PenVille

My Batanes

2012-04-16T04:25:00.005-07:00

Anyone who has seen Batanes will become a poet, a film maker, or a lover. Fall in love with its enigma, its vastness, its roughness and perfection, its charm, and its ability to devour you and you won't even mind. In fact, you will never want to see what lies beyond the landscapes, the wandering cows and horses of the so-called Marlboro country, of the waves in the distance like chalk writings on a dark board of sea, of endless greens of mountain after mountain after mountain. In a word, you don't want to be reminded of the city. If you could only sketch and keep it etched in your mind forever.... Here, you are a species of nature, like anything else.

One saunters without an exact destination, without a map, and better yet, without mind. Stop by the road, hike up a little, and be surprised, nay, be without words, by the beauty before you---a panorama of mountains edged by pristine shores facing the Pacific Ocean, sound of waves hitting rocks in the distance, with a country song playing in the background from what seems to be the only electronic thing around---an old-fashioned radio---as if mimicking a real cowboy life.

Here and there, you see blooms on the side of the road, untamed--a thing of beauty in the middle of nowhere, characterized by winding roads and cliffs only separated by a very fine line. What a delight it would be to any biker or runner to breeze through this island of literal ups and downs.

Anyone who has seen Batanes will see it again. Where people say good mornings or evenings to a friend or stranger on the road. Where one citizen could hold several jobs at once---as a vendor, an airport attendant, and a community police. Where history tells you of folks building houses and structures without pay.

Batanes--where the wind tells you it has a name. It blows at you and it can blow you away indeed. Where the waves teach you to be patient. Where nature commands you to go with its flow, to follow it. Where your feet smell of grass. And where you just lose your self and find it.

And if you're the first tourist of the day to stand alone on these mountains, you can own nature, only if it could fit your cup, your life cup that is only some years old in this world and still an infant to understand what nature is all about.

As for me, I have become a writer, again.

Tokyo: A Culture of Trust

2011-06-26T00:00:00.000-07:00

Destination: Tokyo
Date: 9-16 May 2011 (7 days)
Purpose: 5 days of Business, 2 days of Leisure

I started my first visit to Tokyo with a toilet disaster—you know, the automatic bidet that almost gave me a facial wash. Should I say more? And the rest is, and should be, history.

Little did I know that that was just one of the automatics in almost everywhere I went. Here are some of the “amazing” hi-tech things, and other observations that my keen eyes collected:

> Tollgates are uneventful. They just swiftly scan the bus, and that’s it. No drama, no person giving out a ticket, no traffic around it, nothing.
> Some train lines are run without a human driver.
> Every toilet, even public ones, are complete with facilities.
> There’s a vending machine of drinks at every corner.
> Weather forecast is accurate. If they say the sun will shine tomorrow, even if it’s raining today, it will.
> Right-hand driving. And the taxi’s rear door opens automatically at the taxi driver’s disposal.
> I don’t think I’ve ever touched a door knob, since all doors are automatic, except for my hotel room’s.
> My wake-up call was recorded! I couldn’t take it! I wanted to hear a human voice first thing in the morning but I didn’t!
> Once you got the bill after dining at a restaurant, you stand up and settle it at the cashier, not from your table.
> Riding the bus was boring—no bumps on the road, no traffic, no TV. Sucks, right?
> Black is the general color, as if everyone is going to the same office everyday, wearing the same uniform.
> Everywhere is generally quite. If anything, it’s only the kids playing and crying who cause noise.
> People are skewed to the left of the road or the escalator. If you’re not rushing and you don’t want to be trampled upon, keep to the left.

All at perfect time and timing
Did I mention that the train leaves on time? Given that, you can predict almost exactly what time you can make it to a certain destination. The maps posted in train stations even supply you with the time difference between stations (e.g. 2-minute train ride between Shinagawa Station and Shimbashi Station).

Anyway, I ended up being in Tokyo to join a Philippine delegation to the Software Development Expo (SODEC) held annually in Tokyo Big Sight, Japan. I followed a tight business schedule, but highlighted by the fun on the side:

Monday to Friday: Official Business, until evening came and I would end up either at an izakaya or a ramen house with two groups of Japanese friends whom I met at training programs I attended at AIM in Makati in 2010. I met a Japanese friend who’s now based in the US but was in Tokyo for a week–the same week I was there! Another friend, who’s from Osaka, was also in Tokyo that same time. I was so lucky!

