Channeling Frost

   
    About two weeks ago, my mom and I went with my grandmother, my sister and her friends to Boracay.  Because of pressing concerns back home, most of our companions left for Aklan a day ahead, leaving my mom and me to catch up with them in New Washington, Aklan by the next morning.  This we surely did and by 5:45 A.M., I was backing our light blue mini SUV out the driveway with my mother in the front seat and my snorkeling gear all snug and secure in my overnight bag in the luggage compartment.  As I drove away from our street into the main thoroughfares, I was filled with visions of white sand, cool seawater and hours of bonding time with "a whole new world" that came to existence with about two to three hours of snorkielling just off the shore of Crocodile Island.

    It was just my mom, me and Kami (my iPod) playing Sara Bareilles as I sped past Jaro, Leganes, Zarraga and Pototan on that clear, cool morning.  We usually take the bus whenever we go to Boracay so that no one has to worry about driving all the way to Aklan although one has to contend with the steady stream of grainy Steven Seagal movies (and they don't even show "Under Siege") and the requisite stops in almost every town for bathroom breaks.  So what I usually do is find a good seat near the window, prop up my fluffy jacket on one side of my head and lull off to sleep until we get to the Caticlan Jetty Port.

    So while I sat behind the wheel on that morning, I realized that in all of my trips to Aklan, I had come to ignore the beauty of the countryside.  The trees lined the roadside like silent, proud sentinels, the mountains glowed purple in the horizon and the ricefields stretched like an endless verdant mass.  "It's so nice here," I kept on telling my mom.  The sight was all together familiar yet different, much like a steaming mug of chocolate in a coffeeshop in the side of town you don't usually frequent.

    Despite previous days literally pummelled by rain, the sun finally shone in its full glory on that morning, a big yellow ball resplendent in its corner of the sky.   That was the way it was as I drove out of the city and into the neighboring towns until I got to Passi, a relatively quiet, hilly town with roads that seemed to roll up and down and slightly meandered from one side to another.  As a matter of fact when the car or bus is going pretty fast, one gets the same tummy tickling sensation that comes with sudden plane drops or riding a huge, fast-rotating ferris wheel.

    Thick fog had enveloped much of Passi and had settled into the road, leaving only a few meters in front of me visible.  In a matter of seconds, the fog had engulfed us in an embrace that was pleasantly suffocating and seemed to have transported us into some English countryside inhabited by the likes of either sinister Heathcliff or pleasant Molly of Elizabeth Gaskell's "Wives and Daughters."  My momentary morphing was interrupted by the sight of little children running down the road in their sleeveless shirts, cotton shorts and rubber slippers - clothing that obviously would lead to hypothermia in some far-off English countryside.

   The fog drifted towards the car much like formless ghosts which temporary sojourned with my mother, Kami (still with Sara Bareilles) and me in the car's cabin as the vehicle plowed into their mass which offered no resistance.  More trees lined the sidewalk and though there was no way they gave the impression of being in the middle of the woods, the low visibility caused by the fog seemed to make a good suggestion that I just do post-production and editing using my imagination.  I immediately felt like the speaker in Robert Frosts's "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" as the surroundings were slowly plunged into some kind of darkness with the trees offering quite a refuge from the sunlight's pathetic onslaught.  I wanted to stop the car and take a walk, albeit a quick one.  I was debating on whether or not I should pull over, bring out my camera and take a few shots.  However, much like the speaker in the poem, no matter if the roadside appeared to be "woods...lovely, dark and deep," stopping would mean spending some time off the road even if I had kilometers to go before I got to my destination.  So I snapped a couple of shots with my phone camera from the windshield just so I could have some sort of remembrance of the sight I found quite enchanting.

    So I drove on without stopping until the fog had slowly dissipated and without me realizing it, the road in front of me was clear and my surroundings were sunny again.  On hindsight, it seemed to have been a good idea to stop.  In fact, it seemed like the perfect thing to do at a rare time like that.  I promised myself I would stop on the way back even when I knew there was no reassurance that the place would once again be smothered with fog on my way back or that the same eerily comforting feeling would permeate the surroundings. But who could stop when there were still miles to cover, people to meet or deadlines to beat?  When I first read that poem about fifteen years ago, I had been so sure that if were in the position of the speaker in Frosts's poem, I would stop with no hesitation.  Turns out, I would not.

