MY PUNY VALENTINE

[February 14, 2012 at 11:30am]

Today, the world celebrates its most beloved day of the year. With far more compliance than Michael Jackson’s “Give Love On Christmas Day” order.

Of course, everyone should be entitled to have at least one unforgettable Valentine moment in his/her entire life, whether that moment tickled the heart and senses with joy or hurt him/her bad like been cut by a knife.

Refreshing a memory, how did I spend thee, Oh thou sometimes-sweet-at-times-cruel Valentines Day?

How could I forget the moment I softly touched three red roses right on her face, only to discover later she was allergic to flowers after she slapped them back to me as she continuously sneezed?

I’ll always remember the time I was solicited by and gave a girl prospect three imported chocolates, only to find her later sweetly eating them with her well-kept boyfriend who was also our classmate? But I made them pay for it thereafter by licking another two chocolates which I re-sealed and gave again to them. At the time I didn’t feel any guilt at all as I savored every moment watching them both eating.

Moral lesson: Never underestimate the fury of a man scorned. The “revenge of the nerd” is chocogerms-adorned. Anyway, that was just one of my naughty yesterdays, folks. When I erroneously thought true love could only be found in figures and good looks.

Finding true love only on a surface is like finding a spook.  Believing in them is like believing in fake news:  on Facebook.

ASH

[February 14, 2013 at 3:30pm]

As our tradition, I was the last man out of our workplace last night, and subsequently strolled by my lonesome to Jaro Plaza sans fright. The Jaro Plaza, despite its being a historically rich site, is still pitifully bereft of adequate street lights. It was as if I was back to good ole days of giving darkness a fair fight, despite failing then to join Fred Guapo’s group named “Walk By Night.”

Upon reaching the spot near the Cathedral, I was initially shocked and turned pallid, when I met a throng engulfing me all having a single mark on each forehead. I thought I was already in the end times like what was written and prophesied about the mark of The Beast. But after my eyes checked the design and found not any sign of a Six-Six-Six, only then that I had managed to heave a silent sigh of relief.

Suddenly I remembered it was for “Ash Wednesday,” and that was a symbol of obedience given by a priest, done after the ritual signaling the start of “Lent” season by the Roman Catholics. It could mean too as their sign of pride and bravery for of a religion they should boast, as they are all head up high after receiving the mark like newly commissioned wartime commandos.

But I think when it comes to such kind of mark of obedience in the “faith,” far better are the beggars and children of the streets. Day in and day out, they all have their symbols on foreheads, on faces and their bodies, as if un-washable and fixed.

Somebody told me it’s also for the “faithful,” that “dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return” (Gen. 3:19) for a yearly reminder. Like the way the folk-rock Kansas reminded our generation that all we are is dust in the wind, to be blown away forever.

The ironic grossness of which is manifested only when Filipinos of all status and geographic class uphold their tradition of kissing their folk’s forehead after the “mass.” Yes, it is in our culture with the olds in showing them respect and love, but we have to beware, remember that kissing their forehead is also kissing their ash.#

SHE

[February 14, 2014]

Every Valentine’s Day, I always remember what was told to me by the former Pastor Sam who is now called The Doctor. It’s something like, the sweetest song for your one and only is Julio Iglesias’ “To All The Girls I’ve Loved Before.”

They’re all indeed worth remembering, truly. But some would stand above the rest, like she.

“She may be the face I can’t forget; The trace of pleasure or regret; Maybe the treasure or the price I have to pay…” Told you, I memorized these lyrics when I was six since it was played continually in front of our house from the jukebox of Nang Jessy. Thus, when destiny’s joke had started and our paths crossed after exactly two decades, I was so sure she’d be the “she” I’d refer to in that song, and the one I’d dub “The Face.”

