i don’t know where you went.
friend, anong nangyari sa'yo?
parang biglang wala ka.
hindi ko alam kung bakit.
my mind can go to this terrible place.
it often happens when i worry about people i love.
when they are super late.
or seem like they disappear.
what if you are injured?
or dead?
i hope you are just angry with me.
or found someone new.
really.
i just wish i knew.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
celestial Cez
the celestial gardener came back and visited me last night.
i had just finished replying to Leny’s comment on my last post.
i was upset, but not overly so.
disappointed in my President, mostly.
was contemplating my expectations of the Obama Presidency.
and my relationship to it.
had had a decent day.
got my hair cut shorter. (next step…shave it all off again!)
had shi-shi food at azur bistro earlier. (met the chef, nice guy. beautiful place. good food. gave me free panna cotta. kaso lang, mahal.)
took care of more passport renewal business. (according to the us embassy, i changed my signature too much in 10 years. had to email/fax a copy of my driver’s licenses to show my “real” signature.)
got a new battery for the watch that Lola left me. (it’s a Seiko. the old reliable indiglo timex was left to someone else.)
even did some homework for teacher training. (reading and digesting Steiner’s lecture, “The education of the Child: In light of Anthroposophy.”)
at the bistro, i had also read a “Treatise on Love,” by Nicole Daedone, sent to me by Ligaya. (rich. and beautifully painful.)
i was sitting on my couch and then…
i felt her again.
her two hands were inside me,again.
widening my heart space.
removing more vine.
clearing away what was no longer needed.
i lost my breath.
it hurt.
i can’t even explain the pain.
but, it was the same as July 2007.
maybe even more intense.
i’ll never forget it.
i reminded myself to breathe.
exhale first.
i wanted to cry, but i couldn’t even do that.
i wanted to cry out; i think i sort of whimpered.
i gripped the sides of the couch.
and tried to remember to breathe.
how long will this last?
i can’t stand this much longer.
please, this is too much for me.
i cannot bear this.
please.
a quiet voice inside said, “call Cez.”
i found my phone, and called her cell phone.
it rang several times.
i panicked.
she’s not picking up.
i told the voice, “she’s not going to answer. you said to call.”
the voice said, “patience. i’m almost done. she’ll answer.”
and then she did.
and in gasps, i told her, “Cez, it’s happening again. my heart is widening. like your crown of thorns in your heart story. it’s happening again, and i’m in so much pain.”
she heard me.
tried to rule out any medical things.
asked me where i was.
asked who was nearby to come.
she reminded me to breathe.
and reminded me to Love.
and reminded me that i was Loved.
and we prayed.
we prayed that i would endure it.
and that it would end soon.
and that we would understand.
we invoked Jesus.
angels.
archangel Mikael.
the ancestors.
with Cez’ witness, i was able to find my breath again.
shallow at first.
then deep.
and determined.
after about 7 minutes, the pain eased.
and i was left with a soreness in my chest.
after about 7 more minutes, the soreness eased.
and my body felt like it had turned to sandbags.
there was a heaviness, like my energy was zapped.
like whatever had just transpired, took everything i had to endure it.
i got off the phone with Cez.
sent a prayer of thanks to the Universe that i had a friend like her.
she’s the kind that we just pick right up wherever we leave off.
before last night, we hadn’t spoken since last april or may.
sleepily, i made my way to my bed.
i stumbled.
the big hand was pushing me down.
and telling me to rest.
She was done.
i got into bed and texted Cez to thank her again.
i knew i had worried her.
she texted Rowell to come and check on me.
he came 2 hours later, after work, and spent the night again.
he bathed.
and in the dark, i explained to him what happened.
and he listened.
then we murmured back and forth our expressions of gratitude…
‘til we fell asleep.
Cez also texted our friend Mae, a healer from Davao.
it was good to connect with her again, too.
these concentric circles.
these spirals.
i’m finding it hard to do much today, in the way of homework.
we cooked.
we ate.
we sang.
and played guitar.
found lost books.
Rowell just left for one his jobs in Floridablanca.
i’m still just taking it all in.
this may take awhile.
i had just finished replying to Leny’s comment on my last post.
i was upset, but not overly so.
disappointed in my President, mostly.
was contemplating my expectations of the Obama Presidency.
and my relationship to it.
had had a decent day.
got my hair cut shorter. (next step…shave it all off again!)
had shi-shi food at azur bistro earlier. (met the chef, nice guy. beautiful place. good food. gave me free panna cotta. kaso lang, mahal.)
took care of more passport renewal business. (according to the us embassy, i changed my signature too much in 10 years. had to email/fax a copy of my driver’s licenses to show my “real” signature.)
got a new battery for the watch that Lola left me. (it’s a Seiko. the old reliable indiglo timex was left to someone else.)
even did some homework for teacher training. (reading and digesting Steiner’s lecture, “The education of the Child: In light of Anthroposophy.”)
at the bistro, i had also read a “Treatise on Love,” by Nicole Daedone, sent to me by Ligaya. (rich. and beautifully painful.)
i was sitting on my couch and then…
i felt her again.
her two hands were inside me,again.
widening my heart space.
removing more vine.
clearing away what was no longer needed.
i lost my breath.
it hurt.
i can’t even explain the pain.
but, it was the same as July 2007.
maybe even more intense.
i’ll never forget it.
i reminded myself to breathe.
exhale first.
i wanted to cry, but i couldn’t even do that.
i wanted to cry out; i think i sort of whimpered.
i gripped the sides of the couch.
and tried to remember to breathe.
how long will this last?
i can’t stand this much longer.
please, this is too much for me.
i cannot bear this.
please.
a quiet voice inside said, “call Cez.”
i found my phone, and called her cell phone.
it rang several times.
i panicked.
she’s not picking up.
i told the voice, “she’s not going to answer. you said to call.”
the voice said, “patience. i’m almost done. she’ll answer.”
and then she did.
and in gasps, i told her, “Cez, it’s happening again. my heart is widening. like your crown of thorns in your heart story. it’s happening again, and i’m in so much pain.”
she heard me.
tried to rule out any medical things.
asked me where i was.
asked who was nearby to come.
she reminded me to breathe.
and reminded me to Love.
and reminded me that i was Loved.
and we prayed.
we prayed that i would endure it.
and that it would end soon.
and that we would understand.
we invoked Jesus.
angels.
archangel Mikael.
the ancestors.
with Cez’ witness, i was able to find my breath again.
shallow at first.
then deep.
and determined.
after about 7 minutes, the pain eased.
and i was left with a soreness in my chest.
after about 7 more minutes, the soreness eased.
and my body felt like it had turned to sandbags.
there was a heaviness, like my energy was zapped.
like whatever had just transpired, took everything i had to endure it.
i got off the phone with Cez.
sent a prayer of thanks to the Universe that i had a friend like her.
she’s the kind that we just pick right up wherever we leave off.
before last night, we hadn’t spoken since last april or may.
sleepily, i made my way to my bed.
i stumbled.
the big hand was pushing me down.
and telling me to rest.
She was done.
i got into bed and texted Cez to thank her again.
i knew i had worried her.
she texted Rowell to come and check on me.
he came 2 hours later, after work, and spent the night again.
he bathed.
and in the dark, i explained to him what happened.
and he listened.
then we murmured back and forth our expressions of gratitude…
‘til we fell asleep.
Cez also texted our friend Mae, a healer from Davao.
it was good to connect with her again, too.
these concentric circles.
these spirals.
i’m finding it hard to do much today, in the way of homework.
we cooked.
we ate.
we sang.
and played guitar.
found lost books.
Rowell just left for one his jobs in Floridablanca.
i’m still just taking it all in.
this may take awhile.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
at last
i just finished watching President Obama's inaugural address on youtube.
followed that up with the President and the First Lady dancing their first dance.
parang i'm mesmerized.
i didn't get to watch in real time because i don't have a television.
and i am, at present, feelin' the love for youtube and free wifi at northwalk in san fernando.
that's my President.
for the first time, i can say, "he can speak for me."
i trust his moral compass, his fortitude.
i trust that he gets it.
he understands the complexities.
he's willing to sit through the hard stuff.
he understands process
and cooperation
and decisive action
and kapwa.
it's strange to feel this.
i've never felt this way before about a President.
and perhaps it is a bit corny...
but, his Presidency is another compelling reason that i'm returning Home this year.
i'm feeling called back to my other Home,
in the states.
yes, i have another Home.
i do.
and
this must be said...
dag.
that Beyonce can sang.
followed that up with the President and the First Lady dancing their first dance.
parang i'm mesmerized.
i didn't get to watch in real time because i don't have a television.
and i am, at present, feelin' the love for youtube and free wifi at northwalk in san fernando.
that's my President.
for the first time, i can say, "he can speak for me."
i trust his moral compass, his fortitude.
i trust that he gets it.
he understands the complexities.
he's willing to sit through the hard stuff.
he understands process
and cooperation
and decisive action
and kapwa.
it's strange to feel this.
i've never felt this way before about a President.
and perhaps it is a bit corny...
but, his Presidency is another compelling reason that i'm returning Home this year.
i'm feeling called back to my other Home,
in the states.
yes, i have another Home.
i do.
and
this must be said...
dag.
that Beyonce can sang.
Friday, January 23, 2009
the curious case...
for what it’s worth, it’s never too late, or in my case, too early, to be whoever you want to be.
there’s no time limit.
you can start whenever you want.
you can change or stay the same.
there are no rules to this thing.
we can make the best or the worst of it.
i hope you make the best of it.
and, i hope you see things that startle you.
i hope you feel things you never felt before.
i hope you meet people with a different point of view.
i hope you live a life you’re proud of.
if you find that you’re not, i hope you have the strength to start all over again.
-benjamin button
all in all, a very good way to wake up and start a saturday, watching this.
bought this and 3 other movies from a hawker in san fernando two days ago.
yes, it's another movie about Love.
i found myself teary eyed at the part when benjamin says this to his daughter, in a letter.
what will i say to my daughter one day?
i read Leny's letter to her grandson.
also brought me to tears.
i want to get to know my parents.
i want them to know me.
warts and all.
there’s no time limit.
you can start whenever you want.
you can change or stay the same.
there are no rules to this thing.
we can make the best or the worst of it.
i hope you make the best of it.
and, i hope you see things that startle you.
i hope you feel things you never felt before.
i hope you meet people with a different point of view.
i hope you live a life you’re proud of.
if you find that you’re not, i hope you have the strength to start all over again.
-benjamin button
all in all, a very good way to wake up and start a saturday, watching this.
bought this and 3 other movies from a hawker in san fernando two days ago.
yes, it's another movie about Love.
i found myself teary eyed at the part when benjamin says this to his daughter, in a letter.
what will i say to my daughter one day?
i read Leny's letter to her grandson.
also brought me to tears.
i want to get to know my parents.
i want them to know me.
warts and all.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fatima's thighs
there is something particularly sublime about Bach’s cello suite 1 in G major.
there’s this one part that i just want to eat, it’s so good.
like Fatima’s thighs…
it’s the build up i think.
which reminds me, i was boiling ginger this morning, making salabat.
and i looked down at the pot of water.
the molecules of water were sitting so still.
like lake placid
then add the heat.
and then you could almost see the build up.
or i imagined i could.
i imagined the little water molecules sitting as still as they could despite the building heat.
it’s like they are sitting on their hands.
praying for it to either stop or blow.
beads of sweat form on their foreheads, as they close their eyes, scrunch up their cheeks.
and then, the heat is too much.
and… it’s a free for all.
and they run amok like fervid berserkers,
rolling around each other, dancing wildly, naked and free.
the tea bubbles up and almost spills over.
my kitchen smells spicy.
i turn off the heat.
and the feeling passes.
mind, it’s still hot.
and can still burn.
but when the heat is taken down, decorum and propriety of boundary is discernable again.
a proverbial pause.
just one flick of the wrist tho,
the heat can return.
and it doesn’t take long before the water forgets herself again.
there’s this one part that i just want to eat, it’s so good.
like Fatima’s thighs…
it’s the build up i think.
which reminds me, i was boiling ginger this morning, making salabat.
and i looked down at the pot of water.
the molecules of water were sitting so still.
like lake placid
then add the heat.
and then you could almost see the build up.
or i imagined i could.
i imagined the little water molecules sitting as still as they could despite the building heat.
it’s like they are sitting on their hands.
praying for it to either stop or blow.
beads of sweat form on their foreheads, as they close their eyes, scrunch up their cheeks.
and then, the heat is too much.
and… it’s a free for all.
and they run amok like fervid berserkers,
rolling around each other, dancing wildly, naked and free.
the tea bubbles up and almost spills over.
my kitchen smells spicy.
i turn off the heat.
and the feeling passes.
mind, it’s still hot.
and can still burn.
but when the heat is taken down, decorum and propriety of boundary is discernable again.
a proverbial pause.
just one flick of the wrist tho,
the heat can return.
and it doesn’t take long before the water forgets herself again.
umuulan
the big hand held me down again this morning, and i slept.
i only woke up to complete my passport renewal paperwork.
i’m expecting the courier. whether or not they actually show up is another matter entirely.
i was supposed to do my laundry today.
thanks big hand…
it’s raining in sheets.
it’s so hard that if someone were with me and we needed to talk, we would have to yell.
this is what my friend leo would call “bed weather.”
relief of the rain.
the air was heavy this morning, pregnant with wetness and anticipation.
i ventured out only to buy load for my computer, hurrying because i knew the rain was coming.
i’m getting better at reading the sky.
earlier, my new neighbors were blasting pinoy pop hits.
a decent selection, i must say.
now, i am blasting opera and cello adagios.
my little speaker is proving her mettle as she takes on the rain.
i see the sun shining despite the continued torrent.