Saturday: Official Leisure, which started with a bargain shopping along Takeshita Street, and shrine visit at Meiji Jingu, where we chanced upon a rare, traditional Japanese wedding ceremony.

Sunday was a day of unplanned pleasantries. I was invited to a Japanese home by a Japanese classmate I also met in a training in Manila. I was welcomed like a supreme guest. We went biking and saw a festival at the nearby park. Who’d have thought there was a scheduled festival that time of the year!

Some useful phrases to get by:
Eigo deki masuka? = Do you speak English? (Now, when the Japanese I’m talking to answers with a “No”, I automatically call out a colleague who speaks Nihongo.)
Wakarimasen = I don’t know / I don’t understand
Arigato gozaimasu = Thank you
Sumimasen = Sorry / Excuse me

Of all these phrases, what I love most is Sumimasen. At an izakaya (beer bar), my Japanese friends would always ask me to call out the waiter, and then perfunctorily and happily, I would shout “Sumimasen!” trying hard to sound natural as if Japanese is my native tongue.

A Society of Trust
Tokyo is not only advanced technologically, but also culturally and morally. More than my amazement of the technology around which was already an expectation, what surprised me was how respectful people are. People talk softly especially on the telephone so as not to disturb anyone, an instruction that is repeated through the recorded voice-over in buses and trains. They say sorry even if you’re the one who bumped them. They bow countless times before and after a meeting, almost to the ground. Drivers don’t honk horns and patiently wait for slow-moving cars in front of them.

More noticeably, it’s a society of trust. No visible guardmen around, and if there are, they don’t carry guns. No security procedures entering train stations or malls and hotels. No more checking of hotel rooms when guests leave because they trust that nothing is brought out.

For me, it was a taste of a utopian community.

I never dreamt of visiting but domo arigato gozaimasu I did. I would certainly go back to this country where, according to a Japanese friend, a broken ATM machine makes the headlines. - penville

2011-03-31T03:02:00.001-07:00

We need just enough passion to fuel us, and not to burn us.

2011-03-12T23:11:00.000-08:00

I didn't tell you for a thousand times.

2011-03-11T23:05:00.000-08:00

One person saying he wants to be like you is reason enough to live.

2011-03-11T01:18:00.000-08:00

Whatever we do, we can never be a god. And the beauty of being human is his limitations.

2011-03-09T21:44:00.000-08:00

It would have been such a waste of time if you didn't touch the people you passed by in life.

01.01.10

2009-12-31T09:57:00.000-08:00

People would die to be where I was, I was certain of that.

I could have had an a news team set up a camera and they'd be able to capture good angles at almost all the time.

I could have made it a tourist spot, requiring an entrance fee to the area because I know if people knew this place, they'd all envy me. Plus it's going to be worth their money.

It was like the highest peak in the Himalayas of houses. Up there is an opportunity of a 360-view of all Metro Manila fireworks, leaving me openmouthed for what seemed to be ages. I couldn't believe my eyes, small as they are. My head had a good exercise rotating for one whole hour as one firework after another teased me to look their way to show what they've got as if one is a totally unique sight from the rest. An assortment of lights and booms presented themselves before my eyes and ears, dissipating as another set came and this went on and on and on. At some point, just when I thought I could look away to give momentary solace to my senses, one display would catch my attention and then I'm back to viewing again.

As one firework came after another, awe after awe, my mind was naturally trance-bound. But somehow, my brain managed to rummage an idea about how fireworks work. Why do fireworks shoot up as high as they do and plummet into mere sparkle, leaving the world lit for a matter of seconds, oh so fleeting seconds. And why do we even indulge!

My auntie's place is a 5-storey petite house in Pateros. But if you don't count the supposed basement garage, the rooftop where they hang clothes to dry and the highest level where the water tank is, it's really just a humble two-storey. I've been staying here since I started my Makati work this year. It's a one FX-ride or 80-peso taxi fare. It's easily accessed from anywhere but it's a bit hard to describe where it is, really.