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
(by Robert Frost)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

The Agony in Waiting

    Violence has never made sense.  The senselessness is so absolute that the question "why" has never appeared more puny or dwarfed by incompetence.  About three weeks after the grenade explosion in Taft Avenue that left more than 40 people injured, including two female law students who had to lose their limbs, the question still remains unanswered, like an ugly finger persistently lodged and probing with frustration against one's belly.  I was driving home alone on Wednesday about two weeks ago, after a long day of interviewing witnesses for a case I was handling for legal aid.  When I switched on the radio, the first thing I heard was the sobbing voice of Raissa Laurel's father and the sights and sounds of September 26th came rushing back to me.  I texted my friends, the very ones who stood beside me on that cloudy afternoon with the rest of the contingent from my law school.  I was disturbed and was grappling for answers.

    The Salubong is law school tradition.  It's what law students, professors and most especially the bar examinees look forward to after four weeks of living a high-strung existence.  It's that time of the month when Starbucks Torre Lorenzo, McDonald's La Salle, Jollibee Vito Cruz and other food establishments in the area experience an immediate spike in sales.  It's that time of the year when Taft Avenue bursts into all sorts of colors - maroon, red, blue, yellow and all other kinds of shades - and the somber mood that has settled into the La Salle area is finally exorcised almost literally by the booming drums and the steady, maddening cheers of classmates, friends and family members.  It is the time to extol the values hard work, perseverance, patience and excellence.  It is the time to  celebrate friendship and the strong support system that law schools have always been known for.

    That was what I came out there to do in the afternoon of September 26, in that little patch of concrete marked on every side by maroon-colored string and adorned with the white-and-maroon flaglets.  My parents stood farther off near the gates of La Salle so that they could be among the first to greet my sister.  Our law school contingent was almost beside the San Beda Law group in the portion of the street fronting McDonald's and since I had been in schizophrenic mode the entire September, I figured I was lucky enough to be standing in an area which would allow me to greet my sister when she came out and, at the same time still be stuck with my school colors.  The University of San Agustin from Iloilo City had flown in Dinagyang drummers (arguably the best bunch of pounders and percussionists in that street) and with their steady, rhythmic beat, the street party mood was completely palpable.

Flags and balloons were waving in the air with frenzied anticipation.  Cha, Da, Apple and I were getting our faces painted, no, emblazoned with our obvious affiliation.  Every now and then, I'd get squirted by cold beer courtesy of a bunch of students who were spraying each other with pilsen and as the frothy liquid ran down my hair and my back, the last thing in my mind was taking a shower.  A couple of meters away, more beer was flying off into the air like Ye Old Faithful amidst shouts, laughter and deafening cheers.  The drums were getting louder by the minute and every now and then, I would glance at my watch to check the time. 

    At around 5 PM, it was almost impossible to hear myself.  The Pep Squad drummers were pounding so hard into their instruments that my heart gave a thud with every beat that resonated.  We had been cheering so hard I heard my voice break a couple of times already.  It was a matter of time before the bar examinees would make their grand exit.  We would then meet them with the loudest whistles, cheers, hoots, yelling and screaming that our already flailing voiceboxes could muster.  As they would make their way out, we would shout as loud as we possibly could.  We would wave our flaglets and balloons into the air like prized war booties.  We would be giving away hugs to everyone and no one then would have the right to feel upset at the end of the day. 

    That was the gameplan before the explosion.  Initially, I thought it was a drum that had been pounded really, really hard by someone as humongous as Gargantuan.  But then, no drum would ever sound that loud and would end with an almost evil, razor-sharp rip.  Neither would it send a slight wave of air or a rumble in the ground that my legs and feet obviously felt.  It wasn't a drum and it obviously was too loud to be a gunshot.  A wave of chill shot up through my spine when I realized that the Salubong, the yearly tradition that law schools look forward to, the celebration that was to extol excellence, persistence and friendship, had just been bombed.

    People started pushing and falling back and as I replayed the sound of the blast ripping through the air, I began to move away from Taft Avenue, anticipating that there would be another explosion somewhere.  There was a lot of jostling, a lot of heaving, a lot of screaming, a lot of shrieking as people began to yell for help while others would shout for the crowd to calm down and to stop pushing so that no one would get hurt in a stampede.  I could feel my phone vibrating in my bag but my hands were held captive by the crowd pressing into my arms, back and chest that I had to lift my chin up so that I could at least get some air.  I finally got an opportunity to squirm my hand into my bag and when I answered the phone, my mother was screaming into my ear, "Where are you?  Are you okay?" in rapid bratatat I could barely manage to interject an "I'm all right" into the steady stream. 

