theme by Cory Watilo

patterns (in between 2009 and 2010)

I wondered what simplicity meant. Someone once told me he wanted someone simple. I’m not. And I love myself for that. I can get exhausting, this passion, and this overthinking self. But I am growing up and I like what I’m seeing in the mirror.

 

I’m cured of you.                                                                        

Or am I just too quick to wipe away the slate clean?

 

We build these psychic walls to protect us, 

to cautiously live and keep people at a safe distance.

Arm’s length, everybody’s fine and peachy, safe distance.

We drive people away.

 

There is no alternative, really.                                                  

Will you be brave enough to be vulnerable?

 

 

In the end, that hurt will force you to build the

same walls you broke down in the first place.       

The same walls will save you.

 

Simplicity and complication.                                                    

We keep to ourselves in fear but everything about us scream of need. 

 


 

tangos nose (2008)

Laica

I’ll be seeing you in every lovely summer’s day

In everything that’s light and gay

I’ll always think of you that way

I’ll find you in the morning sun and when the night is new

I’ll be looking at the moon but I’ll be seeing you

-Billie Holiday

 

They have the greatest of love stories. Nothing like Romeo and Juliet’s or any other star-crossed lovers. It was special in its simplicity and timelessness. Boy meets girl. Boy dreams of big things. Girl, a dreamer herself, finds herself falling and they make a life filled with love, faith and generosity that have touched countless.

Theirs was the kind of marriage I someday want to have, a true partnership where differences only caused more reason to love one another, being a true family meant being happy just by being together.

Tita Perla, a nurse, gave up her career and created a home for her family; Tito Benny finished his residency in the States and it was abroad where they had their two kids, a boy and a girl. One of the Sunday lunch stories I remember clearly was when he was telling me how he worked hard in the States so he could give his family a good life. I cannot forget that particular picture in my mind: a new family struggling to make it, all the while both of them working at it like only two people in love can. Eventually, they moved back to the Philippines where he established his practice and went on to become a famous and accomplished anesthesiologist. Tita Perla, meanwhile, continued to help build their home as the quintessential wife- supporting him every step of the way, always the heart of their home. They were always together and she always had a gracious way about her- she would host parties for his colleagues in the most stylish of manners.

Tito Benny was the first (and by far, the only) ultimate sartorialist that I have ever known. He always looked dapper and forever the gentleman. He loved beautiful things and everything was an art to him. Dressing up, eating, painting, even old liquor bottles, all those wooden carvings from Paete, and yes, his photography. Everything beautiful had a place in his home. Always, he would appreciate people when they looked good, when they took the time to dress nicely. He loved it when Tita Perla had on her classic accessories, some of which she designed herself. When I was young, he would always remind me that my morena skin was gorgeous, and that I had nothing to feel bad about, especially when in the company of more fair-skinned relatives. He also put his foot down when I was about a year old, and it came for me to stop thumb-sucking and drinking milk from feeding bottles. When I was 22 and in the hospital for major surgery, he was on the phone with my doctors, guiding them-yes, pestering them- every step of the way. “I don’t want my pamangkin to feel any pain. Have her on epidural and anesthesia for two weeks, instead of the usual three days.” And to my Mom, “O, she’s going to have visitors soon, make sure she powders her nose and has lipstick on. You can also shampoo her hair with a basin, so she still looks beautiful.” So, yes, I was comfortably numb, bandaged and drugged. With fresh hair and all prettied up, never mind if my insides felt and looked like a cast member of the Thirteen Ghosts.

In grade school, I remember spending several summers in their home. My prize for doing well in school was to spend it in Manila, the highlight of which was playing at Virra Mall’s McDonalds playground, an idyllic time when they still had strawberry milkshakes. I always stayed at the Muslim room, a room theme as a tribute to our Davaoeño roots. I would always, however, find my way to the library where I discovered Vogue magazines. I can still remember the smell of the pages, the scratch-and-sniff ads for perfumes, the patterns for the modista to follow. When I got tired of running my fingers on the glossy pages, I turned to Readers’ Digests, National Geographic, and all those books that made me feel grown-up. How can I forget the huge Japanese garden with the koi fishpond? Almost all of the apos have, at one time or another, fallen into that pond. The apos also have another collective memory of him- tangos nose, his habit of gently pulling on the bridge of the nose so we would have better looking noses. It was his secondary greeting after kissing him hello. (I think the tangos nose worked too well for me because in grade school, classmates would nickname me “witch”, and not because of any ill temperament.)