They say it's hard to be at two places at the same time. I say, try four.

OK. Technically, it's Pateros. But cross the immediate road and you're in Pasig. Cross the nearby C5 and you're in Makati. Go left and you're at The Fort Taguig. Turn around and you're back in Pateros. The latter, being the only non-city amongst the 17 of Metro Manila boasts of that privilege. But please don't start flocking here because it's only a 2.10-square km teensy town (according to Wiki). But I guess, with all the sparkles that just transpired here tonight, it's its own Tinseltown.

I was lucky and unlucky tonight. Lucky, for all the foregoing reasons. Unlucky, for I lacked a much needed good camera to prove to you that all the foregoing reasons are true. Darn it!

Hopscotching holidays

2009-12-17T10:52:00.000-08:00

This is my first Christmas in two years!

If you're wondering where I was the last two Christmases, I myself am wondering how I handled skipping it. Twice.

Well, I was hiding in the newsroom. Not that it's a game one likes to play but I had to work during the busier holidays. And the latter phrase makes me sound like a physician on call.

Yes we were always on call and my schedule back in ABS-CBN was Saturday to Wednesday, and though Christmas almost always falls on a Thursday or a Friday which are my off-days, I wouldn't enjoy Christmas eve or day fresh out of work or with a work-laden mind. Would you?

Though they weren't normal Christmases, I was excited just the same. A notch higher actually because of the possibility of getting seen on TV when the producers decide to set up a camera in the newsroom and allow us make stupid of ourselves by waving at the camera for reasons heaven knows what. And much to our disappointment and embarrassment for hoping such foolishness, no camera setup came.

And then arrived the New Years during which time it's confirmed we'll be seen on TV. By whom? By all people who are too busy watching fireworks displays to be watching TV at that time! I even had to make calls to friends and family to tell them I'm wearing so and so color so they can spot me amongst the news crew and staff frantically amused at this fleeting moment of assumed popularity as if their faces will be etched on the screen for everyone to remember. Sigh.

Just the same, it was a consolation. If, on Christmas eve, we'd be crying silently in the restroom or our cubicles for missing the Christmas dinner at home, we're ecstatic on New Year's eve. It was a prize for working on a holiday. But I guess it's really not true the belief that whatever you do on the first day you'll be doing the rest of the year. We were on TV for fragments of seconds on January 1 but never again thereafter. (Well, except as a blurry background of ANC's newscast.)

Like some game of fate, my parents and two of my sisters are abroad, which leaves me and my Ate Joan and Ate Weng (who is married, by the way, and stays in her Antipolo house with husband Clint) putting up the holiday tree and spreading the holiday feast on the mahogany table, just when I am ready to have my first Christmas again.

Thank God there's Christmas every year.

Happy Holidays everyone!

Last

2009-06-29T09:26:00.001-07:00

My last day just dawned.

I am suddenly in a contemplative mood like it was set by an emotional alarm clock. I suddenly saw myself reading my old blog and rereading my Film professor's comments.

That blog post was on happiness--that one may only have so much of it in this world and something will always be missing.

I am leaving a job that ate every second of my last two years. It's a love-hate relationship. It was a jealous mistress. A nagging mother--you hate doing what it asks you and you do it anyway and you learn a lot in between.

I am leaving not only because something is missing but also because something has to be filled. A vacuum somewhere. Probably inside me.

It's not leaving nor moving on. It's moving up.

News friends ask me if I'm leaving for a better pay, better benefits and perfunctorily I'd say yes. Simply put, I am leaving because that's what my heart tells me to do and what the universe has conspired to make happen. Or maybe not. I'm just making an excuse to leave.

In 23 hours and 47 minutes, I am out of this office officially. But my heart stays on.

Let this be my podium to thank everyone who has touched my life one way or another, masakit man o masaya. Everyday has been a learning day for me in the newsroom, before the mediocre days set in.

I need to break even the faintest hint of mediocrity in my work, hence, I am embarking on more challenges. That's what life has always been to me: a challenge to overcome, leaving me all competitive. (I wonder if I'm gonna die fighting.)