    It almost felt shameful, selfish even, to answer "I'm all right."  Not when blood was scattered in Taft Avenue, blood of law students like me who had come to Taft Avenue for the same purpose - to extol the values of excellence, hard work and persistence, to celebrate friendship and the strong support that law schools had always been known for, to cap off the horrendous month that had been September with a night of revelry.  To say "I am all right" would mean that someone else had gotten hurt, instead of me.    Everywhere I looked, people were in a state of shock, huddled in little groups as they tried to make sense of what happened.  The girls behind me who had been dousing each other with beer had settled into a stupor, hair strands slightly stiff and dripping as the only remnants of the festive atmosphere which had engulfed Taft Avenue only moments later.  I could barely make out images of people running along Taft Avenue.  Everyone had the same look of utter disbelief and shock in their faces.

    I moved out of  our group to look for my parents and my mother was obviously immensely relieved to see me.  My sister came out through a small passageway near the La Salle gate.  She herself looked surprised and confused, saying that most of the people she saw who were being wheeled in stretchers or carried by rescuers were her friends from San Beda.  They were clad in their identical black sorority T-shirts and it did not make sense to see them sobbing and bloodied when this was supposed to be a time of celebration.  She was in the verge of tears when she saw flowers strewn all over Taft Avenue, flowers that were meant to be handed to them the moment they stepped out into the street like victorious conquerors.  I looked at the street which was now cordoned off by a police line and populated by bomb squad personnel who were sifting through mounds of deflated balloons, plastic bags, cake boxes and other random things which were scattered  in the street.  Who were the conquerors now?  Definitely none of us.  We had just been conquered easily, swiftly, by a box containing an explosive (supposedly a fragmentation grenade) which had been thrown by hands belonging to an unidentified face.

    Violence never made sense and it never will.  That is what makes the entire situation more painful, especially in the light of the 40-plus students who suffered shrapnel injuries and the two female law students who had to be amputated, two young women whose lives will be changed forever, who would need an extra battery of faith and courage to move forward and to continue pursuing their dreams of getting that "Atty." prepended to their names.  They had done nothing wrong.  In fact, they had been working so hard, tirelessly, for the past month in making sure that their barristers were well-fed, that their needs were taken care of, that they had to worry about nothing else except their exams.  And now, this.

    The person (or people, for that matter) who hatched this plan, who hurled that ticking time bomb into the crowd, has to pay.  The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who do not even have the slightest hint of regard for the life and safety of others.  The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who have absolutely no sense of right and wrong and whose perspectives are so skewed that lobbing an explosive into a throng of students is not disturbing enough to keep him awake all through the night.  The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who are not man enough to stand up for their acts.  The legal profession does not deserve and does not need this brand of cowards who walk around with their tails slithered between their legs.  The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who will further degrade its tarnished image and will give society more reason to fuel its love-hate tango with the legal realm.  These are people who will not fight for the rule of law.  In fact, they are the ones who will pound the very life and soul out of its sinews.  Their acts on that afternoon of September 26th are enough to warrant their utter depravity and their adherence to lawlessness and utter disregard for the system that tries to somehow maintain peace and order in society. 

    Up until now, however, no one has been made responsible for this act.  Despite the supposed full-force of the law hunting down their heels or the amount of P1.2 million hanging over their no one has yet been made accountable.  While we wait for the perpetrators to be identified and dragged out of their hiding holes, sunrise and sunset continues in a steady stream for those who were injured by the bomb explosion.  Most, I suppose, are starting to move on with their lives in the hopes that the shrapnel wounds would fade with time and eventually disappear.  But what of those who sustained permanent, more obvious and life-altering injuries, those that will never fade with time and will never ever disappear?  They need and they deserve a reason to continue to believe in the justice system that they yearn and continue to work so hard to be a part of.  If the system cannot protect the very people who seek to be its sentinels, then we really are in deep trouble.

Twenty-Seven

It's almost 10 in the evening, about two hours more before I officially turn 27 on June 27th. :) My best friend Doi always thought that the birthday a person should look forward to is the one which coincides with the day of his birth. After all, she was the one who chose to have a party when she turned 19 on April 19, 2002. I liked the idea and I thought that I should do the same myself. My plans are still underway because they were railroaded by other more pressing concerns (such as my Lolo's hospitalization and eventual passing) but for the meantime, I'd like to write about something I started drawing up last year, a few days after I turned 26. I finally completed it two nights ago, when I was lying in bed, sandwiched by my two fat pillows.

This is a list of thoughts entertained, beliefs adhere to and lessons learned - all in the span of the 27 years I've been in physical existence. It is a list of pertaining to experiences which are either too beautiful to write about or too painful to clearly illustrate. Our walk in this world is, after all, a balancing act between the things which give us joy and those which give us sorrow. It is a medley of notes which are either spot-on or hang in that area of the musical staff known as a sharp,a flat or an absolute off-key. But then I've always stood pat on my belief that happiness is more than an emotion. It is a choice that one makes - that no matter how the world conspires (as Paolo Coelho puts it in "The Alchemist") to make your life a chugging, miserable choo-choo train, it is still your choice in the end to realize that the misery can never ever take away the sheer joy of life's ultimate joyride.

