Old Haunts

It was a little over 3PM when we got to the cemetery, all ten of us, dressed in black and searching for a place to do a photo shoot. It was almost the end of the semester and the last of the Major subjects before some of us would go on to internship. Van's Advance Advertising group--composed entirely of our barkada--was named Witches and Wizards and we're doing the shoot for their company profile. Why I wasn't part of the group was because of my own idea. Our instructor wanted 9 members per group. I suggested we draw lots. My suggestion bit me.

By that time at the cemetery, we were already inseparable. People either loved or hated us but we didn't care. We made so much noise in Masscom, upped the department's standards (we believe that, but don't take my word for it) and shook the competition between ourselves and our classmates. Each of us had our own abilities to contribute to our growing group. Our backgrounds made us unique but our group moved as one.

Counterclockwise from right to left: Jasbabe the Diva, Anthony the Performer, Ruby Jane the Beauty, Jap the Writer, Haguia the Brain, Arnold the DJ, Gio the Rockstar, Carole the VJ, Van the Model, and Mae Ann the Politician.

Our group broke stereotypes at school, we aspired for innovation in our work and never settled for anything less. What was impossible was achievable as long as we helped each other. It was almost hard to believe that a group of friends could be intelligent, talented, creative, popular, beautiful, spiritual and still know how to party.

It wasn't always fun. We had our share of fights, misunderstandings, debates, stand-offs and cold bouts but we'd always kiss and make-up no matter how short or long it took.

A year after the cemetery pictorial, our group grew bigger as more people joined us--Bien the Diplomat, Don the Partymeister, and Derf the Joker but he's a TV personality now so all respect should be given to him. There are several other people but the ones I mentioned are essentially the heart and soul of our barkada, our second family, at least that's how I saw it.

One blog post is not enough to summarize our group's colorful history so I'll just end it with a video from the Jologs archives. We are not dead but in this season of remembrance the departed are not the only ones worth remembering.

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The Absence of Maps

I arrived from school one afternoon and found my stand-in grandmother pedaling her sewing machine, piecing together random fabrics to make a quilt. My 8 or 9-year-old mind could not establish the connection between "Singer" and "sewing" and thought that maybe for some people, like my stand-in grandmother, the annoying clang-clang of the machine's wheel was music to their ears.

We called my stand-in grandmother "Nanay". She took on the responsibility of raising my mom (her niece) when my mom's mother went to the States. She was never married and never had children. I assumed that her vitiligo made it impossible for her to find a mate. She had white patches all over her body as if the melanin got confused whether she was Asian or Caucasian and it decided to give her the best of both worlds, except that she ended up looking like a freak. I always thought of her patches as continents--her skin a map--but I never mentioned it to her because she might not like the idea of me naming a patch of albino skin as some secret paradise island.

The rest of the neighborhood also called her "Nanay" because she was a retired nurse who became the midwife to all of the baranggay's pregnant women. This irony was last seen in the Star Cinema movie A Love Story. Nanay, however, didn't have her own Aga Mulach.

As soon as I entered her room I collapsed on the floor together with my big backpack filled with thick textbooks which could have been thinner and lighter if it weren't for the large elementary font. My teacher referred to those books as our future. Each day, I carried my future on my back, quite certain that the only future in store for me was a trip to the chiropractor.

I tried to look pained to get some sympathy in the form of Jellyace or Mallows, but a heavy bag could not compete with the troubles of war that Nanay had to endure as a little girl. She was also stingy. Either way, it was a lose-lose situation.

"We are going to write a letter," she told me that afternoon I arrived from school. A grimace from me. I was looking forward to cartoons on our black and white TV especially when rumors went around at school alleging that the Smurfs were blue! I had to see it for myself and letter writing would ruin the investigation I had planned.

We always wrote to her sister, my real grandmother, who lived in Chicago. Lola Chila, name derived from Kastila (Spanish), seemed to answer our letters in dollar cheques and this encouraged Nanay to write more often than she should. When Nanay ran out of sad stories to write, she turned to me.

Nanay put aside the unfinished quilt and converted the ugly sewing machine into a table. She took a couple of onion skin paper and told me to sit on her lap so that we could begin writing. Onion skin paper was invented for old, stingy, single women who went to great lengths to save on postage stamps. There was no clear use for it other than to reduce the weight of an already seemingly weightless mail. You'd think that with all the dollars her sister sends her she could at least buy some scented stationery but Nanay valued every centavo that not even Hello Kitty could sway her. She'd even use onion skin envelopes if they were available, or onion skin stamps for that matter.