I am only or already 24. As I am keeping my youth, I am also embracing maturity. In a few years, I might look for higher mountains to climb, or greener pastures, or richer environment, or just settle down. I might keep looking and looking and never really find the happiness I seek. But then again, I might die tomorrow.

If that happens, I would have had wanted to experience all life has to offer.

I might be no different to a rolling stone that gathers no moss. I could have just stayed in one place and keep reaching for a dream until it becomes less and less elusive. I could have secured and defined my future. But then again, without rubbing it too much in, we don't know when we are truly leaving.

Think about the time lost staying in one place forever.

I am worried about myself too, given that you're worried if I'll ever get somewhere permanently. All I know is that I'm going where the wind blows. All that matters is now. Kebs about the future. What is is what is. The past is gone. The future yet to come.

What is meant to happen will happen. Murphy and Jobs share that idea, though said differently.

Tomorrow and days thereafter, I will look at the bright blue sky above and thank the Lord for the morning.

To Be Loved

2008-11-07T11:15:00.000-08:00

Last night I slept knowing that God loves me.

Prior, I sobbed by the greatness of the idea. How can I be loved so much?

Things are going smoothly in my life, recently at least.

I am beginning to find my way back into love. I guess I am. (When I have totally gone back in, I’d tell you more.)

I had a great time with my sister and my sister’s girlfriends in Café Breton. It was a jovial get-together with people I just met, therefore, another cosmic experience and that means meeting someone again for the first time. If that’s confusing, ok, it’s just like déjà vu but only 50 percent or barely.

One of the stranger-friends asked how younger I was than my sister or how older she was than me. We said 10 (I’m 23, she’s 33.) They were surprised and exclaimed that we looked like barkadas. By and by, all of them were one-by-one asking how big our age gap was, as if it hasn’t been asked and answered yet. So we’d say again, “ten.” And they’d be like, oh my god really? And we’d be like, yeah. And then they’d say again, para lang kayong magkabarkada. And then I said, hmm… are we supposed to look like mag-ina in real life? The long and short of it, it felt good hearing someone comment on our barkada-like sisterly relationship. I never thought we’d look like that in front of people, considering how I grew up in a not-so-close-knit-but-eventually-found-its-way-to-be-close-knit-ironically-when-we-started-moving-one-by-one-out-of-the-house family. I wonder if my mom and I would eventually look like that….

My sister and I, or better yet, my four sisters and I…. We dream together. We plan together. We make our dreams come true together.

My sister and I have been planning to build a house, nay, a family mansion, as I corrected Ate Dale, my sister’s best friend, last night when she asked what my sister and I were talking about when she butted in the midst of our deep conversation; before us was a block of high-ceilinged townhouses which reminded us of our dream house. Yes, our dream house. Not my dream house nor her dream house, but ours, for the seven of us, my father, mother, and their five daughters—us.

How ironic that, growing up in a family with perennial financial problems, moral issues, and everyday nagging at each other to deal with everyday, we still plan to have a place where to stay together for the rest of our lives. Don’t the cat-and-dog fights suffice for us to say that we eventually want total independence of each other and just see each other once in a while or not at all? Isn’t our Nanay’s nagging enough reason for us to totally, altogether move out?

Looking around society today, with most families broken by different factors, it’s still safe to say that ours is the most normal, if not ideal.

I have a father. He works for a government hospital (that’s for 45 years now a.k.a. all his life). His salary is no doubt meager to send all five kids—us—to college. But he did. Miracles happen. He made them.

I have a mother. She is a housewife. She’s been that for as long as my memory serves me well. It was my father’s staunch principle to have one of them stay at home with the kids—us—to focus on us and raise us. And that principle worked. Otherwise, one of the daughters—us again—could have had herself pregnant and got married early. One of us could have “drugged” away. One of us could have not finished her schooling. One of us could have… the bad possibilities are endless!

We are all five. Girls. No boys to look after us (except for my kinda skinny father). We went to school. We went through school and beyond. We went through a lot! (God knows what they are) But none of them included either of my parents' unfaithfulness to each other nor their children's messing up in school because we learned the value of money early on and knew better than to waste away our tuition fees. We've been a thread too close to breaking up as a family but we were never a broken family. Comparing or not comparing with other families of today, I am proud of ours.