My List of 27

1. Never be afraid to admit you do not know something.
The ramifications are really scary if you don't come out clean about your ignorance. Just think, a lot of roadside accidents or plane crashes are traced to human error. And these are people who (supposedly) know what they're doing. To admit not knowing something allows for a lot of honesty and humility to come in. It also leaves enough space for #2 to come in.

2. Life always gives you second chances.
It was my 25th birthday and I was called to recite for my Nego class. My teacher asked me to talk about a case which he had not assigned for the class to read. As I was waiting for the earth to open up and swallow me whole, I apologized and told the professor I had not read the case. He told me to sit down and as I listened to about five other classmates recite one case after another, all I could think about was how nice a big, fat, red "5" would look like on my recitation card opposite the date June 27. All of a sudden, my teacher asked to stand again and he made me recite another case - one I had studied the night before. Then he made me recite another one...and another one...and another one. By the end of the class, the "5" had obviously disappeared.

3. Focus on what is here and now and not on what is to be expected.
Sometimes, we need to be like horses with blinders with our eyes and mind focused on one particular thing at a particular time. That's the best way to come up with a pretty good job. Otherwise we would never get any work done. Besides, whatever should happen next week or next year is anticipatory. The snake that is presently coiled at your feet could easily sink its teeth in your leg RIGHT NOW.

4. Life is like traveling down an open road.
Overused but absolutely true, especially when you're driving. The scenery can change and so can the sky. Everything can pass you by in a blur unless you choose to walk at a slower pace. Keep your eyes on the road all the time as you don't know what can immediately dart across. You don't exactly know who or what you can meet as you take every step.

5. You can be useful when you choose to.
It is all a matter of awareness, sensitivity and a sense of responsibility. Step up and take the challenge because there is a lot of work to be done. Your choice: idleness or productivity.

6. Wake up when the alarm sounds.
The "snooze" button will eventually fall off and you'll need to buy a new alarm clock.

7. Learn to deal with Murphy's Law but be prepared for surprises.
Manage your risks so that when the worst possible things happen in the worst possible time, you've got some skin left to save. When push comes to shove, it is important not o lose your cool (or your perspective). Surprises come but they may not always be bad. Good ones make an appearance too - like an invitation from my friend to be her maid of honor (in a wedding she was to have in FINLAND!) when I was in the middle of charming my way out of entering the wrong U-turn slot.

8. Be happy with what you have. Don't focus on the black spot in a white wall.
There is so much space to write on so get on with that. The spot can eventually make a good punctuation mark.

9. There can be no such thing as needless worrying from a mother's perspective.
My mother hates it when I'm out late, when I'm watching a movie alone, when I'm serving court orders in the middle of nowhere, when I'm munching street food in a hawker's stall in a foreign land, when I'm stuck in a flood, when I'm being quiet and even when I'm planning to go diving with whale sharks in Donsol. "Just think, they're not just whales or just sharks. They're WHALE SHARKS. They might eat you." No matter how hilarious it may seem that her anxieties have made her imagination as complex as a taxidermist's textbook, I have to admit it has to be a natural thing. "What out when you're a mother yourself," she tells me. I have a feeling she's right - again.

10. Find the song that's perfect for you.
There's so much to sift through in finding that perfect tune to headline your life's soundtrack - melody, lyrics, pitch, your voice quality, your limits, your good points, your perfect avenue of expression. I think I've found mine in The Carpenters' "You." Keep in mind, though, that this criteria shouldn't just be applicable to songs.

11. Thank God for friends. Be even more thankful for family.
No man is an island, really. If I didn't have friends, I seriously would be insane. My friends are always there for me and I never need to face anything alone. If I didn't have family, I'd be a lot worse. Family sticks to you no matter what, no matter how adhesive-unfriendly your skin has become.

12. Know when to stop - and really do it even if it involves a lot of false starts.
We all need to let go of some things or pull the plug on certain endeavors. Writing "fine" prematurely may be very difficult since reality and hopefulness are quite difficult to balance as well. Once you've got one foot out the door, the rest will eventually follow. Don't castigate yourself if you sometimes take a couple steps back. It's all a part of the process. If you come crawling back in the same door you left, then we really do have a problem.