Told you further, she’s more precious than rubies or Gollum’s ring that flees, even far more irresistible than the combined Cadbury, M&M and Kisses. She’s the chief cause if not the main reason why I came to know there’s a flower called Chrysanthemum. But most of all, in view of her beauty’s pull and her charm’s magnetic force, I went on to discover that roses were not just red but they come too in various colors.

If not for her, I could not overcome my natural fear of slight darkness. More so of the eerie stillness of a soundless night, pitch black, moonless. But I said the moment has come, where a boy should be separated from a man. And when I commenced taking steps heading for that doorway, I was pretty sure only of two things, either a heart’s death or love’s liberty.

How did I love her? I did not count the ways. I would not count the ways. I could not count the ways. You tell me, how could one count or figure something when there's blinding sunray always, and tremors, the moment he sees her face? She was life’s seasons’ great equalizer in whatever phase.  My world had only one color whether during a dry spell or rainy days.

She was a barometer of what one could be capable of doing when something’s gotta give, or take, when his heart overflows with love rooted from the deep. That’s why I discovered through her that when a man loves a woman, awakened or in deep sleep, he would not just love, he would worship.

Therefore, some love would not prosper because we’d be no more aware that the Real Author of Love is only taken for granted, if not neglected, when such human love he thought as whole lot better. Ignoring what we learned from the beginning as taught by the Psalmist to delight ourselves in Him so that He’d give us the desires of our hearts for the fulfillment of a True Love forever (Psalms 37:4).

She will always be out there like a shining star. Only the eye could reach her from afar. A living proof in life, of dreams, that all others are dull and drab. Ask the dead poets, there’s no living feeling other than the unrequited love.

Someone may continue singing, “She maybe the reason I survive; The why and wherefore I’m alive.” And “The meaning of my life is she.” But I’d say, “Happy Valentines, 'she'”...#

THE SUFFERING

[Posted on FB on February 10, 2016 at 5:40pm]

After watching a bootleg copy of “The Revenant,” a great film by Alejandro González Iñárritu starring the greater Leonardo DiCaprio, I could not help but in awe of human resilience considering that the acclaimed movie is based on a true-to-life story. Of course, we have reasons to suspect there is little if not full exaggeration in the presentation of the story but Hugh Glass, the main character, was just one of so many in this world of sin and misery who had experienced that similar kind of agony.

Try watching every sensitive film, past and present, which subject matter is dealing about the holocaust, for even a comedy like “Life is Beautiful” depicts how man would fight for his life, and for his loved ones, at all cost. 

And I could not avoid too to seriously ask, how far can a man bear the most searing pain he would ever have before he finally snaps? Well, it was the same curiosity perhaps that drove Adolf Hitler to experiment the Jews that he would know first-hand all the needed facts.

Some people are seriously certain that to them the most devastating of all is no other than the physical pain, while others insist it’s a matter of the heart instead as it could shatter reality as well as their dream. 

Me too, I used to believe and to tell everybody with full confidence that the most painful experience in human life is having two successive love rejections. But wait till one of your kids was confined to an infirmary and you just beg for caution as he swallows the pain in held-back tears for eight-times daily injections.

And when we speak matter-of-factly of emotional, mental, and physical torture ever applied to a human being, no way there could be worse than what had been experienced by Jesus Himself, God and man all the same:

He was slapped with trumped-up charges, struck with human fists, spat on His entire face as He was dragged brutally despite His bruises and a blister. This while He was carrying a heavy cross on where He would be nailed later, and stripped naked that all shame in the world would He totally bear. 

He was insulted with blunt words at their worst and harshest, chastised with spiked iron whip, crowned with thorns and impaled by a spear. He thirsted but was given a vinegar rather than water, yeah, He took all those things in total submission like a dumb lamb being led to his slaughter (Isa.53:7).

Only then we completely realize that no affliction nor travail in this life, at present and in the past, would be more painful and agonizing than what had been through by Jesus. And what’s more comforting is Paul’s exhortation for the just that “the sufferings of this present time, are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us” (Rom.8:18).