Now you ask why I so think there really is a God who loves me (and of course, you, too) beyond this world, beyond anything, beyond our scars, beyond our ignorance, beyond our mistakes, beyond our imagination, beyond description, and beyond you and me?

I was never a religious person. (I don’t remember the last time I went to church, but it was definitely this year, and my pious mom should not know this.) But I am spiritual. I believe that there’s one big Man or Woman or Spirit out there who knows everything we do, everything we’ve done, and everything we’ll ever do, and we can’t escape from Him/Her. But the good thing is (as if the last statement were really bad), Someone is always going to catch us any way we fall. But we will never fall. We will always defy gravity. In every end, things always work themselves out because God is working them out.

Last night, I slept with my soul opulent.

(written 2 nov 08)

the night before obama won

2008-11-05T02:05:00.000-08:00

For the first time, I was grateful I live far from work (or simply far, alright). The long way home would buy time for my body to digest the chao fan, lemon chicken, siomai, and nai cha milk tea I consumed with Jeff and Pyugs, friends from work, that is if it still has power to digest given that it’s way past midnight now.

We (or they) talked about their sad stories.

Pyugs’s was when his mom died while he was in the States (specifically, San Jo-say [in Pyugs’s articulated voice]), how his grandma broke the news, and how he and his siblings reunited after several years for a supposedly happy get-together but really to circle around their mother’s coffin. Being the natural speaker in the family, he delivered the eulogy, saying his mom had always been there with him in his frequent trips to the hospital sickly child as he’d been, but the rare, if not the only, time his mom was hospitalized, he wasn’t there for her. That broke my heart! (By the way, sometimes I imagine giving eulogies more of like the ones in Ally McBeal episodes, talking about the dead, not realizing the gravity of the situation if it actually happens.)

Jeff’s was... well, I don’t remember it being sad. He just went on recounting his years as a student/barista in Maryland. I think the only sad part throughout his turn to speak was when he mentioned about his favorite sad song, Blower’s Daughter, of the movie, Closer, which also made me sad remembering scenes from the movie.

And so the three of us paid the bill; Jeff dropped Pyugs at ABS, then me at Philcoa. Jeff was, the entire time, on a long-distance phone call with his mom, sharing his first live report on TV Patrol on a weekday, having been moved from police shift to Bandila shift. His mom, thinking that it was Jeff’s off today, said she did hear her son’s voice on TV but didn’t care to look at the screen, hence didn’t see him doing the live report. It was funny! (His mom always watches his reports on TV via TFC. I wonder how many times his mom has been late or missed work altogether just to catch his son on TV both doing well and messing up!) Anyway, the entire thing didn’t look like a mom-son talk but more of just a jeff-any friend talk.

These men both looked like mama’s boys to me, how they talked endearingly of and with their moms respectively. But these men are real men (Pyugs may not be physically with his never-fading-always-rosy cheeks always ready to go on-cam for any breaking news, and Jeff with his bakla-disguised-as-conyo language). They are beloved in their respective families, admired in their crafts, and loved in the newsroom. And I’m glad to know them, in a different, deeper level this time.

JOY WITHOUT A NAME

2008-10-10T05:45:00.000-07:00

I JUST WATCHED THE THREE OF THEM GO down the jeepney without me moving a nerve but my eyes following them. Instinct told me to look out the vehicle so I effortfully leaned forward and, much to my surprise, they were looking back at me. I waved at them and, seemingly ready, they waved back. I was overwhelmed with joy made obvious by a smile that wouldn’t leave my face minutes after. I still feel myself brightening up when I remember that moment. What nameless joy children bring me!

(written 21 feb 08)

HER POINT OF VIEW

2008-10-10T05:43:00.000-07:00

TWO CONFUSED INDIVIDUALS ENTERED A CONVENIENCE STORE in an attempt to clear the air between them, over Gatorade. It was her first Gatorade ever; as for him, she wouldn’t know. He picked two from the freezer, one red, the other, blue. He made her choose. She picked red.