"What am I going to write to her?" I asked Nanay although this question was just a formality since she'd do most of the writing anyway. I sat on her lap, she folded the paper in half, took my small hand, put the pen in my hand and began writing using my hand as if it were a large deformed pen. I don't know how she got away with it, saying to her sister that I wrote the letter when the handwriting looked a lot like hers only chunkier. I did not even dictate to her what I wanted to write and she did not even bother to choose words that a third-grader might use. The situation transcended any acceptable form of ghost-writing.

Towards the end of the letter she asked me if there was anything I wanted from Lola Chila. "Toys! Lego! Tonka trucks! Matchbox! GI Joes!" I exclaimed, finally feeling that I was part of this activity and not just a dummy. She hesitated for a bit and as she led my hand on the paper, I got confused because she spelled 'toys' as 'B-O-O-K-S'. My hand wanted to write a comma after 'books' but she already lifted my hand to a new paragraph. As early as 8, I already knew I had to fight for press freedom.

We ended with "I miss you" and "hope to see you again soon". I haven't met my Lola Chila. She left way before I was conceived. Still, we closed with those words and Nanay moved my hand to sign my name. Looking back at it, the letters that "I" sent to my Lola Chila when I was a kid were 50% Nanay's perception of me, and 50% fiction.

The only thing I looked forward to the letter writing was the mailing process. I liked lick-sealing the envelopes and the stamps. I liked dropping the envelopes at the post office mailbox. I liked our trip to the post office that ended with a quick snack of puto-cheese at the Central Market plus a take-home pack of pinipig. If I behaved, the pinipig would be the cold variety produced by Magnolia Ice Cream.

When we got home, I heard the only clang-clang sound that pleased my ears, one that came from a sorbetero. I asked Nanay if she could give me 50 cents so that I can grab a cone of the most delicious treat that came from a cart loaded with dry ice, salt, and a creamy blend of skimmed milk, sugar and traces of amoeba. She called it dirty ice cream but for me, dirty was a small price to pay for something so delectable.

She did not give me the measly 50 cents. I pleaded, negotiated, begged, cried, wailed. The fainter the bell sounded, the louder I cried, hoping that if Nanay wasn't about to give in, at least the ice cream man would hear an interested customer and turn back while I continued to convince her. She held her ground and I eventually accepted that she was the most inconsiderate stingy spinster in the city. I entertained the thought of her dognapping a hundred and one dalmatians but that might be a bit over the top.

Several months passed. After mailing yet another letter, Nanay flopped on the sofa as soon as we got home. She did not get up since. Her diabetes got worse in the following months. I wasn't at the hospital when she died but the people who were there said that she kept on asking for me and my brother during her last few hours.

Aside from the modest savings account, her quilts were the only possessions she passed on to us. Months following her death, I'd play with the sewing machine trying to recreate the clang-clang sound that I associated with Nanay. It wasn't music but I somehow found it comforting.

When I was 8, I regarded Nanay as a difficult person. But now, her ways seem sensible and fair. She had been difficult for the right reasons. Her guidance played a big part in shaping my mom into a strong-willed and independent woman. Her strictness towards me made me self-reliant instead of a whiny spoiled brat. She provided the map for our growth as a family and had she lived longer, I'm positive that she would've continued to guide us to the right path.

Nanay has moved on and there's no question as to where she is now. Her patches as white as an angel's wings; her destination etched like a map on her skin.

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Nan's Song by Robbie Williams

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Ba De Ya

I remember watching When the Wind Blows when I was younger and I remember imagining how peaceful and quiet the world can become after a nuclear bomb explosion--total destruction equals peace. Last month was crazy and I think it's all downhill from here. And while I struggle to fill this blank space on my screen, I say to myself that this is not a block but a sense of peace (or emptiness) and surely, I can write about that.

I remember November last year when I started this blog. We were trying a new coffee shop called Barista and I took a picture of Yeric and Ezer using my then new Walkman phone and bragged how I've instantly uploaded the photo to my blog. It was one of the last few nights I'd spend with them before leaving for Qatar and it was the start of Like Clockwork Orange.