Eating was another art form for him. He enjoyed good food, and even better company. Meal times were always classic and comforting, the primness of which I hated for a while back. (My rebellion, wanting to break away from tradition. But I digress.) We would sit at the dining table and start with prayers, usually done adorably by the little ones. (I used to be one of those assigned, adorable or not.) For each meal, we had the proper setting, with elegant cutlery, silverware. We always used proper table napkins, not tissue. I remember he would want his viand one at a time on his plate, not the mash-up two or more ulams most of us have. There was always Cebu lechon on special occasions and on Thanksgiving, turkey, our version of traditional eggnog, and potato salad made pink by beets. Always, there would be dessert and with meals, Coke. I remember doing groceries with Manang Inday at nearby Unimart; we would buy Coke (litro)- by the crate! (Come to think of it, the rest of my family is such soft drink and dessert addicts.)

I was brought up prim and proper, partly from traditional parents, grandparents and some by Tito Benny and Tita Perla’s influence. It was always about behaving properly, whether at the dining table or in parties; doing well in school; knowing what to wear. I used to resent that part of my upbringing; I abhorred being the good girl, being the role model for everyone (as the eldest grandchild from both sides.) I felt suffocated by all these expectations so that yes, I learned to roll my eyes at even these classic gestures at mealtimes. (I turned out to be this girl who, as much as possible, tried to get away from who she is by asserting as much independence and self-reliance as she could muster, being as far away as possible from the noise, and doing things the way she wants. Maybe I’ve grown up, or maybe I’ve come back full circle, but I have accepted that part of me and thankfully, I learned to look in the mirror and have come to love what I’ve become- most of the time. Hey, I’m a work in progress. Again, I ramble.)

Tito Benny died June 2008 and I could barely write and think about him without crying (yes, still even almost three years after.) I feel heartbroken for Tita Perla, I feel her pain for losing her great love, something which most of us can only hope to have. After almost 50 years of marriage, Tita Perla can no longer serve her “ex-boyfriend and housemate’s” dinner plate. (Yes, they still called each other that, prompting fake-swooning looks from Melai and myself.) In her eulogy to him, she narrated how, in the last few years of Tito Benny’s sickness, he would always apologize to her, and thank her. “Inday, I’m supposed to be the one taking care of you, I’m sorry.” And always, a thank you, for every little thing that she did for him. Their home, which he has built for her in a span of a decade, continues to be my dream home to this day. It is not the artistic décor, the classic furnishing, and the koi pond that I love, but the fact that this was truly home to them and it meant family.

I don’t believe in regret, but this is as close as I get. There were reasons- there still are- why I didn’t exert too much effort. Or why I deliberately stayed away. While there may be reasons, they may now seem flimsy excuses, and even I can’t understand what these are. Maybe it was the pressure of having to live up to his expectations. He never did impose in any way; you just felt it and experienced it in the way he lived his life. It was also quite a disappointment to me that none of the guys I met would have been able to stand an introduction to Tito Benny. He didn’t know it, but he was to be my definitive benchmark. A man I could introduce to him and have him approve of would have been for me the best one. I could imagine the scrutiny he’d have to stand up to, but since Tito Benny was as close to me as an ideal man, he’d have to live up to it. The depth and variety of conversations they’d have, the diverse passions they’d share tips on those Sunday lunches, the pieces of advice he’d dispense. Their blessing would have meant a lot to me.

I mourn for the new events and people in the family he will not get to meet. Chloe, who I know he’ll have a great time teasing and teaching since she looks like Tita Perla and a lot like a Nuñez; having him guest in my future book launching, witnessing my brother’s success in his passion, or simply taking time to catching up over coffee and his current favorite cake (he changes it at least once a month). I cry for the loss of a mentor, a granduncle, and an old-fashioned ideal. I am very thankful that I have gotten to know him, as much as I could. I am only one of the few blessed to have known him; his wake was filled with stories of how he has fully lived and made a difference. Hundreds of stories woven into a tapestry of love that comforted the family and made him bigger than life. I am comforted by the knowledge that somehow, Tito Benny and my Lolo are together somewhere. I pray that they be my angels, these two men who have generously lived and continue to live in me through the dreams they inspired in me.