and i feel the occasional errant microdrop that bounces off the window glass inward and lands on my cheek or my arm.
and i smell the wafting perfume of the humus in the soil, mingling with the air.
it’s the smell of wriggling earthworms.
i remember my room in the old Center in Oakland. it was in the basement, right underneath the zendo.
whenever it rained, the earthworms would wriggle underneath the gap between my door and the floor.
i’d come home sometimes from working a shift in the ER at San Quentin to find to 2 or 3, sometimes 4, dehydrated little worms who could not find their way out again.
i remember i taped a pink post it, at the level of the gap.
in brown ink, i drew a wriggling earthworm and wrote the words,
“turn back! there’s no earth here!”
i did notice that the number of earthworms did decrease after that.
my ribs hurt from coughing so much.
i’m taking lagundi. it’s from betsy’s farm in makilala, Mindanao.
if i weren’t already sick, i would go take a bath in this rain.
i only woke up to complete my passport renewal paperwork.
i’m expecting the courier. whether or not they actually show up is another matter entirely.
i was supposed to do my laundry today.
thanks big hand…
it’s raining in sheets.
it’s so hard that if someone were with me and we needed to talk, we would have to yell.
this is what my friend leo would call “bed weather.”
relief of the rain.
the air was heavy this morning, pregnant with wetness and anticipation.
i ventured out only to buy load for my computer, hurrying because i knew the rain was coming.
i’m getting better at reading the sky.
earlier, my new neighbors were blasting pinoy pop hits.
a decent selection, i must say.
now, i am blasting opera and cello adagios.
my little speaker is proving her mettle as she takes on the rain.
i see the sun shining despite the continued torrent.
and i feel the occasional errant microdrop that bounces off the window glass inward and lands on my cheek or my arm.
and i smell the wafting perfume of the humus in the soil, mingling with the air.
it’s the smell of wriggling earthworms.
i remember my room in the old Center in Oakland. it was in the basement, right underneath the zendo.
whenever it rained, the earthworms would wriggle underneath the gap between my door and the floor.
i’d come home sometimes from working a shift in the ER at San Quentin to find to 2 or 3, sometimes 4, dehydrated little worms who could not find their way out again.
i remember i taped a pink post it, at the level of the gap.
in brown ink, i drew a wriggling earthworm and wrote the words,
“turn back! there’s no earth here!”
i did notice that the number of earthworms did decrease after that.
my ribs hurt from coughing so much.
i’m taking lagundi. it’s from betsy’s farm in makilala, Mindanao.
if i weren’t already sick, i would go take a bath in this rain.
praise song
Praise Song for the Day
A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration
Elizabeth Alexander
Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
Copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth Alexander. All rights reserved.
Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul,
Minnesota. A chapbook edition of Praise Song for the Day
will be published on February 6, 2009.
A Poem for Barack Obama's Presidential Inauguration
Elizabeth Alexander
Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other's
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.
All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.
Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.
Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.
A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.
We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.
We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what's on the other side.
I know there's something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.
Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,
picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.
Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.
Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?
Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.
In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,
praise song for walking forward in that light.
Copyright © 2009 by Elizabeth Alexander. All rights reserved.
Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul,
Minnesota. A chapbook edition of Praise Song for the Day
will be published on February 6, 2009.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
living alone
as much as i enjoy having my own space and living alone, i do miss being taken care of when i'm sick.
it's nice to have someone who could get you some water.
or something to eat.
or more tissue.
it's nice to have someone who could get you some water.
or something to eat.
or more tissue.
chocolate peppermint stick luna bar at 3am
some things that i notice about myself when i’m nursing some kind of heartbreak, especially that of a somewhat deep and romantic persuasion, i:
1. eat chocolate
a. good thing i have so many generous neighbors with OFW’s in their families that keep them somewhat, albeit irregularly, stocked with little hershey’s miniatures (krackel! special dark!), chocolate kisses, Arabic chocolate, mini white chocolate toblerones, and mini nestle crunches
i. i always bring home some kind of pasalubong for my neighbors when i go traveling. it could be piyaya or mascovado from negros. or durian candy from davao. or otap from cebu. so, it’s a lovely exchange, or at least i think it’s lovely.
ii. i know. it’s cliché. and true.
b. good thing also that i have a stash of luna bars from trader joe’s for when i don’t feel like cooking or bothering with food at all
i. chocolate peppermint stick (my fave)
ii. nutz over chocolate
iii. they are a bit smushed and are past the “best by” freshness date, but they faithfully serve their purpose nonetheless
2. write
a. either in my journal, which is somewhere packed still in one of my suitcases and which is running out of pages. i neglected to buy another one when i was in the states because, for the love of God and all things Holy, a new black moleskine lined journal is $17.00.
i. they sell these in manila for like P1200, which is like $25.00.
ii. i will likely pick one up next time i’m in manila, which will be next week before i head back down to Iloilo again.
iii. note to self: next time, i will just shut up and shell out the $40 and buy two.
b. or i blog. obviously, you know this, if you are reading this.
i. i usually write my entries offline and upload accordingly. i have a prepaid wireless internet account and an excruciatingly slow internet connection.
ii. excruciatingly
iii. s-l—o-w.
3. reach for Liz Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love
a. i freakin’ love this book.
b. it’s about this American woman who is in her mid-30’s, who after a failed marriage and a dismal love affair, decides to leave her somewhat settled life in the states for a year and embark on a spiritual journey through Italy, India, and Indonesia.
i. yah, go figure i would love this freakin’ book…
ii. it’s not me…it’s the little narcissist in me.
c. i remember reading this book the first time.
i. i would bring it with me back and forth when i rode the BART to San Francisco when i worked at Glide.
ii. i would throw my head back and laugh at some parts.
iii. i still do that.
d. there are so many good parts.
i. like the concept of speaking American. (pg. 291) dude, do i get this. was just emailing Leny the other day that i missed speaking American English. really, what i miss is the clever banter my friends and i used to volley. at its best, it was a kinda Swingers style (the movie, not the lifestyle—not that there’s anything wrong with it), repartee that was peppered with quick wit and pop culture. i remember one time Vassi’s dog, Chai, wanted to look out a fogged up window. i don’t recall if we were in the car or in my San Francisco apartment. i think the car. but the window was fogged up, and she licked the glass so she could see through. Vas and I looked at each other, startled, amazed at the cleverness of her girl. i remember saying something like, “man, that is so Jurassic Park. Chai is like velociraptor smart.” that still makes me laugh. (never gets old.) but, that kind of thing doesn’t really translate well here.
ii. and the concept of soul mates (pg. 148) “like a dog at the dump…” when i find myself obsessing, which under the right circumstances and with the right subject(s) (person(s)), as i am wont to do, i re-read this part. over and over and over. again. and then again. and then one more time. after which i read it just once more. my copy of this book just naturally opens to this page.
iii. and conversations between herself and her higher Self (weaved all throughout) can relate to this. go figure.
iv. and her devotion to her spiritual Practice, the Teachings, and her Guru (especially her time in India). which reminds me that i’d like to go there someday. i will, i know. someday. sooner rather than later. which also reminds me that i miss my Teacher and my Community at the Center. the best dharma talks happened when we were sweeping the floor. or running errands. or getting Arizmendi’s. or chai at Crixa’s. oh… chai at Crixa’s! Fatima’s thighs at Crixa’s! oh Fatima’s thighs! Rowell knows about these, and i dream of the day that we can eat them together. to be sure, they are delish. but, perhaps it is the name that gets me, that grabs me. or maybe more it is the story that i’ve made up about this woman, the beautifully plump Fatima, and her lover, the baker, who engaged in the most unlikely and torrid love affair that, of course (of course) ended tragically. but, i digress…
4. watch movies.
a. i realize that i’m kinda limited to the ones i have on hand.
b. a trip to quiapo would cure that. or maybe guagua.
c. in the last 2 days:
i. The Notebook
ii. Sex in the City
iii. Love Actually
iv. V for Vendetta
v. almost popped in The Matrix today
vi. hankering for Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings (note to self: borrow from Rowell)
vii. Piolo has a new movie out; have date to watch it with Rowell on friday
viii. if i didn’t have to reset the region on my computer everytime, i would watch Once. and The Contender. and Finding Nemo.
ix. all of these movies are about Love, by the way, in case you hadn’t noticed.
x. i want to get twilight. i read the entire twilight set of books when i was in the states. that’s like 3,000 pages in 10 days. well, it was about love. and vampires. and wolves. and love. and love. and love. i dragged my sister, Sammy, to see the movie with me in Vegas. a group of pre-teen sensations were sitting in front of us. one of them yelled out, “i love you Edward!” as the lights dimmed. her friends giggled and shushed her, admonishing her and, i’m fairly certain, secretly admiring her bold declaration. she fended off their reproach by hissing back, “what? i do love him, and i want everyone to know.” oh brother. or should i say…oh sister? this girl wasn’t even pinay.
Other things that i’ve concerned myself within the last 3 days:
1. renewing my passport
a. apparently, you aren’t technically allowed to travel out of the country if you have less then 6 months before your passport expiration date.
i. mine expires in april
ii. no time to renew it while in the states. was only there for 10 days, most of which were holidaze…
b. i’ve turned into the ugly American when dealing with express 21, the courier service of the US embassy in Manila.
i. they have had annoyingly polite, yet utterly ineffective, rote, decision tree, no critical thinking skills customer service and have failed to deliver the renewal paperwork to me as promised. twice now. both times which they claimed that the makati Shangri-la was closed when they tried to deliver. wha?
ii. i notice i speak with a very American accent when i want to be the ugly American. i did this when i spoke with the supervisor. twice. i do notice that the other person tries to speak Tagalog with me, and i speak English back, with an even more pointed edge. ugh. not pretty. fairly ugly. and true.
iii. i worry that this is the company that i leave the fate of my passport renewal.
c. though, i’m loathe to do it, i have to complete this paperwork. find $75.00 cash. schedule another pick up with the courier. all tomorrow.
i. wish me luck.
ii. i’ll need it.
2. making curtains
a. i have all the stuff.
i. fabric--actually making my bedroom curtains out of tubao. 16 of them. a patchwork of sorts, i laid them all out, scrutinizing color combinations and different patterns. this while i was watching “love, actually” and waiting for the &?%$!@ courier.
ii. pins—i got these at the monday tiangge, here in sta. rita. about a month ago. and i’m beginning to get why people complain about stuff made in china and the difference in quality. these pins aren’t sharp. yes, i paid p10 for them. but, still, what the hell is the use? they are too dull for the pin cushion. ugh.
iii. sewing machine—i got one at the ace hardware for p3000. it’s little. and probably made in china.
iv. thread—kulay orange. i got it in one of the stores by the palengke. they have all kinds of thread. i remember the salesgirl was so interested in my twang. another failure at anonymity.
b. just don’t have the gumption.
i. i got as far as pinning two tubao together and realizing how dull the pins were.
ii. and then i decided before i actually use the sewing machine, i should read the instructions. (from everybody’s free to use sunscreen, “read the instructions, even if you decide not to follow them”)
iii. after all that, while watching “love, actually” and waiting for the &?%$!@ courier, i realized how dizzy and sweaty i was getting. and my nose was running like a leaky faucet. or a leaky cauldron, if you have harry potter on the brain.
3. nursing a cold
a. i have this irrational fear that when i get sick, i will stay sick.
i. that if my nose is leaking, that it will leak forever.
ii. if my stomach is hurting, it will ache forever.
iii. if i have diarrhea, i will be forever chained to the toilet.
iv. that if i am vomiting, same thing.
v. i think it stems from when i was going to college at Humboldt, and i seemed to have this perpetual sinus infection. it was like i didn’t know how it felt to be well. it seemed i was always going to the health center and taking antibiotics.
vi. i know this isn’t true. and i’m learning to trust my immune system. or maybe i should say that my immune system is learning to trust me. those years at Humboldt were the heyday of my arrogance in ignoring my body’s requests, pleas, and finally demands to care for her properly.
b. feed a cold, starve a fever
i. i’ve been feeding it.
ii. lucky for me, i had leftovers from my dinner with Rowell the night before.
iii. also lucky for me, i went to the palengke early in the morning. i spent less than P300 and bought enough food for 2 or 3 days. tanglad, carrots, lettuce, siboyas, bawang, luya, eggs, mangga kamatis, pan de sal. i even bought some sampaguita wreathlets, tho unfortunately, i can’t smell them.
iv. also lucky for me, it’s been 40 days since Tita Mameng’s mother died. they invited all of us to eat at their house yesterday for breakfast and lunch. siyempre, sarap ang pagkain nila. kampampangan sila kasi.
c. being grateful for my mother’s puffs
i. my mother hates the paper products here in the Philippines. manipis daw. she is always bringing her own tissue and paper plates and napkins whenever she comes.
ii. her favorite filler for balikbayan boxes, in fact, is boxes of Puffs tissue, especially if she is nearing the weight limit, but there is volume pa.
iii. so, i happen to have 2 boxes of premium, imported Puffs that i have been using for the last two days. they really are gentler on the nose than the other brands.
4. avoiding my homework for the teacher training
a. what resistance!
b. what’s the deal?
c. much to do
i. transcribe music
ii. learn scales and practice recorder
iii. daily transformative speech exercises
iv. daily concentration exercises
v. daily backward review exercise
vi. reading
vii. outlining the reading
viii. preparing discussion questions regarding the reading
ix. memorizing a poem to recite
x. prep for storytelling from memory (myth, fable, etc.)
xi. weekly form drawing
d. basically, i’m screwed.
i. i try and tell myself, relax.
ii. you really have been through a lot.
iii. birth
iv. death
v. travel
vi. passport renewal
vii. jet lag
viii. cold
e. why did i want to do this again?
i. just looked at the calendar. i have 11 days to get it together
ii. there’s time pala.