THE CHINESE, ONCE MORE, WITH FEELING

[Posted on FB on February 10, 2014]

I rummaged sometime someone’s school yearbook wherein he had these words for the arrogant, the greedy and the rogues: “Not all the days are Sundays; a dog has its own day, but not all the days are for the dogs.”

I remember again that phrase upon every emergence of bolstering evidence and corroborating witness for those charged corrupt politicians in our midst who are the true dangerous dogs in all public societies. Like the real canines, they have zero ‘delicadeza’ and shame despite overwhelming evidence against them for they believe the world belongs to them and their puppies. Just like what think the Chinese.

I don’t consider our current president the greatest like Ramon Magsaysay whom I one time idolized, but let’s face it, P-Noy is far greater than Ramos, Erap and Gloria Macapagal Arroyo combined. 

Don’t you consider the abolition of “wang-wang” in this country the best thing that ever happened to you and me? Finally, the lords and commons in this administration have equal sharing and position in every country road, whether to glory or perdition.

You’ll know what I mean if you have experienced being bullied in the street while riding your motorcycle to save fare, when you’re almost sideswiped or nearly ran over by a trailer pick-up truck carrying a speedboat of an Iloilo Chinese zillionaire. 

And being nearly again bumped from behind by a convoy cruiser owned by a VIP without a warning, who they alleged loved to make life harder for his enemies during his time as congressman and king. 

Look now, every crook and cranky in those previous administrations that was previously untouchable, would now be finding his hands, as well as his records on file in the Ombudsman and Sandiganbayan and other courts, full.

I may not agree with P-Noy in every issue of the land but when it comes to this Chinese bullying, I will never take this sitting down metaphorically and literally since I also don’t take a seat when I’m FB-posting (so that I could turn around after clicking on something when all of a sudden here comes The Bossing). 

Personally, I salute P-Noy for his comparison of Chinese aggression to a preview of Hitler’s invasion of a Czechoslovakia region. Yeah, give Chinese a hand and he’ll devour your entire arm.

Do not believe when the Chinese says “peace,” because if you scrutinize the word surgically you’ll find that what he meant was “fakes.” They say that without sacrifice, there is no success. I’m tempted to say, ensure success, let’s sacrifice the Chinese. Dick the Butcher the adviser had to Cade’s ear this piece: “the first thing we do, let’s kill all the Chinese.”

Well, sometimes we really cannot avoid ourselves to feel homicidal and furious when the Chinese talk to the Philippines with arrogance rather than with the spirit of Confucius. Maybe the Chinese truly believe in that old dark saying, “In the end, China will win.” No wonder, conventional Filipinos ask the heavens when will America end China’s whim.

All they need and pray for is America’s lifetime guarantee in categorical statement for this land, like Uncle Sam’s recent declaration that in case China invades, he will protect Japan. But concerning our country, the United States of America’s hymnal answer, heard then in the city and the farm, to such prayer is also a prayer in return, “Heaven watch the Philippines, keep her safe from harm.” 

As if indirectly saying, “Fight your own war but when it comes to our own war against the likes of Iraq and Iran, our private enemies, perceived and created, I demand your help and assurance.”

Well, it depends on us, like the Abba, we could “take a chance,” who knows, when we’re besieged by the Chinese later, America would help perchance. But I have this very strong hunch: the probability that America will help us in our turf war with China is called Chinaman’s chance.

WORDS IN THE WORLD

[Memories from February 6, 2017 at 1:15pm]·

“It’s only words, and words are all I have to take your heart away…”

These familiar words from my favorite singing group back in high school were my battle cry each time I’d like to woo someone I found to be cool (read: beautiful). Mother may have had boldly argued with anybody that I also had pretty face yet when it came then to girls, it was my words that won my case, partially or in full.

Yeah, I reluctantly admit that I am not good at oral avowal of love because I am a man of slow tongue and slow speech, so to speak.  Nevertheless, back then, I was already fond of writing words when I needed to convey a message too hard to express using my beak.