13. Work really hard to get what you want.
It feels absolutely great to wrap your fingers around something you have bled for to the point of being anemic pale. Really.

14. You don't have to be tough all the time. A little vulnerability is okay.
I am still working on this but if toughness means clamming up and vulnerability means the exact opposite, then a little vulnerability is okay. Vulnerability is essential in relationships and females are relationship-based.

15. Be generous with encouragement, be prudent with constructive criticism. Shut up if you have nothing useful to say.
Foot-in-mouth disease is a struggle for me but people need to be hoisted up when needed and brought down to earth a bit when they've ingested too much helium. Words can both heal and kill. That's a lesson I continue to learn each day.

16. Do not allow anyone to make you feel bad about yourself. Be comfortable with your own skin. And, yes, geeks rule.
So sue me for loving "The Princess Diaries." Learning to love yourself is in no way the greatest love of all but it is crucial to any person's happiness. Work on your weaknesses but build on your good points and for the other areas of your person which will never improve no matter what you do, accept them as an integral part of yourself, your own unique seal which makes you...you. And, yes, I am proud to be a sci-fi-obsessing, literature-downing, tech-loving geek.

17. Every day is going to be the best day of your life.
Because every day is never going to be like the last or the next.

18. God will always be God. The problem is, we like to share the driver's seat with him. Have faith.
God is sovereign and we need to let Him take control and to lead us where to go. When we choose to hand the reins over to him, let him be the Sole Driver. After all He, not "He-Man" is the true Master of the Universe.

19. Forgiving is very, very tough. Forgetting shouldn't be tougher.
It is quite hard to forgive, especially when it's people you love the most who hurt you. But once forgiveness has taken place, forgetting should come naturally because the peace that comes with forgiveness overrides the pain which comes with the memory. When you tell someone you have forgiven him, you should really mean it.

20. Share yourself with others. It's the best thing you can do with your life.
I make it through the toughest of times because many people have chosen to share their lives and their time with me. I (hope to) have been changed because of their presence in my life and it is my way of giving back, of paying it forward. And it's not because I think highly of myself that I should share myself with the world or with other people. It's because a lot of people need that slightest indication that they have not been forgotten.

21. Everyone is entitled to some measure of vanity.
So what if I fuss a little too much over my hair more than any other part of my face? It's naturally puffy!

22. Everyone has to have at least one Stevie Wonder song in any playlist.
This guy has the best pipes in my opinion. I have 36 but "I Wish" tops the list. Why doesn't anyone sing like him anymore?

23. Don't pass judgment on other people immediately. Every person has a good side and a bad side. It all depends on how much of either you can tolerate.
It's very easy to compartmentalize people, shove them into boxes or drop them into two neat categories. The truth is, most, if not all, people do not fit perfectly into our little dioramas. There are a lot of factors which need to be factored into understanding what makes a person tick, what makes him laugh out loud, what makes him as red as a balloon with anger, what makes him sing in the shower. Reading people is one of the best things about being alive and every person is an entity of beauty.

24. Exercise.
Aside from the physical benefits of exercising, nothing beats the feeling of one's heart beating so hard in your ribcage you could almost see it thumping its way out of your chest. Those are the moments - when my face is red, my breath is coming out in gasps and my chest is heaving - that I feel absolutely alive. I started running last year and I sometimes do the treadmill but I still love swimming and cycling.

25. Always be thankful.
The world needs to hear more "thank you's" coming around. To be honest about it, we don't really deserve many of the best things we have in our lives so we should be grateful for what we have on our laps.

26. Say what you need to say. Leave no room for "if."
My grandfather died a month ago. I listened to his shallow breathing and as his heart rate plummeted to zero, I went up to him, kissed his forehead, said "I love you, Lolo" and smiled at him. I did not know if he could still hear me as he was heavily sedated but I felt no heaviness in my chest. The "I love you" was not for his benefit or mine. It was nothing but mere surplusage because in his lifetime, I had told him everything I needed to tell him, I had said everything I had to say, I had done everything that needed to be done to show him much he was loved and he, in turn, had heard and felt everything he should have felt and heard. The saddest word in the English language, according to my Labor professor, is the word "if." Short, two letters but is both heavy and haunting.

27. Love God, love Him with your whole heart and soul.
My God is my cornerstone. Because He is good, He is holy, He is perfect, He is true and He is wise, there is every reason to love him with my whole heart and soul. But aside from His perfect character, I love my God because He loves me in a way that exceeds everyone else's ability. His love transcends anything - time, space and all the puny fortresses I've built in my imaginary fiefdom.