1. eat chocolate
a. good thing i have so many generous neighbors with OFW’s in their families that keep them somewhat, albeit irregularly, stocked with little hershey’s miniatures (krackel! special dark!), chocolate kisses, Arabic chocolate, mini white chocolate toblerones, and mini nestle crunches
i. i always bring home some kind of pasalubong for my neighbors when i go traveling. it could be piyaya or mascovado from negros. or durian candy from davao. or otap from cebu. so, it’s a lovely exchange, or at least i think it’s lovely.
ii. i know. it’s cliché. and true.
b. good thing also that i have a stash of luna bars from trader joe’s for when i don’t feel like cooking or bothering with food at all
i. chocolate peppermint stick (my fave)
ii. nutz over chocolate
iii. they are a bit smushed and are past the “best by” freshness date, but they faithfully serve their purpose nonetheless
2. write
a. either in my journal, which is somewhere packed still in one of my suitcases and which is running out of pages. i neglected to buy another one when i was in the states because, for the love of God and all things Holy, a new black moleskine lined journal is $17.00.
i. they sell these in manila for like P1200, which is like $25.00.
ii. i will likely pick one up next time i’m in manila, which will be next week before i head back down to Iloilo again.
iii. note to self: next time, i will just shut up and shell out the $40 and buy two.
b. or i blog. obviously, you know this, if you are reading this.
i. i usually write my entries offline and upload accordingly. i have a prepaid wireless internet account and an excruciatingly slow internet connection.
ii. excruciatingly
iii. s-l—o-w.
3. reach for Liz Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love
a. i freakin’ love this book.
b. it’s about this American woman who is in her mid-30’s, who after a failed marriage and a dismal love affair, decides to leave her somewhat settled life in the states for a year and embark on a spiritual journey through Italy, India, and Indonesia.
i. yah, go figure i would love this freakin’ book…
ii. it’s not me…it’s the little narcissist in me.
c. i remember reading this book the first time.
i. i would bring it with me back and forth when i rode the BART to San Francisco when i worked at Glide.
ii. i would throw my head back and laugh at some parts.
iii. i still do that.
d. there are so many good parts.
i. like the concept of speaking American. (pg. 291) dude, do i get this. was just emailing Leny the other day that i missed speaking American English. really, what i miss is the clever banter my friends and i used to volley. at its best, it was a kinda Swingers style (the movie, not the lifestyle—not that there’s anything wrong with it), repartee that was peppered with quick wit and pop culture. i remember one time Vassi’s dog, Chai, wanted to look out a fogged up window. i don’t recall if we were in the car or in my San Francisco apartment. i think the car. but the window was fogged up, and she licked the glass so she could see through. Vas and I looked at each other, startled, amazed at the cleverness of her girl. i remember saying something like, “man, that is so Jurassic Park. Chai is like velociraptor smart.” that still makes me laugh. (never gets old.) but, that kind of thing doesn’t really translate well here.
ii. and the concept of soul mates (pg. 148) “like a dog at the dump…” when i find myself obsessing, which under the right circumstances and with the right subject(s) (person(s)), as i am wont to do, i re-read this part. over and over and over. again. and then again. and then one more time. after which i read it just once more. my copy of this book just naturally opens to this page.
iii. and conversations between herself and her higher Self (weaved all throughout) can relate to this. go figure.
iv. and her devotion to her spiritual Practice, the Teachings, and her Guru (especially her time in India). which reminds me that i’d like to go there someday. i will, i know. someday. sooner rather than later. which also reminds me that i miss my Teacher and my Community at the Center. the best dharma talks happened when we were sweeping the floor. or running errands. or getting Arizmendi’s. or chai at Crixa’s. oh… chai at Crixa’s! Fatima’s thighs at Crixa’s! oh Fatima’s thighs! Rowell knows about these, and i dream of the day that we can eat them together. to be sure, they are delish. but, perhaps it is the name that gets me, that grabs me. or maybe more it is the story that i’ve made up about this woman, the beautifully plump Fatima, and her lover, the baker, who engaged in the most unlikely and torrid love affair that, of course (of course) ended tragically. but, i digress…
4. watch movies.
a. i realize that i’m kinda limited to the ones i have on hand.
b. a trip to quiapo would cure that. or maybe guagua.
c. in the last 2 days:
i. The Notebook
ii. Sex in the City
iii. Love Actually
iv. V for Vendetta
v. almost popped in The Matrix today
vi. hankering for Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings (note to self: borrow from Rowell)
vii. Piolo has a new movie out; have date to watch it with Rowell on friday
viii. if i didn’t have to reset the region on my computer everytime, i would watch Once. and The Contender. and Finding Nemo.
ix. all of these movies are about Love, by the way, in case you hadn’t noticed.
x. i want to get twilight. i read the entire twilight set of books when i was in the states. that’s like 3,000 pages in 10 days. well, it was about love. and vampires. and wolves. and love. and love. and love. i dragged my sister, Sammy, to see the movie with me in Vegas. a group of pre-teen sensations were sitting in front of us. one of them yelled out, “i love you Edward!” as the lights dimmed. her friends giggled and shushed her, admonishing her and, i’m fairly certain, secretly admiring her bold declaration. she fended off their reproach by hissing back, “what? i do love him, and i want everyone to know.” oh brother. or should i say…oh sister? this girl wasn’t even pinay.
Other things that i’ve concerned myself within the last 3 days:
1. renewing my passport
a. apparently, you aren’t technically allowed to travel out of the country if you have less then 6 months before your passport expiration date.
i. mine expires in april
ii. no time to renew it while in the states. was only there for 10 days, most of which were holidaze…
b. i’ve turned into the ugly American when dealing with express 21, the courier service of the US embassy in Manila.
i. they have had annoyingly polite, yet utterly ineffective, rote, decision tree, no critical thinking skills customer service and have failed to deliver the renewal paperwork to me as promised. twice now. both times which they claimed that the makati Shangri-la was closed when they tried to deliver. wha?
ii. i notice i speak with a very American accent when i want to be the ugly American. i did this when i spoke with the supervisor. twice. i do notice that the other person tries to speak Tagalog with me, and i speak English back, with an even more pointed edge. ugh. not pretty. fairly ugly. and true.
iii. i worry that this is the company that i leave the fate of my passport renewal.
c. though, i’m loathe to do it, i have to complete this paperwork. find $75.00 cash. schedule another pick up with the courier. all tomorrow.
i. wish me luck.
ii. i’ll need it.
2. making curtains
a. i have all the stuff.
i. fabric--actually making my bedroom curtains out of tubao. 16 of them. a patchwork of sorts, i laid them all out, scrutinizing color combinations and different patterns. this while i was watching “love, actually” and waiting for the &?%$!@ courier.
ii. pins—i got these at the monday tiangge, here in sta. rita. about a month ago. and i’m beginning to get why people complain about stuff made in china and the difference in quality. these pins aren’t sharp. yes, i paid p10 for them. but, still, what the hell is the use? they are too dull for the pin cushion. ugh.
iii. sewing machine—i got one at the ace hardware for p3000. it’s little. and probably made in china.
iv. thread—kulay orange. i got it in one of the stores by the palengke. they have all kinds of thread. i remember the salesgirl was so interested in my twang. another failure at anonymity.
b. just don’t have the gumption.
i. i got as far as pinning two tubao together and realizing how dull the pins were.
ii. and then i decided before i actually use the sewing machine, i should read the instructions. (from everybody’s free to use sunscreen, “read the instructions, even if you decide not to follow them”)
iii. after all that, while watching “love, actually” and waiting for the &?%$!@ courier, i realized how dizzy and sweaty i was getting. and my nose was running like a leaky faucet. or a leaky cauldron, if you have harry potter on the brain.
3. nursing a cold
a. i have this irrational fear that when i get sick, i will stay sick.
i. that if my nose is leaking, that it will leak forever.
ii. if my stomach is hurting, it will ache forever.
iii. if i have diarrhea, i will be forever chained to the toilet.
iv. that if i am vomiting, same thing.
v. i think it stems from when i was going to college at Humboldt, and i seemed to have this perpetual sinus infection. it was like i didn’t know how it felt to be well. it seemed i was always going to the health center and taking antibiotics.
vi. i know this isn’t true. and i’m learning to trust my immune system. or maybe i should say that my immune system is learning to trust me. those years at Humboldt were the heyday of my arrogance in ignoring my body’s requests, pleas, and finally demands to care for her properly.
b. feed a cold, starve a fever
i. i’ve been feeding it.
ii. lucky for me, i had leftovers from my dinner with Rowell the night before.
iii. also lucky for me, i went to the palengke early in the morning. i spent less than P300 and bought enough food for 2 or 3 days. tanglad, carrots, lettuce, siboyas, bawang, luya, eggs, mangga kamatis, pan de sal. i even bought some sampaguita wreathlets, tho unfortunately, i can’t smell them.
iv. also lucky for me, it’s been 40 days since Tita Mameng’s mother died. they invited all of us to eat at their house yesterday for breakfast and lunch. siyempre, sarap ang pagkain nila. kampampangan sila kasi.
c. being grateful for my mother’s puffs
i. my mother hates the paper products here in the Philippines. manipis daw. she is always bringing her own tissue and paper plates and napkins whenever she comes.
ii. her favorite filler for balikbayan boxes, in fact, is boxes of Puffs tissue, especially if she is nearing the weight limit, but there is volume pa.
iii. so, i happen to have 2 boxes of premium, imported Puffs that i have been using for the last two days. they really are gentler on the nose than the other brands.
4. avoiding my homework for the teacher training
a. what resistance!
b. what’s the deal?
c. much to do
i. transcribe music
ii. learn scales and practice recorder
iii. daily transformative speech exercises
iv. daily concentration exercises
v. daily backward review exercise
vi. reading
vii. outlining the reading
viii. preparing discussion questions regarding the reading
ix. memorizing a poem to recite
x. prep for storytelling from memory (myth, fable, etc.)
xi. weekly form drawing
d. basically, i’m screwed.
i. i try and tell myself, relax.
ii. you really have been through a lot.
iii. birth
iv. death
v. travel
vi. passport renewal
vii. jet lag
viii. cold
e. why did i want to do this again?
i. just looked at the calendar. i have 11 days to get it together
ii. there’s time pala.
Monday, January 19, 2009
portrait of a scandal
i’m sorry.
thanks for being a good friend.
thank you for being a bit of lightness and comfort for me, especially when i am there.
thanks for being so damn malambing.
i always felt safe in your arms.
and how i liked it when you bit my shoulder because you just couldn’t help yourself.
i loved it, how you held me tight.
our time in Iloilo…i’ll never forget it.
whirlwind romance.
like a fairytale.
swept off my feet and caught at the same time.
a soft place to land.
have i already idealized you?
oh dear, i have.
(doesn’t take me long…)
i wonder, if circumstances were different, if we could really endure a long term relationship.
maybe next lifetime.
from your text, “maybe we just met each other in the wrong time.”
for now, you remain my forbidden friend.
there are ways we don’t match.
and, in the end, i wonder how much of it matters.
the dreamer in me laughs at the question.
the realist says, “hell yah, it matters.”
time will tell.
time does tell.
and, i know the ways in which we differ do matter.
they would eventually be our undoing.
however,
it is a ridiculous ruse to call you friend and say i can’t see you anymore.
truth is, i desire you.
still.
and i don’t think i’ve ever felt so desired by someone.
it borders dangerous when we are intimate.
i lose myself,
and actually feel consumed by you.
the heat enthralls me.
and it’s like i actually don’t mind being devoured, annihilated.
curiously, a most delicious feeling.
i’ve never experienced it…quite like this.
and, i wonder why i enjoy it so much.
to be totally honest, it scares me a bit.
like a moth to a flame.
i laugh when i remember how we stumble through our conversations.
so much goes over our heads.
and we just let it go.
it’s frustrating not to be able to go deep tho.
in language, that is.
what will happen?
my mother lost her mind when she found out about us.
can just imagine the way tita daak spun it.
she waited until i got back to the states.
my sisters had already warned me that she received “intel” about us and that they, themselves had already undergone the third degree.
(they pled the 5th.)
i was the one who brought it up.
i told her that i was seeing you.
she actually tried to feign surprise.
i said to her, “Mom, look i know you know. and i want you to know that you can ask me anything about anything. please ask me first before you start driving yourself crazy with stories you hear from others.”
she didn’t ask me any questions.
instead, she said to me,
“you’re old enough, anak, and, i know, it’s none of my business. but, please, please, please anak. no one from binalbagan. no one has a future there. this one, he’s poor. he might be using you just to go to the states. i don’t want you to have a hard life, anak. hay, you know how people talk. think of your cousins, anak. they all look up to you. what will they think of you if you continue on with him?”
she said more.
but, i honestly don’t remember what else.
i told her, i wasn’t planning on marrying you.
that we were just dating.
that it’s not serious.
she looked so relieved.
in the end (and from the beginning), you wanted a girlfriend.
in the end (and from the beginning), i wanted a lover.
where do those expectations meet?
is there space in between?
and in that space, i can feel your hoping and wanting.
and it feels cruel to continue, despite my lingering desires.
i’ll never be able to give you what you want.
and you are a good man,
who deserves every happiness.
and you are the best friend of a beloved cousin.
perhaps it is better to release these energies you invest in me, so that you are free to find what it is you seek. good advice for me, too.
and, yes, i do love you.
i’m sipping tanglad tea.
i can hear you laughing.
don’t knock it ‘til you try it.
it’s not just for stuffing manok and lechon ha.
i love that you love to cook.
and that your sister works in the infirmary.
and that you take her to and from work everyday on your motor.
i love that you are a kagawad.
and that you are committed to serving your community.
i love that you were active in student government in high school and college and that you have a close barkada.
i love that you know stories about my family and know the history of Negros and share them with me.
i love your enthusiasm and your gentle way.
i love that you tell me jokes and text me when you’re eating.
i love that you ask me questions.
and care about the answers.
i love that you kiss the mole on my face, on my right cheek.
no one has ever done that before…
not with so much attention and intention, anyhow.
there is a picture of you and Lola Mameng on my phone.
her hair is in little pigtails.
she was cold that morning and was wearing a white sweatshirt.
you both look happy chatting away in ilonggo, and i remember that that was the morning that we were wrapping the Christmas presents for her mahjong classmates.
i remember that you asked Lola to make an extra one for you.
i remember laughing and thinking, “what would you do with a new lipstick?”
thanks for being so damn malambing.
thank you for being a bit of lightness and comfort for me, especially when i am there.
thanks for being a good friend.
i’m so sorry.
thanks for being a good friend.
thank you for being a bit of lightness and comfort for me, especially when i am there.
thanks for being so damn malambing.
i always felt safe in your arms.
and how i liked it when you bit my shoulder because you just couldn’t help yourself.
i loved it, how you held me tight.
our time in Iloilo…i’ll never forget it.
whirlwind romance.
like a fairytale.
swept off my feet and caught at the same time.
a soft place to land.
have i already idealized you?
oh dear, i have.