In the meantime, Tito B, I’ll always have that lipstick on, and I’ll be seeing you.

 

fireflies chasing stars (2007)

When someone says there’s a perfect rhyme and reason for everything, did they say you would recognize it when you hear it? Did they say you would stumble upon it one day when you weren’t looking?

Because frankly, though I believe and have faith in whatever’s planned for me, there are just days that I can’t really see the point of it all. When I can’t see the point of running around, of looking for what, most people don’t even know.

Most people live for love and they endure because they have been loved truly and fully. But what of those the rest of humanity not blessed enough? Where do we find strength and what well do we draw from?

The hardest part is trying to understand why I was allowed to feel this way; I am trying not to complain, I’m just questioning. If that is a bad thing, if that reflects poorly on my faith, then I am sorry to seem so faithless but just this once, I pray for clarity, for knowing.

I know that He knows what is in my heart- even as I pray I am not sure if what I pray for is what He means for me. How can what I want and pray for with all my heart seem so wrong? I pray for nothing but happiness and the simplicity of loving, but why doesn’t it seem that I deserve any of that?

Yes, one day I know I’ll understand but for now, allow me to question, allow me the hurt, allow me these tears because I know nothing else but pain. In the whole scheme of things, I am but one infinitesimal speck in the universe and my pain is but one teeny snap of a rubber band on a giant’s arm- but what pain is this when there is not one dose of happiness that I hope for?

What is so wrong with this picture?

It is not right for one to depend your happiness one someone else- I have been used to being alone and yet he has managed to wedge himself into a space in my heart so that taking it out would mean taking me apart too.

I have trusted that everything happens for a reason and yet, I have yet to see what these reasons are. Maybe the answers are there but I’m just too myopic-and stubborn- to see.

I have believed in countless of possibilities, but have yet to see that things are possible.
But I cling on to hope, to faith because I know of nothing else to do.

Right now, as I am sure of the love I feel, I also feel hollow.

With each pronouncement, I seem to make it more final, truer than it could have ever been had I just kept the knowledge within me.

 

amazing grace

despite my occasional whiney ingratitude, i am blessed. with a lot. i have my plate and glass brimming, it puts a glutton to shame.

for the first time in many, many years, i am standing still. (for those who truly know me, digital as i am, i cannot bear NOT to plan)

for now: no more five years after, no plans a, b, c, c-1, c-2…

not just yet, at least.

for once, i can say i could not ask for more and truly mean it. everything is not fixed, imperfect, but it just IS.

 

coffee with henry [october, 2008]

Thoughts from Henry Miller: 

A writer shouldn’t think much.

Nothing freezes the imagination and creativity than the thought of censorship.

And in a Paris Review interview, he says of “cadenzas”-

The passages I refer to are tumultuous, the words fall over one another. I could go on indefinitely. Of course I think that is the way one should write all the time. You see here the whole difference, the great difference, between Western and Eastern thinking and behavior and discipline. If, say, a Zen artist is going to do something, he’s had a long preparation of discipline and meditation, deep quiet thought about it and then no thought, silence, emptiness and so on—it might be for months, it might be for years. Then, when he begins, it’s like lightning, just what he wants – it’s perfect. Well, this is the way all art should be done. But who does it? We all lead lives that are contrary to our profession.

Just how many lives have I missed out on? If within ourselves is a space as infinite as the universe, as Zen teachings tell us, then have I only just begun to chip at my layers?

I call myself a writer but of late, I’m beginning to feel like such a poser. My work hasn’t been published, I don’t write for a living. Labeling myself as one seems so pretentious. I cannot even bring myself to think of it.

Sometimes I would think I had a lot to say, but the pages are still empty. Or they’d be littered, peppered with strings of words that do not make sense.