If Only There Were More Words for "Thank You"

It has been 34 days since the first of a series of devastating squalls hit my family, leaving all of us like broken compasses spinning wildly. I have always been assured that the True North will always be found despite the compass's seeming confusion; thus, that question is never left unresolved. It is more of confronting the issue of where to go next, what direction to take, how each day is like a looming monster to be taken down or enslaved. Every day for the past 34 days, I attempted to find at least some semblance of a downtime where I could sit and write about everything that was laid before me. Writing, after all, is something I find very therapeutic in the midst of all this upheaval but I go through my head and all I find is a mess - a tumble of fear, sadness, uncertainty and even utter disbelief that still leave me grasping at the emptiness. Until I poke through that muddle and some clarity befalls me, I find I must settle some things which need to be given priority. And one of those things which need to given that priority is an expression of gratitude.

"Kabalaslan" (loosely translated as "debt of gratitude") was a Hiligaynon word I often heard my Lolo Deting utter when he was alive. He constantly reminded me to be thankful for anything and everything and to make sure that there should be a corresponding expression or manifestation of that thankfulness. Because of "kabalaslan," thankfulness was always profuse and evident during his lifetime. Because of "kabalaslan," he was sometimes wounded or disappointed but more often than not, it gave him so much joy - not because it was an expectation he nursed but because it came randomly in little boxes called surprises. It was never an elixir for him. Instead, it was a form of encouragement to continue to think of himself less and to help others more. My Lolo definitely was not perfect and there were a lot of aspects of his character which needed some work but in terms of giving thanks and appreciation, he had given that trait a whole new meaning.

I am not writing this to hoist him in a pedestal of heroism because, in all humility and honesty, he was your average Joe. Plainly, I write with so much admiration because he simply meant so much to me. So from a very grateful grand daughter who sorely misses her doting grandfather, I would like to rattle off my thank you list.

To my Lolo's many doctors, especially Dr. Juaneza, Dr. Danucop, Dr. Jardeleza, Dr. Bito-onon, Dr. Jurao, Dr. Nadala, Dr. Bayona and Dr. Gopio, thank you so much for everything you did for my grandfather and for being there during the most crucial of times, standing beside us even in the wee hours of the morning. Your strength of spirit gave us hope in the moments when we desperately needed some form of light at the end of the tunnel but your gentle candor gave us the courage to be realistic and to start letting go. You were not just mere physicians to him; you were there for him as a friend.

Thank you so much to the medical residents who attended to Lolo and often had to deal with a host of very frantic and very emotional family members - Dr. Anico, Dr. Salazar, Dr. Prudente, Dr. De Asis, Dr. Lim, Dr. Lee and Dr. Castillo. I do apologize for the times I panic and call you directly, causing you some form of inconvenience. Your patience, calmness and genuine concern are all greatly appreciated and I do hope you will all become very successful specialists in the near future. May you never lose that sensitive human touch which makes expertise in the field medicine less than academic excellence and more of a valuable gift.

I would like to express my gratitude to the IDH nurses and staff, especially to Medeline, April, Leslie, Gerwin, Van, Fatima, Maricor, Joan, Chen and Charene. You all became a part of our day-to-day activities and have made indelible imprints not only in our hearts but in my Lolo's as well. Thank you for the attention you gave Lolo Deting in his most critical hours and for catering to his little requests such as giving him freshly squeezed juice or washing his hair. You all somehow eased Lolo's burden with your gentleness and your genuine laughter. I will certainly miss you all and hope that I will meet up with you again in less strenuous and non-medical related conditions.

I am extremely thankful to Dr. Soriano and the team of physical therapists in the Rehabilitation Medicine department. A very special shoutout goes to to Lani, Lemuel, Sir Archie and Manang Rosella's little bro Nonoy. :) I am not sure if you realize how much joy you all gave Lolo during his rehab sessions. He enjoyed talking about what he did in rehab everyday (I sure could say you also felt the same way) and he always looked forward to your daily sessions. You helped him deal with and accept his paralysis without completely dashing his spirit, for allowing him to bask in the heat of the sunshine without letting him feel the sting. Thank you for giving him so much love, for your patience when his temper started flaring up and for your creativity and good humor which never failed to make my Lolo laugh.

To Pastor Sharon Duremdes, Jaro Evangelical Church, St. Luke Sub-Circuit ministers, their respective churches and their families, Manay Felina, Manong Deo, the Quimpos, the Maderas, the Aplaons and the rest of our prayer warriors - thank you so much for the spiritual support you gave Lolo and our family. Thank you for praying with and for Lolo when he was in pain and when he was discouraged. To my discipler Ate Carol, Ate Shei, Venice and to my surrogate mothers, ates and kuyas in Harvest - your spiritual wisdom certainly made the very heavy journey lighter. Thank you for not sugarcoating the reality that I was bound to lose someone very important to me while giving me the courage to accept that inevitability with arms wide open. Thank you everyone for the constant reminder that our bodies are imperfect and are meant to waste away and die. Thank you for reminding us not to hold on to anything including our broken dreams so that God could properly put them back together again. Thank you for helping us not to forget us that God is good, that God is in control and that God is, and always will be, God.