(doesn’t take me long…)
i wonder, if circumstances were different, if we could really endure a long term relationship.
maybe next lifetime.
from your text, “maybe we just met each other in the wrong time.”
for now, you remain my forbidden friend.
there are ways we don’t match.
and, in the end, i wonder how much of it matters.
the dreamer in me laughs at the question.
the realist says, “hell yah, it matters.”
time will tell.
time does tell.
and, i know the ways in which we differ do matter.
they would eventually be our undoing.
however,
it is a ridiculous ruse to call you friend and say i can’t see you anymore.
truth is, i desire you.
still.
and i don’t think i’ve ever felt so desired by someone.
it borders dangerous when we are intimate.
i lose myself,
and actually feel consumed by you.
the heat enthralls me.
and it’s like i actually don’t mind being devoured, annihilated.
curiously, a most delicious feeling.
i’ve never experienced it…quite like this.
and, i wonder why i enjoy it so much.
to be totally honest, it scares me a bit.
like a moth to a flame.
i laugh when i remember how we stumble through our conversations.
so much goes over our heads.
and we just let it go.
it’s frustrating not to be able to go deep tho.
in language, that is.
what will happen?
my mother lost her mind when she found out about us.
can just imagine the way tita daak spun it.
she waited until i got back to the states.
my sisters had already warned me that she received “intel” about us and that they, themselves had already undergone the third degree.
(they pled the 5th.)
i was the one who brought it up.
i told her that i was seeing you.
she actually tried to feign surprise.
i said to her, “Mom, look i know you know. and i want you to know that you can ask me anything about anything. please ask me first before you start driving yourself crazy with stories you hear from others.”
she didn’t ask me any questions.
instead, she said to me,
“you’re old enough, anak, and, i know, it’s none of my business. but, please, please, please anak. no one from binalbagan. no one has a future there. this one, he’s poor. he might be using you just to go to the states. i don’t want you to have a hard life, anak. hay, you know how people talk. think of your cousins, anak. they all look up to you. what will they think of you if you continue on with him?”
she said more.
but, i honestly don’t remember what else.
i told her, i wasn’t planning on marrying you.
that we were just dating.
that it’s not serious.
she looked so relieved.
in the end (and from the beginning), you wanted a girlfriend.
in the end (and from the beginning), i wanted a lover.
where do those expectations meet?
is there space in between?
and in that space, i can feel your hoping and wanting.
and it feels cruel to continue, despite my lingering desires.
i’ll never be able to give you what you want.
and you are a good man,
who deserves every happiness.
and you are the best friend of a beloved cousin.
perhaps it is better to release these energies you invest in me, so that you are free to find what it is you seek. good advice for me, too.
and, yes, i do love you.
i’m sipping tanglad tea.
i can hear you laughing.
don’t knock it ‘til you try it.
it’s not just for stuffing manok and lechon ha.
i love that you love to cook.
and that your sister works in the infirmary.
and that you take her to and from work everyday on your motor.
i love that you are a kagawad.
and that you are committed to serving your community.
i love that you were active in student government in high school and college and that you have a close barkada.
i love that you know stories about my family and know the history of Negros and share them with me.
i love your enthusiasm and your gentle way.
i love that you tell me jokes and text me when you’re eating.
i love that you ask me questions.
and care about the answers.
i love that you kiss the mole on my face, on my right cheek.
no one has ever done that before…
not with so much attention and intention, anyhow.
there is a picture of you and Lola Mameng on my phone.
her hair is in little pigtails.
she was cold that morning and was wearing a white sweatshirt.
you both look happy chatting away in ilonggo, and i remember that that was the morning that we were wrapping the Christmas presents for her mahjong classmates.
i remember that you asked Lola to make an extra one for you.
i remember laughing and thinking, “what would you do with a new lipstick?”
thanks for being so damn malambing.
thank you for being a bit of lightness and comfort for me, especially when i am there.
thanks for being a good friend.
i’m so sorry.
sta. rita
last night, my friend, Rowell, came over.
it was a timely reunion, as we missed each other very much.
we took turns regaling the happenings over the last month.
we took turns crying.
and laughing.
and watching each other cry.
and just, basically, witnessing.
my heart opened a bit wider.
we cooked dinner like we do.
and inevitably, our dinner conversation flowed into the familiar territory of what we would do if we won the lottery.
we both laugh when we find ourselves there.
and relish our fantastic ideas of travel, business ventures, studies abroad.
where will we build our houses?
it's fun to name what we would buy each other.
i am reminded what a good friend he is and how grateful i am that he invited me to live here in his hometown of sta. rita.
he was born and bred here.
and he lives around the corner, and down the street.
when we walk down the streets together, he makes bati almost every ten steps.
i had a chance meeting with Lea Solonga in LAX this past december.
we had the same flight from manila.
she graciously gave me two autographs.
one for Olive, aka Mady, my pamangkin.
the other, for Rowell.
i told her that he was also a performer.
he loved the autograph.
i wish you could have seen the smile on his face.
Rowell and i sing to each other.
and sing together.
sometimes The Carpenters.
sometimes Wicked.
one time, as we rode bikes around and around Prado.
always laughing.
i played and sang Nathanel's song for him last night.
i'm not shy to play for him anymore.
it's only fair, as he is always singing for me.
he really does have an amazing voice.
i make song requests, and he sings them.
after dinner, i started cleaning up.
he fell asleep, as he often does.
he does too much.
running around from racket to racket.
and helping with the church.
i remember when he was studying for his teaching board exam.
i was a coach of sorts.
well, whipcracker, you might say.
for a week straight, we studied.
and i'll never forget attending his ArtiSta Rita performance the night before his exam.
and driving him to manila at 3am so that he could take it.
(he passed, btw.)
he left this morning at 4:15am.
the church bells woke me up for 5am mass, and i remembered him saying, "friend, i have to go," as he kissed my forehead.
i sleepily nodded, and heard the front door close gently behind him.
it was still dark out.
when i go back to the states, perhaps it is spending time with my friend, Rowell, that i will miss the most.
it was a timely reunion, as we missed each other very much.
we took turns regaling the happenings over the last month.
we took turns crying.
and laughing.
and watching each other cry.
and just, basically, witnessing.
my heart opened a bit wider.
we cooked dinner like we do.
and inevitably, our dinner conversation flowed into the familiar territory of what we would do if we won the lottery.
we both laugh when we find ourselves there.
and relish our fantastic ideas of travel, business ventures, studies abroad.
where will we build our houses?
it's fun to name what we would buy each other.
i am reminded what a good friend he is and how grateful i am that he invited me to live here in his hometown of sta. rita.
he was born and bred here.
and he lives around the corner, and down the street.
when we walk down the streets together, he makes bati almost every ten steps.
i had a chance meeting with Lea Solonga in LAX this past december.
we had the same flight from manila.
she graciously gave me two autographs.
one for Olive, aka Mady, my pamangkin.
the other, for Rowell.
i told her that he was also a performer.
he loved the autograph.
i wish you could have seen the smile on his face.
Rowell and i sing to each other.
and sing together.
sometimes The Carpenters.
sometimes Wicked.
one time, as we rode bikes around and around Prado.
always laughing.
i played and sang Nathanel's song for him last night.
i'm not shy to play for him anymore.
it's only fair, as he is always singing for me.
he really does have an amazing voice.
i make song requests, and he sings them.
after dinner, i started cleaning up.
he fell asleep, as he often does.
he does too much.
running around from racket to racket.
and helping with the church.
i remember when he was studying for his teaching board exam.
i was a coach of sorts.
well, whipcracker, you might say.
for a week straight, we studied.
and i'll never forget attending his ArtiSta Rita performance the night before his exam.
and driving him to manila at 3am so that he could take it.
(he passed, btw.)
he left this morning at 4:15am.
the church bells woke me up for 5am mass, and i remembered him saying, "friend, i have to go," as he kissed my forehead.
i sleepily nodded, and heard the front door close gently behind him.
it was still dark out.
when i go back to the states, perhaps it is spending time with my friend, Rowell, that i will miss the most.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
love from afar
so, basically, going home to Negros fucks me up.
not just in the head
or the heart.
i literally go crazy.
and my body gets ill.
there is dis-ease.
and, it happens every single time.
every
single
time.
since 2005.
profound.
i think about the ways in which i have made myself vulnerable.
trusting.
hoping.
seeking.
and perhaps,
perhaps,
i’ve seen enough.
i treasure the memories of the sweetest fruit that i’ve gathered there.
and i marvel at the lengths to which i have
stretched,
broken,
endured.
i may never heal from these wounds.
and maybe that’s not the point.
no, i wouldn’t trade it.
because, the utter joy of that taste on my lips, my tongue, like liquid sunshine, the scent of just ripe mangga…
even if it was just the slightest feather brush of it, i’ve seen my family at their best.
so, i know it’s possible.
but that kernel, that lightness, that goodness, is wrapped tightly in a hard, hard seed coat of deceit and colonization, the worst kind of oppression.
it will take lifetimes for this to unravel itself.
i am to do no more there, not in the ways that i have done it in the past.
how i choose to interact with them from here on out is unfolding.
and slowly, at that.
i am not my mother’s protector.
it will be a long time before i can visit there again.
the risk, for me now, feels like it outweighs the benefit.
and the risk feels grave to me.
i can’t ignore this.
or minimize it.
i am in danger of killing my spirit, my highest Self, that says,
Trust yourself, Muki.
Listen deeply.
what is being of asked of you?
and by whom?
what does this situation call for?
where is the fierce Truth?
open your eyes.
keep your heart open.
wider.
yes.
now, wider.
yes, it does hurt.
now, wider.
and wider.
i hear you crying, Dear.
and asking for mercy.
and grace.
and guidance.
i’m here.
and,
forgive me,
wider.
how wide?
so wide, Dearest, that the anger and violence has no place to hide.
so wide, Dearest, that Wisdom can flow in and reunite with the Love that has always been there.
so wide, Dearest that your actions are borne out of this re-union, and you can live quietly, humbly beyond reproach and regret.
so wide, Dearest, that you can be truly Free.
yes, that’s it.
wider, still.
wider.
i wish there were a different way,
one not so utterly painful.
cry all you need to, Dearest.
there is much to mourn.
you’ve lost so much.
you don’t even know the depth of this loss yet.
but, you will, Dearest Beautiful.
because, in its depth is its exquisite beauty.
and your loss is proportional to that which you gain.
you don’t see this yet.
or perhaps you see it,
but you don’t feel it…
yet.
yet.
i’m here to remind you…
this is your Path.
this is the Way you have chosen to Transform.
not just in the head
or the heart.
i literally go crazy.
and my body gets ill.
there is dis-ease.
and, it happens every single time.
every
single
time.
since 2005.
profound.
i think about the ways in which i have made myself vulnerable.
trusting.
hoping.
seeking.
and perhaps,
perhaps,
i’ve seen enough.
i treasure the memories of the sweetest fruit that i’ve gathered there.
and i marvel at the lengths to which i have
stretched,
broken,
endured.
i may never heal from these wounds.
and maybe that’s not the point.
no, i wouldn’t trade it.
because, the utter joy of that taste on my lips, my tongue, like liquid sunshine, the scent of just ripe mangga…
even if it was just the slightest feather brush of it, i’ve seen my family at their best.
so, i know it’s possible.
but that kernel, that lightness, that goodness, is wrapped tightly in a hard, hard seed coat of deceit and colonization, the worst kind of oppression.
it will take lifetimes for this to unravel itself.
i am to do no more there, not in the ways that i have done it in the past.
how i choose to interact with them from here on out is unfolding.
and slowly, at that.
i am not my mother’s protector.
it will be a long time before i can visit there again.
the risk, for me now, feels like it outweighs the benefit.
and the risk feels grave to me.
i can’t ignore this.
or minimize it.
i am in danger of killing my spirit, my highest Self, that says,
Trust yourself, Muki.