Falling in love with someone you adore while you both live under one roof for one whole semester, with whom you walk every night to and from school and still you couldn’t speak love is a big boner. That’s why other people settle themselves to become a “mere” writer. But they write only for personal satisfaction and not to make a career.

However, some horribly found out not everything that is made through writing produces a good result. Sometimes, no matter how good their intentions are, things could turn out bad, and it’s their fault.

Being overwhelmed with joy sometimes causes indiscretion and lack of wisdom if not bereft of knowledge. There could be no such thing as sympathy and humanity for the rest even if there’s glaring absence of malice.

But all these years regardless of what others said against me, like disturbing my peace, I never stopped believing in the human race. I believe there’s always a good side in every man, and like the rest, he would know that in all rules, there are some exceptions to these.

But like then, I have quite bitterly learned once again:  Some words are much better left unsaid.

And unwritten.

DOUBT

January 28, 2016 at 12:56pm · 

One day last week,—mind you, a very grinding week,—a pretty visitor from the Big City came to our workplace and requested for some public documents from the archives to be photocopied. From my very first glance I could not take anymore my eyes off her face since I was groping for some clear memory of where I previously saw those glittering eyes behind her fake eyelashes.

A few seconds later I never had a doubt anymore despite those extra baggage and extra large dark glasses that she was a former actress who also had a lead role in a critically acclaimed film by Lino Brocka, a brave, well-known Martial Law critic. She may now only be a shadow of what she once was but I’d still smell in her persona some traces of her past glories, after, as mere consolation by a movie star to a starstruck ex-fan of the old Philippine cinema, she engaged me in a brief tȇte-à-tȇte.

Last I heard she’s happily married to a very successful businessman after she decided that the lure of limelight she would shun. I must doff my hat for her, for I would have avoided marriage myself and had chosen showbiz instead had I been given a chance. But that was then, when all I saw in showbiz was glitz and glamour. When I had witnessed everything except sin, misery and rancor.

Truly, “all that glitters is not gold,” as goes the song from one of the popular expressions of the wise. Like what the young candidate Ruffa Gutierrez opined that life’s essentials are invisible to the naked eyes. Well, it’s because we tend to only believe on the things concrete and always put a doubt on everything abstract and unattractive. Usually, only through the things we touch with our hands and see with our own eyes that we start to learn to analyze and perceive.

Same with believing in Christ Jesus as He is, so many religious groups have a doubt on Him and on His deity, because even the dirtiest among sinners would He receive. They doubt that He is the only Way and means towards reconciliation with God and that no other name under heaven given to mankind by which people must be saved (Acts 4:12).

Many among us still think that to have faith, they first need an image, forgetting what to Thomas the Lord Jesus had said, “Because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed” (John 20:29).

SPIELBERG AND US AND THEM

[January 28, 2013 at 9:31am] · 

From the first time I saw his “E.T.” many summers ago when right in Miagao Cultural Hall its silver screen was also unfurled, I made a personal vow I’d always follow all the succeeding films by Steven Spielberg. Since childhood I kept on hearing, personally, that blunt word “ugly”---now, you know why I’ve always an eye for a beauty?---so Spielberg didn’t know how that movie helped me psychologically, as, by human eye standard, such creature was ugly yet everybody then loved E.T.

That real beauty is marrow deep, I think in such movie too that I had it realized, like Ruffa did in her Miss World tilt reply: “What is essential is invisible to the naked eye.” Likewise, through Spielberg, the world came to know the talented Whoopi Goldberg. Watch her again in her portrayal in “The Color Purple” where in drama she’s either superb.

I remember too watching Steven’s holocaust three-and-half-hour drama “Schindler’s List,” which when I first saw it, right then, I immediately repeated. I would have been the most callous-hearted had I not felt what they’d been through, they, the Jews, God’s most beloved.