Lolo devoted a huge chunk of his life to ILIASCO and I am very thankful to every member of his ILIASCO family who gave their support, sympathies and encouragement. I appreciate your efforts to share your time with our family during his wake - from singing for him for the last time up to staying up all night (well, at least, trying to stay up all night) on the eve of his burial. Lolo Deting loved you all very much and I am quite grateful for all the love you had given him in return.

To our many relatives who had supported us in a variety of ways, especially the Rojas-Espinosas, the Tupas-Rojases and the Rojas-Jalandoons, your efforts are greatly appreciated. Thank you for pulling us in the right direction and thank you for giving us numerous shoulders to cry on. Thank you for your encouragement and thank you for making us realize the real value of family. To the Villanuevas, thank you so much for your unexpected gift. We indeed felt the love even if seas have to be crossed and datelines have to be traversed. Special thanks to Tita Marie, Tita Bebing, Tita Diutay and Tita Luz who stood by us when we were at our most helpless, who prayed with us when we were at our loneliest and who stayed by our side and Lolo's side as well when we were all at our weakest and our most vulnerable. There was a rather odd mix of both deep-rooted sorrow and profound peace when we watched Lolo's heartbeat drop to zero in the midst of Tita Bebing's prayer of commitment and an impromptu medley of old Baptist hymns but thank you so much, Tita, for giving Lolo that beautiful farewell gift before his last heartbeat. I am extremely grateful to Nene Heartie and TIta Kang who took charge of the physical arrangement and logistics of the funeral and the wake in Taguhangin. Thank you for working tirelessly for Lolo despite the extreme heat in the daytime and the torrential rains at night. Thank you for helping us do the myriads of things which needed our attention and yet completely forgot. As you will know, grief has a numbing, disorienting effect on one's sense and grief of this intensity certainly has left us bewildered. Thank you so very much for everything and for giving us our newest hairy bundle of joy. The Rojas-Jalando-on brood's support and visit is also something which brought us happiness and comfort in the midst of sorrow. It was a joy to have bonded with you all, especially my long-lost cousins, even for a short period of time. Thank you, Manong Francis Neil and Tito Amsil Alubog, for accepting our invitation to participate in Lolo's vigil services and in his funeral service as well.

Thank you to our many, many friends who made their support known - whether physically or virtually, verbally or musically, via mass cards, texts, emails or even Facebook comments. I am very grateful to everyone who took the time out to be in Lolo's wake despite the rather bipolar nature of the weather. We are also very thankful to all those who sent us gifts, flowers and food. All your efforts are greatly appreciated by my family. Bad, I know I text you a million times a day and I understand how busy you are but I appreciate your responses (no matter how late), your medical explanations and assessments (no matter how frank) and your friendship. Doi (and Betty and Tita Tess), thank you for simply being there. Your physical presence was something I greatly valued and I totally appreciated the effort you made in coming to the funeral despite the distance. A special thank you goes out to the Kabayao family - Tito Gil, Tita Cora, Manang Selien, Far and Gil. In his lifetime, Lolo Deting really loved to hear you play and I express my sincere gratitude in affording him and our family the privilege and honor of another beautiful performance not only during his wake but also during his funeral. I am so thankful to you, Manang Ched (Maquilay), for being a strong pillar of support to our family during this time of trial. Thank you for all the time you spent in taking care of Lolo even if you didn't have to. Your gift - a writing tablet - is something we greatly appreciate and value. We had many wonderful conversations with Lolo using that writing tablet, even if such conversations would eventually be our last. Your gentleness of spirit and sincerity of heart certainly make you one extremely wonderful person, the kind that is quite hard to come by in these current times.

To everyone who pitched in and helped us in the 12 days of Lolo's wake - from cooking to cleaning up to doing the dishes - thank you, thank you, so very much! Thank you for doing this for Lolo and for our family. Your contributions have been indispensable and have allowed us to focus on other things also. On our own, everything would have been an utter mess. Thank you for doing for us and for the guests everything else that we failed to do. Thank you for loving Lolo both in life and in death and I pray that God may richly bless you a hundredfold in your respective lifetimes.