I remember quitting smoking after breaking up with my lover. I figured that if I was going to quit one bad habit, I might as well quit smoking too. And eating pork. And taking sugar. I patched things up with my lover not long after the breakup but it was only a month ago, after effortlessly avoiding cigarettes for almost two years, that I started smoking again.

I remember my short-term plans and how my future seemed sad but bright at the same time. It's almost a year now and the bright part has somehow faded. I fear that I may have wasted a whole year for nothing--not even the simplest of targets achieved.

I remember thinking a few nights ago that maybe I am wrong--that there is no plan, there is no destiny, that life is, unfortunately, random and all of us are just waiting to win the lottery; while those who have already won might be so arrogant as to say that it is all their hard work and not luck.

I remember now that Jayclops commented in my last post that "(Office politics) sounds familiar". After he confirmed that he wasn't talking about himself, I began to think that maybe I'm repeating myself. My whole life is a déjà vu, constantly looping like an overused character in one too many Stephen King novels.

I remember realizing last night before going to sleep, that I don't have one thing that I am very good at.

I remember wanting to write a poem about my dreams and how I think these will never happen because maybe I'm part of the other half of the world's population that will serve as the example--the sin, the ugly, the lesson to be learned.

I remember how me and my friends loved to sing in videoke bars (or was it just me) and somebody may or may not sing one of the videoke anthems, Earth, Wind and Fire's September, and depending on our mood we'd either love or hate both the song and the guy who did the number.

I remember just now that I'm supposed to make up a moving excuse for not posting for so long when the truth is I was doing back to back marathons of Six Feet Under and Weeds.

I'll save some of my memories for future posts or for when the time comes for an inevitable montage like the my-whole-life-flashed-before-me kind of thing.

Ba De Ya, it's September, do you remember?

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Moda

My mom, being a true blue Ilonggo, fancies the word "moda" which means "fashionable", "fad", or "the in style". When we moved to Davao, she didn't care much about Bisaya and when she's around my Bisaya-speaking friends, she'd start off talking in bad Tagalog, and give in to her Ilonggo roots by the time she got to her second sentence. And everytime she'd say "moda" my friends would secretly laugh because "moda" is Bisaya G-speak for "mother".

Like most Filipino mothers now, my mom is proudly OFW, and like most OFWs my mom has a story to tell. What I will tell you though, is the day we baked a cake.

I was probably around 8 or 10 years old, when my mom decided to try her baking skills. And why not? She bought new measuring cups and she borrowed my auntie's oven (or was it an improvised double broiler, I cannot remember). It was the perfect time to bring out the rusting mixer from the cabinet and use it once and for all.

She measured each ingredient carefully. She tried to look like an expert baker but when she turned on the mixer, jolted and said "Ay, kalbo!", I knew that she was a noob and she was hanging on to that recipe book for dear life. My role was to lick all excesses from the bowl and the spatula. This served two purposes, one, it helped for a quick wash, and two, the official taste test.

The taste test was sumptuous. But to carry that same taste after the fire test was a whole new ballgame. My mom panicked when, after three hours, the top half of the cake still wasn't done. We've already used up all our toothpicks and have graduated to using forks to see if the cake was ready. We stopped pricking when we officially made the supposedly flat spongy surface looking like a moon replica.

Finally, we made it. We made an edible pair of leather boots. The cake came out overdone on the bottom part. Only 20% of the cake was cake. The rest was, as I've mentioned, edible leather boots. The texture was so tough but I devoured it as if I was Hannibal Lecter on a face buffet. I seriously loved it. It was the most delicious chocolatey goodness I have ever tasted.

What I'm saying is, my mom is different than most moms. She can't bake, but she passes on recipes for a better life. Her hands may be hard on dough but her touch is as soft and warm as freshly baked bread. We only see her once a year but her voice is always loud and clear as if she has never left our side. She hasn't read us too many bedtime stories but when we chat she'd tell the most intriguing real life anecdotes that can put my blog out of business if she decides to blog herself.

My moda. She's different but I wouldn't want a different moda. I love you mom, happy Mother's Day.

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Dad's Somewhere Out There

On my 9th birthday, my Dad woke me up early in the morning and told me to fix my ears on the radio. He left for work and the whole morning I waited patiently by the radio like a good boyscout. Just before noon, the DJ announced my name on the air and greeted me a Happy Birthday (greetings from your Dad) then a dedicated song followed. It was the theme from An American Tail. I didn't have a party since we didn't have money for parties. But that was one of the most memorable birthdays ever.