And after watching Friday night the bootleg copy of his latest “Lincoln,” no, not the vampire-slaying kind, I also wondered why he was snubbed for best director award by the Golden Globe’s brilliant minds. I hope though he’ll bag that prestigious plum comes 24th of February, right at the Oscars where the ones bestowing honors are his peers and colleagues themselves in the Academy.

In “Lincoln” you’d see that it pays to have a decisive leader. When wielded responsibly and conscientiously, nothing to fear of absolute power. But if you give that power to the kind of legislators we have today, then I warn you, be afraid, be very afraid, absolutely. Most of them believe that the only persons capable to run this country are only those from their own family, the rest are definitely nuisance and insignificant as they presumed others to be.

Now, tell me, will you still vote for their offspring, sibling and progeny, though the matriarchs and patriarchs did nothing but pillaging and raping this country? That absolute power to get rid of those men and women and to prevent them from shaming us further will be in our hands a little later as we’re going to choose again our next set of legislative and local leaders. Choose not for those with “gutter” character, chief of which, or one of whom, after he’d been left, said he thought he had the love of his wife in his pocket. Of course, he was wrong, as wrong as his lifetime belief that he has the love of all Filipino taxpayers in his wallet.

Therefore be reminded again that the fault lies not in the stars, dear voting Netizens, but in ourselves and in shading of circles that we are underlings.

POTPOURRI

January 27, 2014 at 12:57pm · 

When Dinagyang season, from opening salvo to its highlight end, hits Iloilo City with sunheat and not with rain, I could not help but remember likewise to sing my favorite chorus but edited version of a song from Asin:

“Hindi na masamâ ang pag-unlad at malayô-layô na rin ang ating narating; Ngunit masdan mo ang tao sa syudad dati kulay-asul ngayo’y naging itim.”

Yes, Virginia, ‘kulay-asul,’ it’s because Ilonggos are long considered to be brave and compassionate, without and within, a hallmark of true royal blooded but humble men and women. ‘Naging itim,’ it’s because of the Dinagyang organizers’ automatic road closure starting in the morning, people are forced to walk half of the city under their skin which the glaring sun would consequently inconsiderately blacken.

But who can argue with success? Dinagyang means gross riches. Riches from taxes, that is. But our paid tax, where is? Well, the price to pay—not in check or in cash—for progress naturally includes that. But until FOI is passed, no way we can ever trace that hardly paid tax. Again, where do our taxes go? This is where our taxes go: They say a big bulk go to some senators and such senators’ schemer, others go to their co-conspirators, bogus roads or foundations and a bridge to nowhere.

So, c’mon, taxpayers, this quarter, pay again your taxes. Together as one, we will fill again those thieves’ pockets. And come next election time, let us mindlessly vote for these senators again, so that when the ghosts of crooks past ask us if we’ve learned something, we can proudly say, “Never again!”

Never again, like the beautiful Maria Sharapova’s fate in this year’s Australian Open. I nearly wept with the dazed and confused dame after she lost the third set where she was badly beaten. No one can blame me for religiously rooting for her in any Grand Slam event. I’ve been following Maria and her grunt and swing like I do the sound of music since she was fourteen.

And speaking of fourteen, it was so frustrating too seeing Rafael Nadal failing last night to nail his Grand Slam Number Fourteen. It would have tied the Spaniard with the American great Pete Sampras for that magic number and inch closer to Federer with that win. But alas, his Swiss opponent was as sharp as a Swiss knife and so prepared obviously in denying Rafa another stab to history. Wawrinka’s balls were like laser-guided missiles in accuracy that his game-long brilliance melted whatever left in the World Number One player’s invincibility.

Well, the same with this thing called circle of life. We can never have it all, all of the time. The thing is, we should learn to acknowledge our God whether we’re on top of the world or half-buried in the ground. Just like the Apostle Paul who knew so well the highs and lows of life, showing his flexibility, knowing both how to be abased and how to abound (Philippians 4:12).