Listen deeply.
what is being of asked of you?
and by whom?
what does this situation call for?
where is the fierce Truth?
open your eyes.
keep your heart open.
wider.
yes.
now, wider.
yes, it does hurt.
now, wider.
and wider.
i hear you crying, Dear.
and asking for mercy.
and grace.
and guidance.
i’m here.
and,
forgive me,
wider.
how wide?
so wide, Dearest, that the anger and violence has no place to hide.
so wide, Dearest, that Wisdom can flow in and reunite with the Love that has always been there.
so wide, Dearest that your actions are borne out of this re-union, and you can live quietly, humbly beyond reproach and regret.
so wide, Dearest, that you can be truly Free.
yes, that’s it.
wider, still.
wider.
i wish there were a different way,
one not so utterly painful.
cry all you need to, Dearest.
there is much to mourn.
you’ve lost so much.
you don’t even know the depth of this loss yet.
but, you will, Dearest Beautiful.
because, in its depth is its exquisite beauty.
and your loss is proportional to that which you gain.
you don’t see this yet.
or perhaps you see it,
but you don’t feel it…
yet.
yet.
i’m here to remind you…
this is your Path.
this is the Way you have chosen to Transform.
Friday, January 16, 2009
rest, Dear
this is what i want to say to you.
because you are too tired to think of this on your own.
and it is understandable, Dearest, with everything that you've undergone, everything that you go through.
the places you choose to put yourself...
it's more than most would do.
be kind and gentle with yourself.
i know it's tempting to check out.
and eat.
and fuck.
and drink.
but, don't.
rest, Dear.
i love you.
you are worthy of love.
if i could, i would come out from between these words on this screen,
and i would wrap my arms around you.
and i would pat your head.
and together, we would rock gently, into the rhythm of the wind or the stream.
and i would help you forget.
or rather, i would help you remember.
you are a child of the Light.
i know you are confused.
and tired.
and i know there are others asking you for help.
you must help yourself right now.
go Home to your place.
sleep in your own bed.
yes, it will be dusty.
you've been gone for a month.
wake up early tomorrow.
and clean.
and heal.
and cry.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
because you are too tired to think of this on your own.
and it is understandable, Dearest, with everything that you've undergone, everything that you go through.
the places you choose to put yourself...
it's more than most would do.
be kind and gentle with yourself.
i know it's tempting to check out.
and eat.
and fuck.
and drink.
but, don't.
rest, Dear.
i love you.
you are worthy of love.
if i could, i would come out from between these words on this screen,
and i would wrap my arms around you.
and i would pat your head.
and together, we would rock gently, into the rhythm of the wind or the stream.
and i would help you forget.
or rather, i would help you remember.
you are a child of the Light.
i know you are confused.
and tired.
and i know there are others asking you for help.
you must help yourself right now.
go Home to your place.
sleep in your own bed.
yes, it will be dusty.
you've been gone for a month.
wake up early tomorrow.
and clean.
and heal.
and cry.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
and heal.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
may pagasa
here's the lyrics of a song my friend nathanel wrote.
it comforts me, and i'm not sure exactly why.
well, it's beautiful.
i learned how to play it in my cold bedroom in my parents' house before i left for negros for Lola.
he emailed me the lyrics and guitar chords the night before i left the states.
and i stayed up all night packing and learning it by heart.
i tried to play it in negros on tito gerome's janky old, rusty guitar.
i was frustrated because i couldn't remember the chords.
then when i kinda remembered the chords, i could not remember the words.
and his guitar refused to stay in tune.
"it's not my way," it kept saying to me.
"will you love me anyway?"
the same guitar, sang a single note to me the morning of Lola's funeral.
i was writing my speech at 3am in the outdoor "dirty" kitchen of Tita Lita and Tito Fred.
it's in the back of the house and away from the flow of visitors and mahjong tables.
one of my relatives (forgive me, i cannot even remember her name) saw me crying as i wrote, and she wanted to comfort me.
i told her i did not want to talk right now. i needed to write. i needed to finish this.
she wanted to be helpful, i know.
i hurt her feelings, and i tried to make it up to her later.
but, she had her detached shield up, so i let it go.
while i was writing, it was cool outside.
the sun was not even near rising yet.
the mosquitos even left me alone.
there was no wind.
i don't remember what part i was writing when tito gerome's guitar played one single note.
i looked up at it, where it hung on a rusty nail, high up on the wall, facing me.
nothing around it.
just the reverb.
i thought, "hi Lola," and tried to think of all of the different scientific explanations why a guitar would seemingly sing one note at 3am while i wrote the eulogy for Lola. and well, i came up with some theories involving physics and weather front pressures.
in the end, science failed me.
and i know it was just Lola saying, "hello" and "just keep going, keep writing."
just hours earlier, all of the apo and great apo of Lola assembled in the back.
we practiced singing, "Sino Ako?" because that was part of the program for the funeral.
that was kinda fun.
and interesting.
most of my cousins on this side are older and male.
and most of them were drunk already or getting there when we were practicing.
somehow, there is always money for beer.
one of them, kuya langging, who is particularly obnoxious when he is drunk, crashed the van my mom rented while we were there.
i am disgusted with him.
he was drunk all that week, acting like it was fiesta instead of a patayin.
he took the keys and went with another cousin to buy more beer and backed up into a tricycle.
the rear panel of the van was all messed up with a sizeable dent and several scratches.
mercifully, no one was injured.
maybe the worst part was that the whole family went into panic mode and wanted to hide this from both me and my mom.
ang tanga.
it's like they didn't know how to tell us, so they tried to cover it up.
i found out tho, and i told my mother the next morning.
i thought it better that she find out that way instead of just seeing it as we piled in for the funeral.
she freaked out and then promptly hid it.
i was amazed at her ability to do this.
once again, my mom will bail out her side.
thank goodness the van was insured.
but, there's a substantial deductible to pay.
and this is not about the money.
my cousin never came to my mom and explained what he did.
he never said sorry.
or took responsibility.
he just kept drinking.
and also insisted he wasn't drunk at the time of the crash.
the next morning, i found him in a chair in the living room, with his eyes closed, head tipped back, mouth agape, drooling, and snoring, like the worst kind of sloth.
this is par for the course with this side.
and this is a pattern that repeats itself.
on one level, i'm mad as hell and feel like i could spit nails.
on another, i think, what kind of circumstances have led to this?
why would my cousin choose to be this way?
what example does it set for us, especially his 3 kids?
why would my family collude?
mom?
we're in bacolod now, in a hotel.
my mother is happy to sleep in a "real bed."
ako, i'm happy to be away from my family.
it's 3am, and my mom is snoring away next to me.
i recall the sting of my mom's scolding, telling me i'm "puro negativo," when it comes to kuya langging and his mother. i remember the pain in her eyes as she gave the sharp look.
it was like, "please, just go along with the ruse. please, anak."
but, i can't.
not anymore.
i don't have the stomach for it.
and i know that this is not mine to fix.
that somehow, i have to find my own relationship to all of this.
somehow.
"how do you do it, mamma?"
"i just don't think about it, if i do, baka nag-high blood na ako."
"but, how do you not think about it?"
then, she gave me the look.
i cried when i was alone.
cried tears in restaurant 21, surrounded by strangers and my solitude.
i realize i wanted my mother to protect me from all of this.
isn't that what mothers are supposed to do?
it is a most unreasonable expectation, in light of everything;
i realize that now.
i've been feeling uneasy all night, not able to rest.
i just vomited 3 times.
and have been on and off the toilet too.
and i started my period 2 days ago.
triple cleanse.
purge this Muki.
so much letting go.
more to write.
but i'm tired.
i know i won't sleep.
but i want to get this heavy, hot computer off my belly.
may pagasa
by nathanel
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=411274409
huwag kang mag-alala
tayo ay pinagpala
daming biyaya sa buhay natin
huwag kang matakot
babantayan kita
lahat ang bagay ay mababago
dumilat ka
huwag kang mahiya
dito lang ako
para sa'yo
huwag kang lumuha
meron pa magpapasa
walang hangganan ang pagibig ko
huwag kang matakot
babantayan kita
lahat ang bagay ay mababago
dumilat ka
huwag kang mahiya
dito lang ako
para sa'yo
it comforts me, and i'm not sure exactly why.
well, it's beautiful.
i learned how to play it in my cold bedroom in my parents' house before i left for negros for Lola.
he emailed me the lyrics and guitar chords the night before i left the states.
and i stayed up all night packing and learning it by heart.
i tried to play it in negros on tito gerome's janky old, rusty guitar.
i was frustrated because i couldn't remember the chords.
then when i kinda remembered the chords, i could not remember the words.
and his guitar refused to stay in tune.
"it's not my way," it kept saying to me.
"will you love me anyway?"
the same guitar, sang a single note to me the morning of Lola's funeral.
i was writing my speech at 3am in the outdoor "dirty" kitchen of Tita Lita and Tito Fred.
it's in the back of the house and away from the flow of visitors and mahjong tables.
one of my relatives (forgive me, i cannot even remember her name) saw me crying as i wrote, and she wanted to comfort me.
i told her i did not want to talk right now. i needed to write. i needed to finish this.
she wanted to be helpful, i know.
i hurt her feelings, and i tried to make it up to her later.
but, she had her detached shield up, so i let it go.
while i was writing, it was cool outside.
the sun was not even near rising yet.
the mosquitos even left me alone.
there was no wind.
i don't remember what part i was writing when tito gerome's guitar played one single note.
i looked up at it, where it hung on a rusty nail, high up on the wall, facing me.
nothing around it.
just the reverb.
i thought, "hi Lola," and tried to think of all of the different scientific explanations why a guitar would seemingly sing one note at 3am while i wrote the eulogy for Lola. and well, i came up with some theories involving physics and weather front pressures.
in the end, science failed me.
and i know it was just Lola saying, "hello" and "just keep going, keep writing."
just hours earlier, all of the apo and great apo of Lola assembled in the back.
we practiced singing, "Sino Ako?" because that was part of the program for the funeral.
that was kinda fun.
and interesting.
most of my cousins on this side are older and male.
and most of them were drunk already or getting there when we were practicing.
somehow, there is always money for beer.
one of them, kuya langging, who is particularly obnoxious when he is drunk, crashed the van my mom rented while we were there.
i am disgusted with him.
he was drunk all that week, acting like it was fiesta instead of a patayin.
he took the keys and went with another cousin to buy more beer and backed up into a tricycle.
the rear panel of the van was all messed up with a sizeable dent and several scratches.
mercifully, no one was injured.
maybe the worst part was that the whole family went into panic mode and wanted to hide this from both me and my mom.
ang tanga.
it's like they didn't know how to tell us, so they tried to cover it up.
i found out tho, and i told my mother the next morning.
i thought it better that she find out that way instead of just seeing it as we piled in for the funeral.
she freaked out and then promptly hid it.
i was amazed at her ability to do this.
once again, my mom will bail out her side.
thank goodness the van was insured.
but, there's a substantial deductible to pay.
and this is not about the money.
my cousin never came to my mom and explained what he did.
he never said sorry.
or took responsibility.
he just kept drinking.
and also insisted he wasn't drunk at the time of the crash.
the next morning, i found him in a chair in the living room, with his eyes closed, head tipped back, mouth agape, drooling, and snoring, like the worst kind of sloth.
this is par for the course with this side.
and this is a pattern that repeats itself.
on one level, i'm mad as hell and feel like i could spit nails.
on another, i think, what kind of circumstances have led to this?
why would my cousin choose to be this way?
what example does it set for us, especially his 3 kids?
why would my family collude?
mom?
we're in bacolod now, in a hotel.
my mother is happy to sleep in a "real bed."
ako, i'm happy to be away from my family.
it's 3am, and my mom is snoring away next to me.
i recall the sting of my mom's scolding, telling me i'm "puro negativo," when it comes to kuya langging and his mother. i remember the pain in her eyes as she gave the sharp look.
it was like, "please, just go along with the ruse. please, anak."
but, i can't.
not anymore.
i don't have the stomach for it.
and i know that this is not mine to fix.
that somehow, i have to find my own relationship to all of this.
somehow.
"how do you do it, mamma?"
"i just don't think about it, if i do, baka nag-high blood na ako."
"but, how do you not think about it?"
then, she gave me the look.
i cried when i was alone.
cried tears in restaurant 21, surrounded by strangers and my solitude.
i realize i wanted my mother to protect me from all of this.
isn't that what mothers are supposed to do?
it is a most unreasonable expectation, in light of everything;
i realize that now.
i've been feeling uneasy all night, not able to rest.
i just vomited 3 times.
and have been on and off the toilet too.
and i started my period 2 days ago.
triple cleanse.
purge this Muki.
so much letting go.
more to write.
but i'm tired.
i know i won't sleep.
but i want to get this heavy, hot computer off my belly.
may pagasa
by nathanel
http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendID=411274409
huwag kang mag-alala
tayo ay pinagpala
daming biyaya sa buhay natin
huwag kang matakot
babantayan kita
lahat ang bagay ay mababago
dumilat ka
huwag kang mahiya
dito lang ako
para sa'yo
huwag kang lumuha
meron pa magpapasa
walang hangganan ang pagibig ko
huwag kang matakot
babantayan kita
lahat ang bagay ay mababago
dumilat ka
huwag kang mahiya
dito lang ako
para sa'yo
Friday, January 9, 2009
another Lola
Mendung Sabal has also transitioned.
i feel blessed to have met her last july in iloilo at the Kapwa conference.
bukas pa ay ang libing ni Lola.
also, it's the full moon.
it's perfect.
thanks again, Universe.
kiss Mendung for me.
my Lola, too.
i feel blessed to have met her last july in iloilo at the Kapwa conference.
bukas pa ay ang libing ni Lola.
also, it's the full moon.
it's perfect.
thanks again, Universe.
kiss Mendung for me.
my Lola, too.
Lola in the white house
just read that Marian Robinson will join the Obamas in the white house.
buti naman.
my Lola lived with us for a number of my childhood years in illinois.
she and my Lolo and my other grandmother, Mama Big, looked after us when my parents were at work.