Ever heard of the expression "speaking of the devil"? Well, I posted my last entry, and today, I got an email from my Dad. I guess I spoke too soon. But in the spirit of fair journalism, here's what my dad said:

Ja, how are you, son? I got your mail and thank you for that.
I misssed you so much Ja. I just want you to know how much I love you. I know how hard it is to be away from your home but that's how life is. Be patient and always trust to God your everyday life and be friendly especially that you're a stranger to that place. Avoid getting into trouble ha.
I tried to call you on the number that you gave me but I can't get through. And also give me Josh's number too so I can call him.
Ja, I'm getting too old and weak. The only thing I'm asking Lord is to see and be with you before I totally close my eyes. I hope and pray we can spend time together and share every moment that we haven't did before. God knows how much I love and care for you, son.
Take good care of yourself always and be happy with what you have for now.
May the good Lord always guide my sons and protect them from any harm and danger.
See you next mail son, I love you as always.
Love,
Daddy

Okay, so I don't know what happened. I've never known my Dad to be religious but now he seems to be speaking in tongues. People change, I guess, but then again, he's in the US and Lord knows what other uppers they have there aside from 7UP. I'm just kidding. I know he's sincere about this. My Dad can really get mushy and it creeps me out.

Maybe he's exaggerating a bit when he said he's getting "too old and weak". First of all, 55 is not really too old. And second of all, if you still manage to pop out some jizz and get a woman pregnant at that age, you're not exactly weak.

And apparently when he said "always guide my sons," he was actually referring to the five of his sons. And I only know my three other brothers. I can imagine his latest 3-year-old kid growing up and getting traumatized when he finds out later on that there were others that came before him.

My dad gives me good material. I just might consider a career in stand-up comedy.

So that's it. I spoke too soon. My bad. Dad actually made a decent reply. Now, please excuse me while I walk outside and listen to this
Somewhere Out There

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WB, Dad, Tyler's Been Looking for You

As if disconnected from YM and signing back again, my dad, whom I haven't seen since New Year 2000, suddenly emails me again after a five-month silence. Everytime my dad comes into view, I could only think of this passage from Fight Club, and boy, isn't Tyler Durden right?!

"This is the first generation of men raised by women. Me, I knew my dad for
about six years, but I don't remember anything. My dad, he starts a new family
in a new town for about every six years. This isn't so much like a family as
it's like he sets up a franchise."

[My dad, in a nutshell. Welcome back, dad. Tyler's been looking for you.]

Exactly a week before graduating from high school, our Christian Living teacher thought it would be nice to write a letter to our parents. Since my mom was in Hong Kong at that time, I had to write one for my dad. I didn't see the point because my dad did not live with us anymore. But I wrote the letter anyway thinking it would be only for God to read. The next day, I was surprised to see my dad at our class' year-end retreat. And when we were instructed to read to our parents the letter we wrote, I knew I was in deep trouble. I only made it past the second sentence, after that, I broke down. My dad ended up reading the letter by himself. I almost felt ashamed I wrote it. He explained to me his side of the story and after that, for the first time in my troubled teen life, everything was clear. Nothing changed between me and my dad after that letter except that I have found respect for him and finally understood his actions. A year later I moved from Bacolod to Davao without him knowing. And three years more, my dad flew to the US without me knowing.

December 31, 1999. I was standing on the vacant lot beside my dad's duplex in a low-class housing community, observing that in the city outskirts, the stars seemed brighter. My dad found me in the dark, and before I could throw the cigarette I was holding, he asked for a light. He puffed and told me to quit smoking already (insert laugh track here). He thanked me for buying two cases of San Miguel Beer. We talked for a bit. He apologized for not being the ideal father for me and my brother. I thought it was the alcohol talking but I told him everything was cool anyway. He hugged me and just like a good TV moment, my two younger half brothers came running toward us and said that we're counting down to the new year in a few minutes. After three days, I flew back to Davao and didn't have the chance to see my father again.

For the past few years my dad has been emailing once in a while, mostly to greet us during birthdays or holidays. He would call once in a while, mostly to give Western Union details, and each telephone conversation would always end with "thank you" and "I love you"-- heartfelt, believe it or not.