As I sat there, waiting for inspiration to strike- I had a sense that once I touched the keyboards, my fingers would, it seem, know their way around, as if they have found their way home. As a child, I had wanted to learn how to play the piano. My parents wanted me to learn violin- I thought then it was way too baduy, a childhood judgment of cool which I regret now. So there was no compromise, and I am left with no musical talent to speak of. Back to the flitting of my fingers on the keyboards. There is a sense of accomplishment every time a word finds its way to the page, every time a sentence is formed, every errant thought that somehow makes sense when put together. Write with the heart, edit with the mind. Best damn piece of advice I have ever gotten.

This much I know. I may not make a living of writing, but I believe that I live to write. It is my peace, my therapy. That act of stringing words together, of “words falling over one another” makes me feel deliciously alive. It brings me to my truths, painful and yet necessary. It forces me to confront, and sometimes, to consort with my demons, as Erica Jong mentions in her autobiography.

So at times, I do everything except actually sitting down and start. It is so difficult to just start. There are so many things and yet nothing.

Ah, so there it is then. “We all lead lives that are contrary to our profession.” I am a corporate whore (to borrow the term from a friend), a struggling entrepreneur. But in my heart, I will allow that I am a writer, and that keeps me alive. It defines me; it is my essence.

 

 

happiness in an age of discontent

 

When did happiness get complex?

When I was a child, happiness meant getting my stash of Archie comic books
Reading it while lying on a bamboo hammock under an old iba tree.
First it was Archie comics then Sweet Dreams
and then Sweet Valley Twins and High
the pretense of adulthood sending us into fits of giddy delight.
Happiness meant completing my Rainbow Brite sticker book
and finding out the meaning of those words on grown-up books;
it meant eating chocolate and getting some smudged
on old condensed Reader's Digest volumes,leaving the pages with a faint whiff of sweets. It meant the wonder of old Hitchcock novels lying around.  
I would skip to my best friend's house, as soon as I got the go-signal
to spend a weekend, getting to play those then-hi-tech word games.
It meant arriving to my ballet and jazz classes on time,
nabbing the part of the swan and then playing afterwards
at an old dictator's palace pool and being brave enough
to eat a santan's sweet flower sap.
Happiness meant dancing pas de deux and perfecting pirouettes
on old library parquet floors, gazing up
imagining a prince behind that red velvet curtain.

It meant getting up early on weekends and in the summer,
struggling into my leotards, catching my ride to dance class
and then theater.
"Eyebrows up, smiles wide, stand tall"
Getting into auditions, getting the part.

Happiness meant being sent to places, vacations,
eating Dunkin' Donuts ham and cheese sandwiches
and hot chocolate in airports; and in airports still,
riding bikes, flying kites, hot sun burning bright on the tarmac
and then resting up for planes landing and taking off.

Happiness meant drinking Chocolait in glass bottles,
squirting Brown Cow onto cornflakes and on my fingers,
getting stickers from Maggie noodles,
watching Grease 1&2 and Pirates everyday after school.
It was eating peanut butter sandwiches
and iba doused with sugar while reading,
new coloring books, getting soaked by water guns,
weekend beach trips.

Happy days were made of birthday parties and getting gifts,
getting socks full of candies on the Feast of the Three Kings.
Until now, the smell of newly-laundered socks fills me,
the squishy, squeaky-clean feel of it.
It was getting a complete set of crayons,
yes- the ones with gold and silver and the special sharpener in the box.
It meant having lots of pencils to sharpen and new, nifty school gadgets.

Happiness meant my youth with timeless, infinite possibilities,
the arrogance, invincibility of youth, the presumption that I can.

Since when did happiness get complicated?

Since you realize that the world doesn't stop
and hold your hand while you catch your breath,
it isn't after all, at your feet
and everything isn't truly yours for the taking
but have to be earned- blood, sweat, tears, fears and prayers.

Since patience became a requirement, not an exceptional attribute.
That though you realize money doesn't buy happiness,
it escorts your foray into the deep, dank pits of depression
should you happen to sorely lack it.

Happiness now isn't only sharing kinship with Saturday morning cartoons,
dreams and making friends just because.
Happiness gets complicated when everything you thought important
doesn't matter anymore.
When choosing your own adventures aren't now limited to books.
When, suddenly,
after the dress rehearsal that was your childhood,
you're now thrust onstage, klieg lights on you
Playing your role the best that you can,
when your everyday moments all snowball into
this.


Happiness
now means catching your breath, finding your space.
Someone to hold your hand while crossing the street.