They settled in a seat facing a glass wall, consuming their drinks, taking their time, as if both were preparing for the battle upfront and avoiding it, mindful or unmindful of the mostly call center agents passing by before them.

They were trying to reach a resolution where both parties would benefit—he wanted to be just friends, she wanted more than that, though no one knows if they’re telling the truth.

It looked simple yet ages seemed to pass now. It’s probably fear overwhelming each of them and without it, they could’ve been so in love now!

Both were deciding individually. Both were quiet. There was the cliché-ic deafening silence between them. He broke it by asking, “Why did you pick red?” She said, “I think it’s given that I’m supposed to pick it over the blue one.” He grinned by her remark. He then picked the two now-empty bottles and put them together, side-by-side. (If the bottles had hands, they could’ve been holding each other’s.) He kept them like that for a moment, staring at them, wallowing the picture, smiling or not smiling, the glass wall mirroring everything before it—the empty bottles, their consumers, their sad eyes. By now, the reflections were worth a thousand words! They’d look up and face the glass wall, but no one could tell if they were looking at each other’s reflections but avoiding eye contact, or looking through and at the people beyond, or at none at all.

It was a symbolic moment—the empty Gatorade bottles put together and the glass wall reflections—but symbols for what?

The Gatorade bottles were as empty as they—two confused individuals, with his and her own scripts to tell, both had been ruined through time, both seeking refuge, both longing to enjoy their Godforsaken right to be loved. Had it not been for the place and consequences, they could hug, and kiss, and take refuge from each other, and equally enjoy their right to be loved now, only if these people around wouldn’t see them.

They went out. They entered the car. She started sobbing for the heaviness of her heart. He wouldn’t know what it meant. They wanted each other, so bad it could’ve killed them. But not on the same level, not at the same time.

They left the place, more confused than ever before….

LEFT OF THE MIDDLE

2008-10-10T05:23:00.000-07:00

End of the third round
As I put the phone down
Chasing the same lines
Over the old ground.

I’m pushing zero
Where is my hero?
He’s out there somewhere
Left of the middle.

And the world falls down
And you’re there calling out
But it’s something I can’t say
Though it seems the only way
And it’s a game that I can’t play
Not today.

I’ve got my ticket
And I got a straight road
But I’m passing the same signs
Over and over.

I need to tell you
Trying to get through
It’s not always easy
Left of the middle.

(Natalie Imbruglia)

FAST FORWARD IT

2008-10-10T03:00:00.000-07:00

I RODE THE BUS HOME. The bus sets me to mood. The mood of loneliness, as different pictures pass by your sight, literally and figuratively.

Sometimes the words of my film teacher, Sir Patrick Campos, make me think… that one can only be happy so much, but never “truly, completely” happy. He said, probably happiness is not really here. It’s probably not in this life. Probably, it’s after this life—the life with the Creator. It’s probably there, that’s why we can’t really have it, feel it, here and now. Prolly….

I had dinner with one of the reporters last night. At least that’s the only source of happiness for my entire workday. Just a little bit of happiness. Not full.

I’m beginning to think I’m really a loner. (Is this Charlie Brown speaking?) WAAHHH!!!

The Realization that SNAPPED and SLAPPED me today: Fast forward the lonely moment. (inspired by Ally McBeal)

(written 5 sep 07)

2008-10-04T04:59:00.000-07:00

The Realization that SNAPPED and SLAPPED me today: I hate day-offs! They give me nothing to do and so much to whine about!

(coined 19 sep 08)

2008-10-03T13:53:00.000-07:00

The Realization that SNAPPED and SLAPPED me today: Maybe, at the end of our lives, we’ll see God as clearly as we see the sun setting at the end of a day.

A JEEPNEY-RIDE LOVE STORY

2008-10-03T11:46:00.000-07:00

It was love at first sight.

He was sleeping; she was unmindful. He suddenly lifted his head up and she saw that he was handsome with his beautiful, sleepy eyes and a fashion that rocks—black polo, folded-at-the-edge pants and Chuck Taylor pair. He probably noticed her, too, as he didn’t sleep anymore since.

She paid. SM po. He paid. SM.