But five months ago he stopped communicating with us. And in his recent email he said that he just got his internet connection back, but that does not explain why he hasn't called. I wrote him back and told him that what his almost-thirty-year-old son wanted from him, more than anything, was a father-figure (in terms he would understand, of course). It was quite a long email, a feeling of deja vu while I was writing it. I told him that I am now based in Qatar. I told him updates about my brother. I told him to give me a call, Western Union or no Western Union.

His reply was two lines long with three periods and a question mark. My mention of Qatar did not even seem to matter to him. I gave up analyzing his reply and decided to look on the bright side. At least he's still alive. [I heard his franchise has gone global.]

Basically this entry explains why I love Fight Club. Or maybe I'm just saying that I'm glad I finally heard from my dad. Whichever the reason, I'm still closing this post with another passage from Chuck Palahniuk's debut novel:

The mechanic says, "If you're male and you're Christian and living in America,
your father is your model for God. And if you never know your father, if your
father bails out or dies or is never at home, what do you belive about God?"

I found out that this doesn't apply to American males alone. Whatever, at least He's still alive.

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A High School Story

The plot was almost like the Drew Barrymore movie: One evening, I suddenly found myself in High School. What do I do to fit in?

We were five in the car. The boss' wife was driving and Lee, her 15-year old son was seated at the front complaining every two minutes how late we all were for the food festival. His mom complained back that he should've worn his jacket (translates to hoodie) because it would be freezing at the open field. I sat silently at the back trying not to mind the out-of-nowhere punches I was getting from a three year old nymph. Meanwhile, the maid said she can't wait to stuff food into the empty container she brought. I thought it's too Filipino of her to bring tupperware to a party.

Finally, we arrived at The Cambridge School and in parenthesis, "A British Style International School", and you thought schools aren't in fashion. Lily, Lee's younger sister, greeted us at the front gate with her friend Tina (Lee calls her Tuna cause she's a bit flaky). Lee went past Tuna without a word. They had a falling out a week ago and their cold war was getting colder by the day.

We all rushed to the food fair with our contribution of Chinese Noodles and Dumplings. But don't ask why they placed it on the South Africa table. Lily then showed me her display of overpriced bracelets and chokers and told me that before I choke on the price, I have to remember that proceeds will go to charity.

For the most part of the evening, I essentially just went around the school grounds, leaping from one table to the next tasting all sorts of food. Around the world in 80 bites you might say. I may sound biased but the best table, food-wise, was the Philippines. If Doha wasn't too strict, I wouldn't be surprised if I saw a whole lechon with a crispy, golden-brown grimace, displayed in front of muslim parents who were always apt to ask whether the food was halal or not.

The entertainment sucked but watchable as high school kids hurl and strut like it's their moment in the eyes of God. I would check on Lee once in a while because he was so excited to see his friends rap and breakdance. I'm more excited to see the band play. But at least both of us agree that the Lebanese Palestinian dance routine was just gay and annoying.

I got bored after two hours of eating and roaming and watching but I also felt high schoolish again. I suddenly felt the urge to do something rebellious. I stormed out of the school and looked for a grocer. Twenty minutes later (I still held that rebel mode after all that time), I was back in high school, smoking in one corner of the field and rocking with the school band.

The band was singing Wonderwall by Oasis. And somewhere in that open field, Lily was counting her bracelet sales, Tuna apologized to Lee and he "sorta" accepted her apology, the maid was discreetly filling her tupperware with Beef Caldereta, Lee's mom was having a blast seeing the little nymph dance around and I was on my fourth stick of Marlboro Lights.

The host of the show introduced the band's last song, and that was when Lee approached me, he caught me smoking and he gave me the WTF look. I just told him I felt like being a kid again.

Lee's mom and the rest of the family left early and Lee and I had to take a taxi. He was shivering. The night turned out to be freezing and he probably thought that his mom was right about wearing a jacket (or a hoodie).

I was about to throw the rest of the cigarettes when Lee stopped me. He said to keep one stick just in case. So I did. We finally got into a taxi and praised its warmth.

That was three days ago. A night when I felt like I was seventeen again (insert Eurythmics song here

Eurythmics - Seven...

) I still have that cigarette stick in my pocket. Just in case. OUT.

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Holden on to a Catcher

Doha is starting to be livable after all! Virgin ultracoolmegamusicbookstore has opened and it's one of the oases in this culture-thirsty land. I bought three books, and two of these are the same because I'm giving one to my foster brother Lee just because he can write kick-a$& stories on RPG wrestling forums. Anyway, why this book is special…it started with a book report.