Lola would cook our breakfast and our merienda everyday.
she would look after us when we were swimming.
and fry cheeseburgers on white bread so that we could eat them,
dripping with grease,
in our wet bathing suits,
by our janky, old above-ground pool.
she and the other olds would watch as we rode our bikes up and down our loooong ass driveway and fly down "suicide hill," which as it turns out, is a gentle slope, measuring maybe 10 degrees.
the olds would watch as the Villanueva girls would put on enthusiastic gymnastics shows or song and dance numbers...on roller skates.
there was a small raised garden bed on the side of the house where Lola would harvest kamatis.
i can't remember what else grew there.
maybe talong.
i just remember kamatis.
the morning before we went on a long driving vacation bound for the arch in st. louis, i remember Lola picking her tomatoes before we left. there was this one huge green one that seemed like it was as big as my face. i remember being so amazed to find that it turned ruby red, perfectly ripened on the kitchen counter, by the time we came back. i thought it was some kind of magic.
(i still kinda do.)
ah, youth.
one of the things my youngest sister Sammy will always remember about Lola, daw, is how Lola always let her roller skate in the house when our mother wasn't home.
now, if that ain't some Love.
i don't know what is.
buti naman.
my Lola lived with us for a number of my childhood years in illinois.
she and my Lolo and my other grandmother, Mama Big, looked after us when my parents were at work.
Lola would cook our breakfast and our merienda everyday.
she would look after us when we were swimming.
and fry cheeseburgers on white bread so that we could eat them,
dripping with grease,
in our wet bathing suits,
by our janky, old above-ground pool.
she and the other olds would watch as we rode our bikes up and down our loooong ass driveway and fly down "suicide hill," which as it turns out, is a gentle slope, measuring maybe 10 degrees.
the olds would watch as the Villanueva girls would put on enthusiastic gymnastics shows or song and dance numbers...on roller skates.
there was a small raised garden bed on the side of the house where Lola would harvest kamatis.
i can't remember what else grew there.
maybe talong.
i just remember kamatis.
the morning before we went on a long driving vacation bound for the arch in st. louis, i remember Lola picking her tomatoes before we left. there was this one huge green one that seemed like it was as big as my face. i remember being so amazed to find that it turned ruby red, perfectly ripened on the kitchen counter, by the time we came back. i thought it was some kind of magic.
(i still kinda do.)
ah, youth.
one of the things my youngest sister Sammy will always remember about Lola, daw, is how Lola always let her roller skate in the house when our mother wasn't home.
now, if that ain't some Love.
i don't know what is.
52
i just woke up from a delicious 3 hour nap.
i haven’t been sleeping very well.
it’s partly due to all the fluorescence and the perpetual daytime, i imagine.
but, it’s also because this place hums with activity, 24/7.
Lolo Jr. and i are the first to go to bed around 10pm;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
i wake up around 3am;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
and, i’m getting more sleep than most around here.
there’s cooking to be done, as we are eating at least 6 times a day, counting merienda.
and Ilonggos, like Kampampangans, are particular about their food and like to eat (and drink) very well.
there’s also constant cleaning.
and buying of supplies and food.
and greeting of visitors.
copious amounts of visitors.
as usual, i get chased away when i try and help with the household work.
so, i mostly hide out in Lola’s room emerging to make a duty round of hello’s, eat, or check on my Mom.
this morning i went to the palengke to buy flowers.
and i drank native coffee and ate fresh puto with Tita Lita.
yum.
(and i’m not usually a coffee drinker!)
hmm, maybe this is why i have been having touble sleeping.
i also finally transferred the photos off my phone onto my computer.
that was surprisingly easy and relatively painless.
(maraming salamat, Bluetooth!)
i’m 95% done with Lola’s slideshow.
the music is not quite right, but it is good enough.
no one seems to know what Lola’s favorite songs were.
i wish i knew.
i have this recording on my phone of a conversation that we had last october regarding her favorites.
goes something like this:
“Lola, what is your favorite color?” sabi ko.
“whatever you like, i like,” sabi niya.
“Lola, what is your favorite thing to do?” i asked.
(long pause)
“i used to love playing cards,” sabi niya.
(nagulat ako. i thought for sure she would say mahjong.)
tapos, sabi niya, “you know when you get old, you like one thing and then in the next minute you don’t like it anymore. i don’t remember anymore what i like and don’t like.”
it goes on, and i listen to that recording every so often.
so, maybe even Lola doesn’t remember her favorite songs.
this particular morning, i woke up at 2am,
and in the wee early morning hours,
i came up with a brilliant idea.
i’ve been fretting a bit about my speech, and it occurred to me that it would be good to solicit input from all the apo and great apo of Lola regarding their relationship with Lola.
so, i spent a good chunk of time today texting and emailing all 52 of us.
imagine.
grabe.
nagulat ako, our number, like a deck of cards.
Tinanong ko sa amin dalawang tanong:
1) what have you learned from Lola Mameng?
2) what will you always remember about her?
i had to do some pretty crafty detective work in tracking down cell phone numbers and emails.
atsaka, ubos na ang load sa computer at cell phone ko.
i emailed and texted all over the world…
and it was so worth it.
the replies are trickling in…
and they are so moving.
although i’ve only received about 50% return, emerging themes, that echo my own experience with Lola, are apparent.
i appreciate the affirmation.
she is the tie that binds us.
i wonder what will happen to our family now that she is gone.
i haven’t been sleeping very well.
it’s partly due to all the fluorescence and the perpetual daytime, i imagine.
but, it’s also because this place hums with activity, 24/7.
Lolo Jr. and i are the first to go to bed around 10pm;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
i wake up around 3am;
the mahjong tiles still clicking.
and, i’m getting more sleep than most around here.
there’s cooking to be done, as we are eating at least 6 times a day, counting merienda.
and Ilonggos, like Kampampangans, are particular about their food and like to eat (and drink) very well.
there’s also constant cleaning.
and buying of supplies and food.
and greeting of visitors.
copious amounts of visitors.
as usual, i get chased away when i try and help with the household work.
so, i mostly hide out in Lola’s room emerging to make a duty round of hello’s, eat, or check on my Mom.
this morning i went to the palengke to buy flowers.
and i drank native coffee and ate fresh puto with Tita Lita.
yum.
(and i’m not usually a coffee drinker!)
hmm, maybe this is why i have been having touble sleeping.
i also finally transferred the photos off my phone onto my computer.
that was surprisingly easy and relatively painless.
(maraming salamat, Bluetooth!)
i’m 95% done with Lola’s slideshow.
the music is not quite right, but it is good enough.
no one seems to know what Lola’s favorite songs were.
i wish i knew.
i have this recording on my phone of a conversation that we had last october regarding her favorites.
goes something like this:
“Lola, what is your favorite color?” sabi ko.
“whatever you like, i like,” sabi niya.
“Lola, what is your favorite thing to do?” i asked.
(long pause)
“i used to love playing cards,” sabi niya.
(nagulat ako. i thought for sure she would say mahjong.)
tapos, sabi niya, “you know when you get old, you like one thing and then in the next minute you don’t like it anymore. i don’t remember anymore what i like and don’t like.”
it goes on, and i listen to that recording every so often.
so, maybe even Lola doesn’t remember her favorite songs.
this particular morning, i woke up at 2am,
and in the wee early morning hours,
i came up with a brilliant idea.
i’ve been fretting a bit about my speech, and it occurred to me that it would be good to solicit input from all the apo and great apo of Lola regarding their relationship with Lola.
so, i spent a good chunk of time today texting and emailing all 52 of us.
imagine.
grabe.
nagulat ako, our number, like a deck of cards.
Tinanong ko sa amin dalawang tanong:
1) what have you learned from Lola Mameng?
2) what will you always remember about her?
i had to do some pretty crafty detective work in tracking down cell phone numbers and emails.
atsaka, ubos na ang load sa computer at cell phone ko.
i emailed and texted all over the world…
and it was so worth it.
the replies are trickling in…
and they are so moving.
although i’ve only received about 50% return, emerging themes, that echo my own experience with Lola, are apparent.
i appreciate the affirmation.
she is the tie that binds us.
i wonder what will happen to our family now that she is gone.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
swimming
i want to scratch my skin off.
it is so hot.
and the wind is still.
my mother is asleep, lightly snoring, next to me.
she played mahjong all night.
i fell asleep, as usual, to the clicking of the tiles.
they play just outside Lola’s windows.
cigarette smoke, people cackling and howling, others arguing strategy and lamenting.
and always…the clicking of the tiles.
Lola loved to play mahjong.
it was her p300 a day habit.
“swimming,” they called it.
and she played almost everyday.
“kept her sharp,” they say.
and she loved her “classmates,” the other olds that she played with.
i think there were 12 of them, enough for 3 tables.
for Christmas, she gave them each a new lipstick and a chocolate.
all wrapped in little envelopes made from pink minnie mouse wrapping paper.
i was here the morning when Lola was supervising the ceremonial wrapping.
it was quite a production, as i remember it.
the picking of the paper.
the exact measurements of the finished envelopes.
no waste.
Lola’s classmates come to her wake in groups of 3 and 4.
they huddle together, sit in chairs placed right next to Lola in her casket and quietly murmur and sometimes all burst out laughing, no doubt, when someone tells a funny story starring my Lola. i imagine that there are no shortages of those. my Lola was such a character. it just occurred to me that it would be nice to know some of those stories. maybe i’ll try and talk with them next time i see them. hope i don’t chicken out.
now, the hottest part of the day, i hear just one table outside.
i peeked and it is 3 of my Lola’s classmates and Tita Lita playing.
they are using the my favorite mahjong set, the pink tiles.
i have no desire to play mahjong.
it has caused such heartache in my family.
i’ve seen many of my relatives gamble all their money away.
and when they run out, they gamble other people’s money away.
and when they run out of that, they lie and cheat and steal to get more.
sometimes, i think i want to learn, just to “belong” or just to know.
there were times that my Lola told me that dapat marunong ako.
almost all of my cousins know how to play.
there are maybe 2 other odd ones like me.
and my sisters, they don’t play.
all my titas and titos, they know and play.
and all the family skeletons are coming out of the closet to say hello and dance around.
i guess it’s an inevitability, when so many of us are assembled.
all the family grudges and scandals are starting to re-surface.
long lost relatives are popping out of nowhere, everywhere.
thought i would never see them again.
but, we all gather for Lola.
and, maybe, redemption.
and, hopefully, healing.
well, if not in this lifetime…
perhaps the next.
or the ones after.
i marvel how plastic we can all be, for the sake of smooth interpersonal relations.
it’s hard to be here.
i can be plastic, too, i just don’t want to.
so, i hide away in the room of Lola.
and ponder...
how do i want to show up?
where is my freedom?
it is a constant vigilance, to choose freedom in each moment.
in the mundane, i have three assignments.
i need to refresh the flowers tomorrow.
it’s market day at the palengke, so i can buy more.
all white.
i have to transfer all the photos i have of Lola off my phone onto my computer, then burn a cd so they can be included in the funeral service. that will be tedious for me. i hate doing shit like that.
and i still need to prepare what i will say at the service.
hay.
the fluorescent lights outside make it perpetually afternoon, even in what’s supposed to be the dark of night.
at night, Lolo Jr. wakes up and asks me if it’s daytime yet as he nervously glances towards the window, like he’s missing something.
it looks like it is always 11am kasi.
this morning, he insisted on rising at 2am to take his coffee on the porch.
so, he wobbled out, and so he wouldn’t worry, i told him i would fold up his sponge bob for him. i bet he misses Lola, even if she used to boss him. i gave him another coconut shell necklace yesterday, kulay itom at mas dakot, as promised. he is happy with it and flashed me his famous grin this morning.
ah, relief.
i hear the rain.
it is so hot.
and the wind is still.
my mother is asleep, lightly snoring, next to me.
she played mahjong all night.
i fell asleep, as usual, to the clicking of the tiles.
they play just outside Lola’s windows.
cigarette smoke, people cackling and howling, others arguing strategy and lamenting.
and always…the clicking of the tiles.
Lola loved to play mahjong.
it was her p300 a day habit.
“swimming,” they called it.
and she played almost everyday.
“kept her sharp,” they say.
and she loved her “classmates,” the other olds that she played with.
i think there were 12 of them, enough for 3 tables.
for Christmas, she gave them each a new lipstick and a chocolate.
all wrapped in little envelopes made from pink minnie mouse wrapping paper.
i was here the morning when Lola was supervising the ceremonial wrapping.
it was quite a production, as i remember it.
the picking of the paper.
the exact measurements of the finished envelopes.
no waste.