WHAT IF

(Authored on January 26, 2013 at 10:36am)

From the moment I chose my desired seat freely up to the time the bus left the terminal, I already kept myself busy. Busy in warding off buzzing and non-buzzing mosquitoes one of which thought she was a bee. That’s why those different folks of different strokes who got on board while we were stationary, not one of their faces did register in my mind initially.

Therefore I was shocked upon seeing a familiar face disembarking when we reached the town proper of Tigbauan. Yeah, I said shocked because it was exactly the same fresh face I often saw twenty years ago in “Pasahero Sosyal 1.” She too was a “suki” of the very first prototype of “Sosyal” during its introductory period. And she was always getting off at “Doctors” every morning with her variety of junk food.

For several times I had my eyelids pinched, just to believe what I saw, I quickly seized the moment. I scrutinized her pretty face looking for that unforgettable big mole near both eyes or between. I knew upon seeing it I’d start to believe that the fountain of youth is not a myth indeed. For how could one retain the same beauty and freshness after almost two decades?

When I saw no mole, I did suspect she had it removed through medical operation. Yet, would I blame those youthful curves, porcelain skin and baby face to an anti-ageing lotion? My problem was solved when after her, followed another woman looked a bit older but had still some shades of a stunner. She had the same facial features with the one much younger, except the mole between her glinting eyes, she was every inch her mother.

I remember I was then in my maiden year in the job, and the mother was a senior in nursing course she loved. I knew it because next to the windshield were her books I often saw, including the glaring one its title had the phrase “Iglesia Ni Kristo.” As my eyes followed the mother and daughter as they stepped down the bus holding each other, and walked away like sweet sisters, I couldn’t refrain myself from asking myself: What if I’d followed my previous plan to be a nurse chaser, and granting arguendo I became successful in having her, would we be getting the same daughter, or of lesser aesthetic visual more like her father?

Whatever, I’m certain I wouldn’t mind as I’m not a respecter of persons by any appearance they have. What I was scared of would be if I’d believe what they believe that the Son of Man is not God. And worst of all, I’d be told to isolate myself from eating the “unclean” like the ones crawling under the ocean. Therefore, I compelled myself to give up my heart’s desire to try charming a daughter of Tigbauan.

Besides, at the time, I wasn’t yet in serious search for “The One.” And I was THEN a sucker for “dinugu-an.”

A LONG AND LASTING LOVE

(Memories on January 24, 2014)

I think I’ve had mentioned in passing somewhere in here a story about her, many happy and sad posts ago which you did also endure, using for her another pseudonym even I could not recall anymore. I just remember her once more when Big Boss-A, not knowing I knew her for sure or that her path and mine crossed too in the not-so-distant past, nonchalantly talked about her sudden departure.

Let me liberally refer her here as Pretty Girl-C. Well, if I give someone a name I do make sure I give appropriately.

Big Boss-A, Cutie Boy-B, and Pretty Girl-C were classmates in a certain academic level one time or another but the last two were romantically closer. Long before Big Boss-A became a big boss even of an executioner, Cutie Boy-B and I were close roommates as only a thin pillow served as our divider. I came to know him only when I first arrived at our boarding house where I was assigned by our host in the same room with him where there were no open windows. In the beginning, I frowned upon his being too much in love with himself like Narcissus, but his enviable beauty and amiable attitude later made us no more strange bedfellows.

Cutie Boy-B was a bright boy but also a literal philosopher, or to be rude in a local dialect, “Pilosopo,” for the accurate term. Yet, to his antics, I would not squirm especially after learning that when it comes to love we’re both uncompromising and firm. Most of the time during the day he talked mostly nonsense or something hazardous to eardrum as we were both sorting morning chores while we would cram. But during the night, when the topic shifted to love, we’d always love to jam, seriously talking together at the same time as if tomorrow would never come.