I stood at the library counter holding a small thin tattered red book. I didn’t even read the author's name. At sixteen, my mind was focused on movies and music and the only books I ever read were Archie Double Digests and the Choose Your Own Adventure series. When the librarian finally stamped the date on, I threw the book inside my bag, zipped it and rushed to the other rebels-slash-outcasts flocked under one of the cafeteria gazebos where we always convened for after-school guitar sessions. A week later, I found myself digging in my waste-filled backpack searching for the little red book and cramming for a book report deadline for our Grade 10 English class.

Despite the deadline, I can't seem to get past the first page. I kept on reading the same paragraph over and over. I was so preoccupied. I wanted to be with my friends instead of at home reading. I wanted to go to the sea side with my best friend and talk till dawn. I wanted to escape from our depressing house and go home only when I was ready to sleep. You have to understand; without cable or a computer or a telephone, and being around people with mounting problems, home is the last place on my mind.

So I went out, rode a jeepney to Dunkin Donuts and began again with "To My Mother", the dedication. By the time I had my third cup of coffee and fourth coco strawberry doughnut I was already holding the last page of The Catcher in the Rye, careful not to completely tear it from the piece of tape that was holding it into place. A few moments later, I closed the book and read the name of the author: JD Salinger. Then I took another sip of my coffee and noticed a different bolder taste.

The following week I passed my report on time and got a high mark because I cheated using Barron's Booknotes. When clearance signing came, the librarian asked for an unreturned small thin tattered red book. I told her I lost it and she made me pay forty bucks. I got out of the library and saw my friends singing to a three-chord strumming. I sang with them for a while, but I can't wait to get back home. I wanted to be home. I wanted to get that red book from under my pillow and read The Catcher in the Rye again. OUT.

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fidelio?

shards of his broken trust
pierce my guilty sole.
each step to a home
i leave tracks of red--
blood from the heart that loved.

jli/06/12/06

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mantra

"return to your ways,"
calls the warm black fog.
i breathe a troubled sigh
gasping for clarity in thought and in the wind.
and just like smoke fading into thin air
the fog reveals the mantra unmuddled--
"never to be chained again,"
"never to be chained again."

jli/02/24/07

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Eulogy on Valentine's Day

I've been to the stage where I'm always invited to children's parties. Then debut celebrations. More recently I had quite a number of baptismal invitations. It's a sign of growth. But news of death from family and peers is one invitation you don't want to receive.

Manang Pat
Her family is by far the most tragic: A schizo mom, abandoned by their father, siblings scattered all over the country without a clear-cut future while she devoted her life to serving the better side of the family. She never had a boyfriend, never fancied fashion, remained religious and decided to stay single and celebate. Yes, the forty-year-old virgin isn't just a movie, although Manang Pat represented the female kind. She passed away a day before Valentine's Day which was a metaphor on its own because her heart gave up on her. She died of a broken heart.

She was my cousin. We lived in one house but we're not that close. But she watched over me and my brother during a very crucial stage in our lives. My mom went to work abroad, and my grandmother was bedridden. Manang Pat would cook our meals, wash our clothes and clean our rooms. She never complained and most of all she never asked for anything in return. It was a natural act for her. Most of all she wasn't bitter about it.

Yongyong
In highschool I was a bit of a loner and I hung out with the rebels, the outcasts. That's why when I stepped into college I decided to change my image. I got involved. I started to hang out with big groups. And I met Charisse and the rest of the gang. Yongyong was one of them. Yongyong reminded me of myself when I was in highschool. Shy type, quiet and private. I don't know much about him because I spent most of my time enjoying the new environment. One thing I do remember about him is that he always appeared so innocent. He would smile at whatever. He could've invented the smiley. Charisse would always sexually harass him, and in public too, and he would just laugh.

After a rough year of PT and failing, I left Riverside College. I didn't hear much from Yong after that. And I only got two major news about him, one, that he was in a terrible condition, and two, that he died a day before Valentine's Day.

Life is short. In another time I would've cried. But with the world we're in right now, death becomes an escape. They're probably one of the lucky few who got the most out of life and said farewell before the world fell into pieces.

Take care guys and have a safe journey. And yes, follow the light. OUT.