When they reached the latter, she quickly took another jeepney. He seemed to follow her and rode the same.

She paid. He stretched his arm to reach her. It was one, two, three seconds of touching each other’s fingers. His middle, index, and thumb. Hers, too. Then she thought, she could have handed him a calling card or a piece of paper with her number on it at the same time that she handed him her fare to be handed over to the driver. But it only happens in the movies.

Para po. She made a last look at him but he wasn’t looking. She alighted the vehicle and the story ended.

Or not. Malay mo. Bilog ang mundo—the jeepney radio played.

(written 16 sep 2007)

THE COFFEE CUP

2008-10-03T11:41:00.000-07:00

It started and ended with a cup.

It was cool and windy. She stopped at a vending machine for coffee. She realized she’s one peso short. The coffee was 10. She only had nine. Then came a peso on the palm of his hand, offered, brushed from behind her. She hadn’t noticed him at all. Oh, thank you, was all she said then finally delighted at her coffee. She brushed herself aside giving way for the next customer. She sipped, loved it, and sipped again. She felt warmth. Seconds grew awkward as she naturally expected the man to proceed to get his coffee. Baffled, she finally asked, “You’re not able to get your coffee?” “Oh no, it’s fine.” “There’s still some left, isn’t there?” “Yeah, I think so. But it’s fine.” She was not understanding him. Naturally, she thought, he would have his turn after her.

And then she felt embarrassed.

The coffee was 10. He only had nine. She felt guilty; he saw it so he assured her it’s really nothing to worry about. They stared at each other for a moment and then smiled. And then laughed. It was no longer awkward, but funny. Amidst the laughter, she tried to apologize for “stealing” his one peso. She knew, though, he wouldn’t like it, so she offered to share her drink. “I’d love to, but it’s alright.” She insisted. He refused, so she insisted more, close to pushing. He agreed, “Only if you’d finish it up to mid-cup,” sounding more challenging than commanding. She OKed.

They sat at the bench just beside the vending machine, she, waiting for the coffee to cool off a bit, he, waiting for his turn. Little by little, she sipped her coffee until its hotness was bearable. They started talking, reluctantly at first, then there was a conversation. She takes the train every time she needs to; he mostly rides the bus but apparently not this time.

The wind blew as it always did those days of cool months. They were a painting to behold. They spoke freely and listened earnestly to each other, almost forgetting about the finish-it-up-to-mid-cup goal.

Now, she handed the cup to him, noticing how much she’s consumed. He took it. She thanked and beckoned him goodbye, as the approaching train reached a halt. It was quick but the smiles were forever.

HE--felt a tinge of joy as he pushed the dilapidated cup back to its drawer, its home for two years now.

SHE--was at the train station again, as she had always been everyday for the past two years, waiting for a familiar sight to see. But for the past two years, she went home and took the train, looking forward to going to the station again the next day.

(written 3 sep 07)

Let’s talk about death.

2008-10-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

by josefina y Villanueva

A friend of mine recently died. We shared a lot. We shared so much. Our memories together are strong. How can such strength collapse to nothing at the end of the day?

Death is the opposite of life, but we don’t talk about it as much as we talk about life. As if the death word is damned; no one wants to discuss it, and if someone does, s/he knocks on a wood, curses his/her mouth, and fidgets subtly, as if s/he is doomed to tread the road to perdition right there and then, for the mere act of thinking about it and s/he feels suddenly evil. As if it’s suddenly real. Why is death always serious and never casual? We never play with even the thought of it? What’s the use of NOT talking about it when no one knows about it anyway? But then again, what’s the use of talking about it when no one knows about it anyway?

But isn’t death with us everyday?

Isn’t it a temporary death when we lie in bed at night and doze off into dreams, and sometimes into mere vacuum because we are unconscious? We fall into stupor and none of us knows what is happening to us – whether we’re standing up, experiencing REM, or muttering while the eyes are shut (save for the mosquitoes circling on our surface which are, of course, not credible to talk to after sucking the blood out of us). Our state of unconsciousness is a state of death. You may not agree I understand. But who knows the truth?