Lola’s classmates come to her wake in groups of 3 and 4.
they huddle together, sit in chairs placed right next to Lola in her casket and quietly murmur and sometimes all burst out laughing, no doubt, when someone tells a funny story starring my Lola. i imagine that there are no shortages of those. my Lola was such a character. it just occurred to me that it would be nice to know some of those stories. maybe i’ll try and talk with them next time i see them. hope i don’t chicken out.
now, the hottest part of the day, i hear just one table outside.
i peeked and it is 3 of my Lola’s classmates and Tita Lita playing.
they are using the my favorite mahjong set, the pink tiles.
i have no desire to play mahjong.
it has caused such heartache in my family.
i’ve seen many of my relatives gamble all their money away.
and when they run out, they gamble other people’s money away.
and when they run out of that, they lie and cheat and steal to get more.
sometimes, i think i want to learn, just to “belong” or just to know.
there were times that my Lola told me that dapat marunong ako.
almost all of my cousins know how to play.
there are maybe 2 other odd ones like me.
and my sisters, they don’t play.
all my titas and titos, they know and play.
and all the family skeletons are coming out of the closet to say hello and dance around.
i guess it’s an inevitability, when so many of us are assembled.
all the family grudges and scandals are starting to re-surface.
long lost relatives are popping out of nowhere, everywhere.
thought i would never see them again.
but, we all gather for Lola.
and, maybe, redemption.
and, hopefully, healing.
well, if not in this lifetime…
perhaps the next.
or the ones after.
i marvel how plastic we can all be, for the sake of smooth interpersonal relations.
it’s hard to be here.
i can be plastic, too, i just don’t want to.
so, i hide away in the room of Lola.
and ponder...
how do i want to show up?
where is my freedom?
it is a constant vigilance, to choose freedom in each moment.
in the mundane, i have three assignments.
i need to refresh the flowers tomorrow.
it’s market day at the palengke, so i can buy more.
all white.
i have to transfer all the photos i have of Lola off my phone onto my computer, then burn a cd so they can be included in the funeral service. that will be tedious for me. i hate doing shit like that.
and i still need to prepare what i will say at the service.
hay.
the fluorescent lights outside make it perpetually afternoon, even in what’s supposed to be the dark of night.
at night, Lolo Jr. wakes up and asks me if it’s daytime yet as he nervously glances towards the window, like he’s missing something.
it looks like it is always 11am kasi.
this morning, he insisted on rising at 2am to take his coffee on the porch.
so, he wobbled out, and so he wouldn’t worry, i told him i would fold up his sponge bob for him. i bet he misses Lola, even if she used to boss him. i gave him another coconut shell necklace yesterday, kulay itom at mas dakot, as promised. he is happy with it and flashed me his famous grin this morning.
ah, relief.
i hear the rain.
Monday, January 5, 2009
re-membering
there is a woman, that’s made up like a movie star, dressed in ivory lace, lying in a white casket, in the living room.
they say she’s my Lola.
no,
i don’t think so.
that woman is tall.
and her back is straight.
my Lola’s back is curved like a bass clef, or like a comma, from her scoliosis and osteoporosis. she stood 4’9” on a good day.
and she would never be so stiff, with her arms at her sides, hands hidden away.
she was always moving, restless.
like my own Mom, she can’t sit still for five seconds together.
her favorite position of comfort, or at least the one i saw her most in, was lying on her back.
her right arm up, right hand cradling her head, elbow casually pointing toward the window. ankles crossed, left over right, knees bent, ever so slightly, duster riding up (wow, legs!), right toes tapping to some erratic invisible music.
the fingers of her left hand picking at her cheek or stroking her chin, as if in deep contemplation.
she asked me once, out of the blue, in October, “Karen (pronounced KEH-rehn), is it apple picking time in California?”
i was lying next to her in her bed and sat up.
where the heck did that come from?
“yes, ‘La,” I answered, “tama ka. it’s apple picking season in California. bakit po? gusto mong kumain ng mga mansana?”
sabi niya, “only if it’s from California.”
she was always very particular with her food.
she loved laswa, isda, and all things gulay.
and Libby’s corned beef. (don’t try and give her any Filipino corned beef.)
and all kinds of sabaw.
and peeled seedless grapes.
she would only eat chicken if it was chicken inasal, or on rare occasions lechon manok, or sandwich from Snackee, the local fast food joint here in Binalbagan.
don’t try and give her chicken anything else or she would turn suplada, make faces at you, and send you away. and if she still had some strength and her cane was nearby, she would shake it at you as you left.
instead, bring her special siopao from Bob’s in Bacolod.
and their garlic bread, too.
and their cream of asparagus soup.
and their lechon kawali.
or bring her Hawaiian “pizza pie” (pronounced PEE-cha) from anywhere.
she loved to eat that.
i’m sitting on her side of the bed as i type this.
my butt is numb. the foam on her bed is maybe 3 inches thick.
last night my mother and i arrived from las vegas.
super jetlagged and uneasy.
parang, ayaw kong bumaba sa naming van.
heart in my throat, beating a thousand times a minute.
hot spit came out from under my tongue, filling my mouth; i wanted to vomit.
it was drizzling.
i looked outside through the dark tint of the rented van.
the sun had already long set.
traffic from Bacolod was terrible because they are fixing the roads. they are always fixing the roads. my cousins say they’ll be done by 2010, in time for the elections. it took more than 3 hours to drive to Paglaum, when it used it take a little over an hour.
outside, the funeral parlor erected a large green bamboo scaffold, fitting a gigantic tarp covering the front and side porches of the house of my Lola. long fluorescent lights blazed suspended from the tarp, making everyone and everything look garish and slightly blue.
there were several mahjong tables full of people, the clicking of the tiles a familiar kind of din.
men were talking, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer.
there is a small podium by the front door that holds the book that people are supposed to sign when they come to visit.
a long table held picked-over food and snacks.
another table nearby, next to the water dispenser, held Nescafe packets, coffee mate, a jar of sugar, a sticky spoon, empty wrappers, plastic stirrers, and styro cups.
a palpable pause and silence as everyone stopped their activity for a moment as my mom and i came out of the van. i could feel their eyes appraising us, looking at our clothes, my mother’s jewelry, waiting to get their cue on how to act from the way we presented.
i didn’t like that feeling.
i don’t like that feeling.
why am i here?
then cousins and titas and titos and helpers started filing out of the house to help bring down the copious groceries we bought in Bacolod and the ever present cursed balikbayan boxes that we brought from the states.
beso-beso,
weak smiles,
a millisecond of our eyes meeting,
then the eventual look away.
look at me. PLEASE.
why can’t you look at me?
why don’t you ever look at me?
why can’t i look at you?
when will we really see each other?
inside, more bright fluorescent lights.
sobrang dami.
it’s hot.
and dazzling white.
and unnaturally bright.
like a movie set.
or a photo shoot.
it’s gross.
vulgar, even.
the place is full of faces that i don’t know.
i don’t like it.
i put down my backpack and went to see “Lola” in her casket.
“gwapa ng Lola mo,” they all said.
my throat was dry.
my eyes hurt from the lights.
i looked down at her
and said,
“hi Lola.”
then, i went to her room, to her bed, and layed down, leaving some space for her, in case she might join me. i stroked her side of the bed, imagining i was smoothing her hair, and told her that i missed her, that i didn’t want to be here without her, that i was sorry that i had so much hate in my heart for some of my relatives…still.
Lola was my haven when i was here.
if my relatives were being their crazy overbearing, manipulative, and/or money-hungry selves, i could always go to Lola’s room to escape.
she would joke with me and tell me stories.
or ask me how so-and-so is.
or ask the same questions over and over again.
or ask me to call someone for her.
or ask me for capital for mahjong.
or quote me exorbitant prices on how much i owed her for each kiss i “stole.”
masyadong malaki ang utang ko sa kanya.
my favorite times would be when we would nap together, holding hands, the fan blowing the lamook away.
the heat of the afternoon,
our lunch settling in our bellies,
the cries of the roosters,
the laughter of the schoolchildren across the street,
and the distinctive sound of tsinelas on the street.
all served as our perfect, private lullaby.
sometimes we would listen to the radio, the local Ilonggo station, and watch tv at the same time. sakit ang mga tenga ko. Lola liked it tho.
it was like she was afraid of silence.
every morning, sometimes as early as 3am, she would wake up and want me to turn on her old radio “for the news” and open the windows and open the curtains to greet the day. then she would be fumbling around trying to read what time it was on her faithful timex indiglo. then she would ask me again what time it was. then she asked again where her flashlight was. i would show her and then click it on and off to prove the batteries were still good. then she would get in her favorite position, quiet, until it was time to take her coffee.
most of her days, she would take her coffee on the porch, facing her youngest and only surviving sibling, Lolo Junior. Lolo is developmentally delayed and his daily household task would be to sweep the outside porch every morning. Lola would point to the places he missed with her cane. and he would shuffle, shuffle, like he does, sweeping the best he could. his gait is soooo unsteady and he only speaks Ilonggo. most of the time, i have no idea what he is saying, as he mumbles and code switching is something he cannot do. and Ilonggo is something i don’t speak…yet.
he doesn’t like to wear shoes because his feet are quite deformed; they hook inwards, and shoes hurt his feet. i was five years old, the first time i visited the Philippines since i left as a 5 month old infant. i remember feeling so upset with Lolo Jr. because he wouldn’t wear shoes. i remember stamping my own shoed foot and admonishing him, “YOU SHOULD BE WEARING SHOES!! WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING SHOES?!?!” in my five year old world, everyone wore shoes and didn’t sell them or trade them for talangka or tuba or beer.
during that visit, i remember crying because my bath water felt cold and i had to take a bath with a tabo and a bucket. i was bitten by a mosquito by my right eye, and it swelled shut (i was inflammatory, even back then). i had a silver front tooth. i slipped on some turkey poo when i was running on the dirt road in front of the house. i threw peanuts at the turkeys on the neighbor's roof. i must have been a handful. every morning, i would look out through the bars of the front gate, gaping at the school children as they walked past to the Paglaum elementary school, across the street. they saw my silver tooth and my swollen eye and made fun of me.
aswang!
one eyed jack!
Lolo Jr. shuffled after them and chased them away, no doubt yelling some Ilonggo curses after them. right then and there, i quickly forgave him for not wearing shoes. he saved me, too.
whenever i see him, i give him a bracelet or necklace made of native materials like abaca, coconut shell, or seeds. he likes them and wears all of them at once. sometimes 6 deep on each arm, if he doesn’t lose them, get swindled out of them, or trade them away. his toothless smile is the sweetest thing, that absolutely does not need translation.
for merienda today, we ate tuna sandwich on white bread with the crusts cut off, outside on the porch. i gave him water in his chipped brown mug. he was thirsty, as i filled it twice. he asked me for another necklace, complaining that the last one i gave him was too gamay.
sabi ko, “Sige Lolo, anong kulay gusto mo?”
he paused to think, and answered, “itom.”
“Sige po. kulay itom, mas dakot. Promise.”
he smiled, nodded satisfied.
kanina, i secretly watched him through Lola’s window for about 30 minutes as he shuffled back and forth from where his laundry was hanging on the line to the table where he elected to fold (and unfold) his clothes. he would fold, then unfold, then fold, then unfold, then finally fold and pile.
Lolo has kind of an obsession with his laundry. sometimes, he sits outside, even in the hottest part of the day, guarding it as it dries in the sun. someone must have stolen his clothes once. Lola would yell at him to come inside, out of the heat.
Then, she would say to me, “do not mind your Lolo Jr. he was born premature. he was supposed to be born August. He came June.” then she would make the sira ang ulo sign, with her pointer finger making spirals near her right temple. that always made me laugh.
i’ve heard stories where he would refuse to bathe for days on end, everyone pleading for him to clean himself. soon Lola would instruct Tito Fred to throw a bucket of water on him if he didn’t bathe willingly. He bathes outside by the pump, in his briefs, and is ecstatic if you give him a new bar of Dove soap.
when he was younger, like a homing pigeon, they say, he could always find his way home, even after going on a bender.
he was the one who saved my mom’s life when she was a baby infant. there were flash floods in her village, and she was already floating away, about to drown. and Lolo Jr. saved her.
hay, and Lola and he would sometimes get in the most spectacular fights.
i heard stories from Tita Lita.
they usually started when he would make comments on her losing streaks in mahjong.
she would shoot back saying it’s not his money she’s losing.
imagine two very olds shouting at each other.
she would “chase” him around the outside of the house.
she with her cane, cursing him.
he with his unsteady gait, shuffling for his dear life, desperate for a place to escape the wrath of his Ate.
Lola would get so worked up she would take Lolo’s clothes out of his small cabinet he kept in the kitchen and throw them outside.
then Lolo would yell, “stop, stop! those are mine! Adel sent those to me from the States!”
he understands that she died.
they say that towards the end, when Lola was no longer responsive, he would encourage her to eat so she could get strong again. Lola always was a good eater.
when Lola was served her food, she would not eat eat before knowing that food had given to Lolo Jr. too.
Lolo doesn’t have his own bedroom here.
at night, he usually sleeps on the floor in the living room on his folding sponge bob foam mattress. since so many people come in and out for Lola’s wake, he cannot sleep in the living room anymore.
last night, my mom and i slept on Lola’s bed.
Lolo slept on his sponge bob at the foot of the bed, and ever since Lola died, they say he is scared to sleep alone.
my mom played mahjong 'til the wee hours.
i was on the bed, working on my computer, and he kept sitting up and checking if i was still there.
i smiled gently at him each time and said, “i’m here Lolo. tulog ka na. babantayan kita.”
he would nod, groggy. then, settle back down to sleep.
i don’t know if he understood what i had said.
earlier, the people from the funeral home came by to add more embalming fluid to Lola. apparently, they do this every 2 days. i was in her room and instructed not to come out while they were “giving Lola medicine.” my cousin’s wife, Yvonne, was the Watcher.
everyone else waited outside the house.
strange.
it kinda bothers me that you can’t see Lola’s hands the way they arranged her.
they meant so much to me.
i held them and kissed them often.
her hands are gnarled.
and she has the most wicked hitchhiker’s thumbs.
and swollen knuckles.
arthritis daw.
but her skin was always so soft.
and cool.
i used to tell her, “alam mo ba, Lola, maganda ka. sobra.”
sabi niya, “hay, no good anymore. pangit na ako. ugly!”
“no, no. maganda ka Lola,” i would insist.
sabi niya, “why, you want to switch faces? i’ll look like you. you’ll look like me.”
“o? pwede ba? sige!” i would say.
then we laughed.
i am to speak at her funeral, on behalf of all the grandchildren (no pressure).
i have until sunday to prepare.
i still need to find something suitable to wear.
whatever will i say?
i wish i could say it in Ilonggo.
or even Tagalog.
there is so much.
and i can’t help feeling that this is such a gift.
there is an opportunity here, an opening to transform the anger and hate.
i can help my family heal.
i can help myself heal.