And that was when I met Pretty Girl-C in his bedtime stories and in repeated emotional spins. Until her name in mind didn’t just ring a bell but it exploded well like “Goodbye Philippines.” Who would never know a girl totally inside out, when as you sleep and wake up it’s her life you keep hearing about? No wonder, long before I met Pretty Girl-C up close and personal, it felt like we were weaned together and grew up in time equal.

Albeit Cutie Boy-B didn’t reveal it to me in bed during the early stages of his tell-all tale and other fascinating gabs, I knew it right away in his first few words that his and Pretty Girl-C’s was just another story of the rise and fall of love. I did not bother to ask him anymore who was to blame between them for their bitter break-up, all I knew until he and I parted ways later too that Cutie Boy-B would be the one to suffer a long and lasting love.

And one Valentine’s day, when he requested me once and for all to deliver for him a bouquet of roses to Pretty Girl-C at her place of work in the city, I obliged with all my heart and saddled up to meet her in the flesh finally, knowing the loving feeling of a man who thought of nothing but one woman only. However, she didn’t accept herself the flowers which only on her table I placed. Maybe, some peace offering would not be acceptable in war even if they are roses. Maybe, some people believe some love lasts a lifetime, I just don’t know if hatred does too sometimes.

I felt sad of course when Big Boss-A did break the news Pretty Girl-C became another casualty of the Big C. I only hope Cutie Boy-B, who’s said to be based now in the duplicate land of milk and honey would find peace too finally.

As one song puts it, “A long and lasting love, not many people find it….” Unlike God’s love that never fails (I Cor. 13:8), a man’s love is always incomplete.

MY “MANINOY”

[January 7, 2013 at 9:58am]

A long time ago, The Preacher preached with these words so loudly which still hold true as they are being preached in the wilderness till today: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven. . . . A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away” (Ecclesiastes 3:1-6).

Truly, no event in a man’s life gives around so much pain than the one moment in time when there must be parting.

After faithfully serving the government for about three decades with all his best, last January 1st, effective immediately, my one and only known “Maninoy” in life finally called it quits.

Last Friday, I witnessed one if not the most heart-rending testimonial lunch program ever in sole honor of him, launched privately by his peers, wherein everybody in a sea of tears did swim. And it cemented my belief that all eloquence and mastery of prose and poetry would be poorly no match to the plain words coming out freely from the heart of the simple and the ordinary.

Had it not for “Maninoy” and his insistence to convince me to become a modern-day Philippines who’d do nothing but run and run, I’d end up probably in Erap’s allegory as someone who’d be “pupulutin na lang sa kangkungan.” When I imposed self-exile in Metro Manila more than two years after the first people power show, I vowed to myself never to return unless I’d be with me that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

But with his soft approach with the voice of an angel and gentle persuasion, I knew I had then to make once and for all a lifetime decision. Thus, “Maninoy” plucked me out of the planet of the unemployed, where wallets and pockets were like a newborn Earth: dark, without form and void. Of course, my Auntie Yet was reliable as ever and supportive of me together with T’yoy Nilo, but sometimes a man has got to do what a man has got to do.

Sometimes I wonder either, if comes the time of my turn to retire from service and retreat to my own sick bed, will there be tears too to shed by colleagues or they show festive mood and great revelry instead?

No words from me won’t be enough to thank you, yet, so long, “Maninoy,” farewell. May I’d be your living legacy in the service so well, someone who’ll retrace your blazing trail…

IT IS WELL

[Memories on January 10, 2013 at 5:52pm]

Last Sunday morning at the beach which is, from home, only twenty-five meters away plus a little more, while sitting on the pebbles along the shore, I enjoyed watching my little kids frolicking in the waters, in the sand, like we did exactly in the days of yore.

Initially, there were only the three of us, for it was already around seven or way past. Most of the regular strollers probably had left the beach early or still yet to dash. Suddenly my eyes darted again to the lone structure in a certain part of the sand area. To the unlearned, he would say it certainly is the Middle Earth’s version of a Straightened Tower of Pisa.