Sometimes, we experience death with the demise of the spirit. Life often sucks, and it sure sucks the life out of us. That is why, sometimes after a from-dawn-till-dusk workout at the gym, we reward ourselves with a feast. It’s a cycle of life – of losing and dying, of gaining and living.

Sometimes I wish someone who has been dead would resurrect and present him/herself to the living and tell about what it’s like being dead and being in whatever place it is after earth. I wish s/he would talk to the living and remind them all the requisites to having eternal life so they won’t end up like him/her – dead and gone. Is death really what we know it here and now? Is death a form of punishment or reward for how we excelled or failed in the school of life? Like any other word, death is relative to each being. I’m sure all of us have been dead, one way or another.

My friend didn’t die a physical death. He merely left. But it was death for me. I died that day.

(first published in Fragments, Miriam College portfolio, 2005)

MISUNDERSTOOD.

2008-10-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

I smile. Am mocked.
I cry. Am pitied.

I laugh. Am loathed.
I get serious. Am laughed at.

I talk. Am silenced.
I become quiet. Am provoked.

I play. Am made fun of.
I retire. Am taunted.

I run. Am halted.
I stop. Am pushed.

I open up. Am rejected.
I reach out. Am ignored.
I do good. Am killed.

(first published in CHI-RHO, MC official publication, 2004)

JOEY

2008-10-03T11:26:00.000-07:00

There are countless stereotypical ways of defining the person, some of which are as follows:

By her zodiac sign: Aries – pioneering, enthusiastic, quick-witted, quick-tempered, and impulsive.

By her animal year: The Ox – a born leader; never gives up when something is half-way done; knows how to give an order and how to make others follow it; is not swayed by her emotions; has a strong sense of morality; does not easily change her mind because she is stubborn and sometimes prejudiced; her courage, logical thinking, and nimbleness are covered up by her simple appearance; faces danger fearlessly; can be an eloquent speaker when an opportunity is presented; believes that only those who have a down-to-earth style of work may never be defeated.

By her birth order: Youngest - usually the one who wants to do it all--paint and produce a movie, all in a day; believes that tears are the only way to get what she wants and because of this, is an excellent actor; is usually brainwashed by her siblings to think that she was adopted as a baby and found in a trashcan; loves to make people laugh or take center stage; a great storyteller.

By the etymology of her name: Josefina – Spanish feminine form of Joseph, which was from the Hebrew name Yoseph meaning "God shall add."

By the school she goes to: Miriam College – students from this school are affluent, articulate, and ma-arte.

However, none of these fits her perfectly primarily because she’s not your typical girl.

One look at her and she’ll return it with her seemingly perfunctory scrutinizing gaze behind the spectacles. She is this sickeningly stubborn pain-in-the-ass individual who is confident enough to say “no” when everyone else says “yes” and vice-versa. She has 150-75 vision, but you’ll be surprised by how she sees through you. Commonly misinterpreted as one who complicates things, she believes that every little thing is too important to just shrug off. She always has something to say about the world, because she believes that when people cease to complain, they cease to think.

She’s more than what the supercalifragething spells and means. Reflective, intuitive, sensitive, and manipulative rolled into a woman. She’s a child who sees it as a holy duty to continually make her parents proud, a friend who sincerely tells you if you’re ugly and helps you feel beautiful, and a maverick who’s too busy to care about the rules.

In this world of woes and wars, she keeps a vision of changing society through education empowerment. She is an idealist who, according to Henry Ford, is a person who helps other people to be prosperous. But sure enough, she will not live long to witness the change, for she herself is yet to win the greatest battlefield in the world, which is simply winning over oneself (which is hardly simple).

But behind her façade hides a daddy’s girl who talks and walks in sleep, frolics in her train rides while enormous billboards along EDSA leave her openmouthed, has gargantuan appetite and her figure doesn’t show it, treats crying as her source of rejuvenation more than what the spa can do, and ironically has this everyday fear of writing, which is denied by her journalistic prowess.

She has the mind of a great lawyer, the keen eyes of a filmmaker, the influential voice of an activist, the listening ears of a friend, and the gentle heart of a child. She’s like philosophy – dynamic: every practice of it changes its meaning.