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Nostalgia on the Second Month Part Two

I was already reminiscing when my mom caught me on YM. She told me to expect my cousin Roni online. Wow, I thought, I ordered for a plate of nostalgia and the gods gave me a bucket.

I haven't heard from Roni for quite some time now. She (and her family) is one of the best relatives that I have.

In no time I found myself chatting with my cuz. We exchanged blasts from the past as if we haven't seen each other for decades (which is, by the way, true). I told her that my greatest influence for my chosen career was her family and their video shop biz White House.

I remember spending summers or Christmases at their house when I was not more than ten or twelve. One Christmas they let me taste wine. It was my first time and boy was it a classy selection, Dom Pérignon! Back then I would envy my cousins' rather rich lifestyle. I also wanted to have a house with a lawn so I can also raise a golden labrador. I also wanted to have a swimming pool so I can swim all day long, heck, all week if I wanted to. Most of all, I wanted to have a brand new Betamax Player and a color television so I can borrow movies for free and watch to my heart's content.

My early exposure to movies probably stirred my imagination and I owe it all to Roni and Mylo who bumped the Looney Tunes for Zapped! But it wasn't just the movies. They also introduced me to fiction. Thanks to them I discovered the Choose Your Own Adventure series. The pocket books blew me away because of their unique structure, you get to decide which path in the story to take thus giving you control of the turn of events because after all, it's your own adventure. Soon after, I bought my own CYOA books and found out that even with the freedom to choose I still found it limiting. And that's how I was inspired to really write. I think.

I miss my cuz and I miss the innocence of our youth (I can remember though we were little devils really!) In any case, I'm glad that even if I haven't seen her for ages I can still feel the warmth. It must be because Roni, Mylo and I just clicked. Or it could be because of a special bond.

Until now I still wish to own a house with a pool and a lawn where I can teach my golden retriever new tricks. And every Christmas or New Year, family and relatives will all get together as our parents did when we were small and this time, we will not just taste the Dom Pérignon but we will get drunk on it.

I can still taste the wine. It was my first. Bitter but sweet, a kiss from an angel. I can still taste it on my lips. OUT.

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Nostalgia on the Second Month Part One

It was bound to happen. The sleepless nights, stressful work days, irritability, longingness, regret and wonderment--it can all be summed up in one word: menstruation.

Got you there! Seriously, it's homesickness. I admit it. Today I feel homesick.

Two months. The fun's over. I've exhausted all there is to see in my guide book and tourist mode just doesn't work anymore. For the past few weeks I started to feel more and more local each day. And each day the chats with my friends became less and less. Now, I just feel empty.

So I thought I'd feed my misery by listing some things that I miss most. And it starts with...

• You, yes you. I miss you.
• I miss waking up late in my own room and knowing that even if it's already 10AM it doesn't matter because I am my own boss and I won't have to make up lame excuses why I'm late.
• I miss waking up early and cooking breakfast.
• I miss singing in videoke bars.
• I miss singing in the bathroom.
• I miss dancing when I'm alone in my room.
• I miss Coffee Crumble at Bo's.
• I miss driving.
• I miss cruising.
• I miss my CDs, VCDs, DVDs....and VDs (hahaha I'm kidding!)
• I miss piracy.
• I miss Spike and Tiny.
• I miss the fact that I can go where I want to go at any time without worrying of getting lost.
• I never thought I'd say this but I miss doing big cart groceries and yes, every week.
• I miss the food. Oh the food.
• I miss Bacolod, my friends there and the food. Oh the food.
• I miss seeing regularly dressed people.
• I miss wearing shorts to work.
• I miss my computer and all the necessities that I have already installed.
• I miss editing videos.
• I miss video production work.
• I miss the creative rush.
• I miss my nephew.
• I miss meeting my friends and talking over coffee.
• I miss durian.
• I miss turo-turo or point point.
• I miss each little aspect of my life in Davao, from my favorite Pink Panther to my loved ones, because all these make up one thing I miss most...
• I miss my home.

Enough. I can go on forever and if I don't stop soon it's really going to fall and if you can still remember before I left Davao, I promised not to cry again. OUT.

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Just Like Family

It's very rare that you find friends who make you feel at home. And with a bunch composed of virtual orphans and stowaways, it's not hard to instantly form a bond that's almost as strong as family. It's touching enough to know they'll miss you when you leave...wait til they cry. sniff.

Gonna miss you guys. Just hang in there, I'll see you again soon.

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