In troth and in fact, it is not. It is well, a condemned well. Not preserved by men but by time so well. The well looks as it is today because a big bulk of earth around it had been washed out to the sea. One could mistake it for a mini-lighthouse tower, a beacon for a seafarer, but it’s just a silent reminder for many unforgettable stories in our barrio in the past worth retelling over and over.

Back in the 60’s or much earlier, depending on whom you’re talking to, whether to a grossly exaggerated sentimentalist or a not sober gringo, that well was the lone source of water of residents in that part of Kirayan Norte now known as Zone Two.

I couldn’t imagine the many thirsts it quenched before it gave its final and last drop of water, the many bamboo poles and native jars it filled which the natives once used as a water container. But above it all, personally, to someone who still exists, the heart of the matter concerning the well is the matter of the heart it heard despite its deafness.

When I made a sign we’d go home by waving a hand, the kids were teasing each other and sprinting as they would come. I almost told them they must be thankful for some love that which had gone, else, they probably could be here in this world still but with a different mom.

So learn too to smile with the stories of life with memories of joy and the pain of past trials that anytime would come in part, in droves, in full. But you must be grateful more than ever to the Great Comforter who, whatever the tide, has taught you to say, “It is well with my soul.”

THE DRIVER

[Memories on January 11, 2013]

At the front seat of a city-bound bus with wide open doors, I was all alone there Thursday morning except its driver of course, when as we approached Baroc-Cabanbanan’s blind curve, the driver would still insist to overtake a jeepney thus steering us on collision course. I instantly expected an instant clash head-on, with anything on-rushing from the town of Oton. I was correct because as I gripped my seat’s backrest and paused, a private vehicle in front tiptoed along the left side of the road, and to sigh later on, “that was close!” 

From now on I promise I will firmly believe that most of the so-called vehicular “accidents” are definitely man-made. And I’m more convinced not only drugs and cigarettes kill, most fatally speaking, stupidity will.

I used to prefer a bus over PUJ’s in choosing my mode of transportation to and from the city daily because the latter, especially the “Sanwakinhin” or San Joaquin-route plyers, are most likely composed of Formula 1 winners and ambulance or firetruck drivers. Yeah, I’m scared of PUJ’s, that’s why. Riding on them I couldn’t have peace of mind. I couldn’t take either their words to live by: “Why go slow when you can fly.”

Everytime I meet drivers like the one in that bus who obviously knew nothing about responsibility, the more I heap praises and respect to my own father who drove PUJ for more than a third of a century. During my freshman year, when I skipped classes in my secondary course, after my mother’s signature in an excuse letter was forged, I couldn’t stay any longer in Tay Eking’s “bilyaran” with those gambling (“pusoy-bahig”) lords as someone would notice me and say, “Ay, dya bata ni George!”

It took me about two years or more in the town proper to be called by my name, as I was spontaneously referred to as “Bata Ni George” more often. Perhaps that identity crisis in life drove me to tread on the naughty road to “popularity,” since the academic excellence’s way was so overcrowded by the usual suspects from the celebrated and cerebral clans in our municipality.

However, I did it discreetly and within the ambit of minimum tolerance only. I didn’t mess around everywhere in the town openly for fear that bad reports would reach Tatay any time of day. Why not? Miagao jeepney drivers were known by and knew everybody then, besides, he was driving for the public eversince. He steered them all with the same diligence, from Armak to Cimarron which he both ran like a Benz, even all the way from the buses Master Mariner Express by Lolo Jose Nim’s and Tay Kasyâ Noviza’s Miagao Student Prince. 

My only goal at the time was to get out of the shadow of that tag, “Bata Ni George” with burning desire and strong will as if it was my ultimate dream in life to fulfill. As time went by, the more I realized I could never overshadow my father still, regardless of any achievement, even when he was later known as, “Tatay Ni Ramil.”