Lola, please help me find the right words.
there is still so much anger in my heart.
i see the geckos, enduring the heat from all the lights, above your casket, perched on the wall, making bantay. i know they remind me to keep my heart open.
on the plane ride here, to help prepare and disarm myself, i listened to three dharma talks given by my Mitra, during our 2006 sesshin.
freedom--beyond hope and fear
i am reminded that that was a particularly transformative time for me as it was one of the first times i felt seen, one of the first times i consciously revealed myself, and probably the first time i allowed myself to feel loved, warts (snot) and all.
deep bows.
absolute freedom is available to me, in every moment.
every
single
moment,
i have the choice to be free.
dito…here.
ako…me.
ngayon…now.
i love you, Lola.
/|\
they say she’s my Lola.
no,
i don’t think so.
that woman is tall.
and her back is straight.
my Lola’s back is curved like a bass clef, or like a comma, from her scoliosis and osteoporosis. she stood 4’9” on a good day.
and she would never be so stiff, with her arms at her sides, hands hidden away.
she was always moving, restless.
like my own Mom, she can’t sit still for five seconds together.
her favorite position of comfort, or at least the one i saw her most in, was lying on her back.
her right arm up, right hand cradling her head, elbow casually pointing toward the window. ankles crossed, left over right, knees bent, ever so slightly, duster riding up (wow, legs!), right toes tapping to some erratic invisible music.
the fingers of her left hand picking at her cheek or stroking her chin, as if in deep contemplation.
she asked me once, out of the blue, in October, “Karen (pronounced KEH-rehn), is it apple picking time in California?”
i was lying next to her in her bed and sat up.
where the heck did that come from?
“yes, ‘La,” I answered, “tama ka. it’s apple picking season in California. bakit po? gusto mong kumain ng mga mansana?”
sabi niya, “only if it’s from California.”
she was always very particular with her food.
she loved laswa, isda, and all things gulay.
and Libby’s corned beef. (don’t try and give her any Filipino corned beef.)
and all kinds of sabaw.
and peeled seedless grapes.
she would only eat chicken if it was chicken inasal, or on rare occasions lechon manok, or sandwich from Snackee, the local fast food joint here in Binalbagan.
don’t try and give her chicken anything else or she would turn suplada, make faces at you, and send you away. and if she still had some strength and her cane was nearby, she would shake it at you as you left.
instead, bring her special siopao from Bob’s in Bacolod.
and their garlic bread, too.
and their cream of asparagus soup.
and their lechon kawali.
or bring her Hawaiian “pizza pie” (pronounced PEE-cha) from anywhere.
she loved to eat that.
i’m sitting on her side of the bed as i type this.
my butt is numb. the foam on her bed is maybe 3 inches thick.
last night my mother and i arrived from las vegas.
super jetlagged and uneasy.
parang, ayaw kong bumaba sa naming van.
heart in my throat, beating a thousand times a minute.
hot spit came out from under my tongue, filling my mouth; i wanted to vomit.
it was drizzling.
i looked outside through the dark tint of the rented van.
the sun had already long set.
traffic from Bacolod was terrible because they are fixing the roads. they are always fixing the roads. my cousins say they’ll be done by 2010, in time for the elections. it took more than 3 hours to drive to Paglaum, when it used it take a little over an hour.
outside, the funeral parlor erected a large green bamboo scaffold, fitting a gigantic tarp covering the front and side porches of the house of my Lola. long fluorescent lights blazed suspended from the tarp, making everyone and everything look garish and slightly blue.
there were several mahjong tables full of people, the clicking of the tiles a familiar kind of din.
men were talking, smoking cigarettes, and drinking beer.
there is a small podium by the front door that holds the book that people are supposed to sign when they come to visit.
a long table held picked-over food and snacks.
another table nearby, next to the water dispenser, held Nescafe packets, coffee mate, a jar of sugar, a sticky spoon, empty wrappers, plastic stirrers, and styro cups.
a palpable pause and silence as everyone stopped their activity for a moment as my mom and i came out of the van. i could feel their eyes appraising us, looking at our clothes, my mother’s jewelry, waiting to get their cue on how to act from the way we presented.
i didn’t like that feeling.
i don’t like that feeling.
why am i here?
then cousins and titas and titos and helpers started filing out of the house to help bring down the copious groceries we bought in Bacolod and the ever present cursed balikbayan boxes that we brought from the states.
beso-beso,
weak smiles,
a millisecond of our eyes meeting,
then the eventual look away.
look at me. PLEASE.
why can’t you look at me?
why don’t you ever look at me?
why can’t i look at you?
when will we really see each other?
inside, more bright fluorescent lights.
sobrang dami.
it’s hot.
and dazzling white.
and unnaturally bright.
like a movie set.
or a photo shoot.
it’s gross.
vulgar, even.
the place is full of faces that i don’t know.
i don’t like it.
i put down my backpack and went to see “Lola” in her casket.
“gwapa ng Lola mo,” they all said.
my throat was dry.
my eyes hurt from the lights.
i looked down at her
and said,
“hi Lola.”
then, i went to her room, to her bed, and layed down, leaving some space for her, in case she might join me. i stroked her side of the bed, imagining i was smoothing her hair, and told her that i missed her, that i didn’t want to be here without her, that i was sorry that i had so much hate in my heart for some of my relatives…still.
Lola was my haven when i was here.
if my relatives were being their crazy overbearing, manipulative, and/or money-hungry selves, i could always go to Lola’s room to escape.
she would joke with me and tell me stories.
or ask me how so-and-so is.
or ask the same questions over and over again.
or ask me to call someone for her.
or ask me for capital for mahjong.
or quote me exorbitant prices on how much i owed her for each kiss i “stole.”
masyadong malaki ang utang ko sa kanya.
my favorite times would be when we would nap together, holding hands, the fan blowing the lamook away.
the heat of the afternoon,
our lunch settling in our bellies,
the cries of the roosters,
the laughter of the schoolchildren across the street,
and the distinctive sound of tsinelas on the street.
all served as our perfect, private lullaby.
sometimes we would listen to the radio, the local Ilonggo station, and watch tv at the same time. sakit ang mga tenga ko. Lola liked it tho.
it was like she was afraid of silence.
every morning, sometimes as early as 3am, she would wake up and want me to turn on her old radio “for the news” and open the windows and open the curtains to greet the day. then she would be fumbling around trying to read what time it was on her faithful timex indiglo. then she would ask me again what time it was. then she asked again where her flashlight was. i would show her and then click it on and off to prove the batteries were still good. then she would get in her favorite position, quiet, until it was time to take her coffee.
most of her days, she would take her coffee on the porch, facing her youngest and only surviving sibling, Lolo Junior. Lolo is developmentally delayed and his daily household task would be to sweep the outside porch every morning. Lola would point to the places he missed with her cane. and he would shuffle, shuffle, like he does, sweeping the best he could. his gait is soooo unsteady and he only speaks Ilonggo. most of the time, i have no idea what he is saying, as he mumbles and code switching is something he cannot do. and Ilonggo is something i don’t speak…yet.
he doesn’t like to wear shoes because his feet are quite deformed; they hook inwards, and shoes hurt his feet. i was five years old, the first time i visited the Philippines since i left as a 5 month old infant. i remember feeling so upset with Lolo Jr. because he wouldn’t wear shoes. i remember stamping my own shoed foot and admonishing him, “YOU SHOULD BE WEARING SHOES!! WHY AREN'T YOU WEARING SHOES?!?!” in my five year old world, everyone wore shoes and didn’t sell them or trade them for talangka or tuba or beer.
during that visit, i remember crying because my bath water felt cold and i had to take a bath with a tabo and a bucket. i was bitten by a mosquito by my right eye, and it swelled shut (i was inflammatory, even back then). i had a silver front tooth. i slipped on some turkey poo when i was running on the dirt road in front of the house. i threw peanuts at the turkeys on the neighbor's roof. i must have been a handful. every morning, i would look out through the bars of the front gate, gaping at the school children as they walked past to the Paglaum elementary school, across the street. they saw my silver tooth and my swollen eye and made fun of me.
aswang!
one eyed jack!
Lolo Jr. shuffled after them and chased them away, no doubt yelling some Ilonggo curses after them. right then and there, i quickly forgave him for not wearing shoes. he saved me, too.
whenever i see him, i give him a bracelet or necklace made of native materials like abaca, coconut shell, or seeds. he likes them and wears all of them at once. sometimes 6 deep on each arm, if he doesn’t lose them, get swindled out of them, or trade them away. his toothless smile is the sweetest thing, that absolutely does not need translation.
for merienda today, we ate tuna sandwich on white bread with the crusts cut off, outside on the porch. i gave him water in his chipped brown mug. he was thirsty, as i filled it twice. he asked me for another necklace, complaining that the last one i gave him was too gamay.
sabi ko, “Sige Lolo, anong kulay gusto mo?”
he paused to think, and answered, “itom.”
“Sige po. kulay itom, mas dakot. Promise.”
he smiled, nodded satisfied.
kanina, i secretly watched him through Lola’s window for about 30 minutes as he shuffled back and forth from where his laundry was hanging on the line to the table where he elected to fold (and unfold) his clothes. he would fold, then unfold, then fold, then unfold, then finally fold and pile.
Lolo has kind of an obsession with his laundry. sometimes, he sits outside, even in the hottest part of the day, guarding it as it dries in the sun. someone must have stolen his clothes once. Lola would yell at him to come inside, out of the heat.
Then, she would say to me, “do not mind your Lolo Jr. he was born premature. he was supposed to be born August. He came June.” then she would make the sira ang ulo sign, with her pointer finger making spirals near her right temple. that always made me laugh.
i’ve heard stories where he would refuse to bathe for days on end, everyone pleading for him to clean himself. soon Lola would instruct Tito Fred to throw a bucket of water on him if he didn’t bathe willingly. He bathes outside by the pump, in his briefs, and is ecstatic if you give him a new bar of Dove soap.
when he was younger, like a homing pigeon, they say, he could always find his way home, even after going on a bender.
he was the one who saved my mom’s life when she was a baby infant. there were flash floods in her village, and she was already floating away, about to drown. and Lolo Jr. saved her.
hay, and Lola and he would sometimes get in the most spectacular fights.
i heard stories from Tita Lita.
they usually started when he would make comments on her losing streaks in mahjong.
she would shoot back saying it’s not his money she’s losing.
imagine two very olds shouting at each other.
she would “chase” him around the outside of the house.
she with her cane, cursing him.
he with his unsteady gait, shuffling for his dear life, desperate for a place to escape the wrath of his Ate.
Lola would get so worked up she would take Lolo’s clothes out of his small cabinet he kept in the kitchen and throw them outside.
then Lolo would yell, “stop, stop! those are mine! Adel sent those to me from the States!”
he understands that she died.
they say that towards the end, when Lola was no longer responsive, he would encourage her to eat so she could get strong again. Lola always was a good eater.
when Lola was served her food, she would not eat eat before knowing that food had given to Lolo Jr. too.
Lolo doesn’t have his own bedroom here.
at night, he usually sleeps on the floor in the living room on his folding sponge bob foam mattress. since so many people come in and out for Lola’s wake, he cannot sleep in the living room anymore.
last night, my mom and i slept on Lola’s bed.
Lolo slept on his sponge bob at the foot of the bed, and ever since Lola died, they say he is scared to sleep alone.
my mom played mahjong 'til the wee hours.
i was on the bed, working on my computer, and he kept sitting up and checking if i was still there.
i smiled gently at him each time and said, “i’m here Lolo. tulog ka na. babantayan kita.”
he would nod, groggy. then, settle back down to sleep.
i don’t know if he understood what i had said.
earlier, the people from the funeral home came by to add more embalming fluid to Lola. apparently, they do this every 2 days. i was in her room and instructed not to come out while they were “giving Lola medicine.” my cousin’s wife, Yvonne, was the Watcher.
everyone else waited outside the house.
strange.
it kinda bothers me that you can’t see Lola’s hands the way they arranged her.
they meant so much to me.
i held them and kissed them often.
her hands are gnarled.
and she has the most wicked hitchhiker’s thumbs.
and swollen knuckles.
arthritis daw.
but her skin was always so soft.
and cool.
i used to tell her, “alam mo ba, Lola, maganda ka. sobra.”
sabi niya, “hay, no good anymore. pangit na ako. ugly!”
“no, no. maganda ka Lola,” i would insist.
sabi niya, “why, you want to switch faces? i’ll look like you. you’ll look like me.”
“o? pwede ba? sige!” i would say.
then we laughed.
i am to speak at her funeral, on behalf of all the grandchildren (no pressure).
i have until sunday to prepare.
i still need to find something suitable to wear.
whatever will i say?
i wish i could say it in Ilonggo.
or even Tagalog.
there is so much.
and i can’t help feeling that this is such a gift.
there is an opportunity here, an opening to transform the anger and hate.
i can help my family heal.
i can help myself heal.
Lola, please help me find the right words.
there is still so much anger in my heart.
i see the geckos, enduring the heat from all the lights, above your casket, perched on the wall, making bantay. i know they remind me to keep my heart open.
on the plane ride here, to help prepare and disarm myself, i listened to three dharma talks given by my Mitra, during our 2006 sesshin.
freedom--beyond hope and fear
i am reminded that that was a particularly transformative time for me as it was one of the first times i felt seen, one of the first times i consciously revealed myself, and probably the first time i allowed myself to feel loved, warts (snot) and all.
deep bows.
absolute freedom is available to me, in every moment.
every
single
moment,
i have the choice to be free.
dito…here.
ako…me.
ngayon…now.
i love you, Lola.
/|\
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