As I said earlier, my mind is a muddle and I may have forgotten a number of people and I do apologize for the slip. However, I still remain as I am - thankful, grateful and very much overwhelmed by the display of love for my late grandfather and the expression of support for my family. I do hope to be able to show my gratitude in a manner more tangible at some point in the future but for now, please accept my humblest thanks. Thank you for opening your hearts to our sorrow and for giving us so many reasons to smile despite the sadness and uncertainty that our loss has dealt. May life be as good to you all as you were to us.

This rosary was a gift for my Lolo from his favorite therapist Lani.
It now hangs on the rearview mirror of the car I drive,
a constant reminder of how much my Lolo was loved in his lifetime.

What the Black Box Brought

My mom and I were in the mall about three weeks ago buying take-out food when she told me she had something to show me because I supposedly "know a lot about gadgets."

My eyes immediately lit up. "Really?" In my mind I was thinking of iPod speakers or, better yet, a 3D TV. Just think, endless hours of "Avatar."

"Yes," she said, half-dragging me through a row of pastel-colored silicon mitts. "I'm thinking of getting a mini oven." Not an oven toaster or a microwave oven. A real oven.

Play the "oven timer ting."

I immediately gave her my best blank, puppy-dog, Miss Emma Pillsbury stare. An oven was in no way going to fall within the category of "gadget." It belonged to a totally different classification. And, besides, I've never really denied that my cooking skills are Flinstone-primitive although I have tried my best to at least come up with something edible during Christmas dinner. So I really was the wrong person to ask about anything related to the kitchen.

With a lot of text-help from Anissa, one of the best baking experts I know, we finally selected a small, very cute electric oven which also came with a rotisserie. My love-hate relationship with that little black box began on the night we brought it home and stripped it of the bubble wrap and the stryrofoam padding. It sat on the marble counter beside the rice cooker, practically begging to be used by anyone in the house who wanted to be Betty Crocker in a nice pink apron. It didn't help that my parents both half-prodded, half-coerced me to "make something."

My first joint project with Mom was Shepherd's Pie, thanks to a winning recipe we got from Manang Beluna. The ingredients and other utensils were ready, all laid out before us. Our first batch of testers, the ones who would be subjected to either the agony or satisfaction of consuming the meat pie, were also staving off hunger - my dad and my grandparents. Manang Beluna guided us all the way, promptly replying to my texts for what I felt were the silliest of questions. Soon after, when the ground beef was now sitting prettily under the weight of creamy mashed potatoes, mom and I felt like real cooking experts. I took out the first batch after the potatoes had browned rather nicely, wrapped the pan in aluminum foil and drove to the hospital with my nice, warm package sitting in the front seat. Sure enough, the Shepherd's Pie was met with rousing applause in my grandfather's hospital room although I promised myself I'd add mushrooms next time. But the positive response further stimulated my enthusiasm to make something else in my little black gem of a mini oven.

Mom's first solo project was a success as well. Two days later, she made her own version of tuna casserole using the Shepherd's Pie recipe as a model. Instead of using ground beef, she used a can of tuna and added other bits and pieces to the mixture. Instead of mashed potato, she smothered the casserole with mozzarella cheese which I found to be a winner. I wish she nixed the green peas and added more corn kernels and tuna. But we disagreed on the presence of - believe it or not - hotdog bits on the casserole. I was telling her how odd, misplaced and even sacrilegious it was for fish casserole to have any semblance of meat in it. It simply didn't taste right! She looked at me from across the table with her "I'm-your-mother-so-you-can't-do-anything-about-hotdogs-in-the-tuna-casserole" look and spooned more of the food into her plate.

My first solo project with the oven was interesting. I dug up a very old, very basic beginner's recipe of chocolate cake using mayonnaise (thus ditching the entire folding of eggs and shortening process). It was pretty easy to do and was rather straightforward. When I finally pushed the baking pan into the oven with the batter inside, set the temperature and timer and watched as my little brown baby began to rise like a circus tent, I almost felt like an expert. The feeling poofed into nothingness when I realized that the cake was indeed rising but only the center part of it did so that what I had was a dirt-colored plateau. Uh-oh. My dad walked out when I was putting chocolate-butter cream icing on the..um…cake and asked me if he could have some. I feigned confidence and said "Sure." When I started slicing the cake, the top was well-done but the bottom started collapsing into tiny cake bits which made my dad ask if I was serving him chocolate sand. It did taste pretty funny and needed more sugar so I pushed whatever remained into the refrigerator, my disappointment now pooling around my feet and trailing me like jellyfish. I texted my two baking gurus Anissa and Ate Jocy, asking for tips and they said maybe there was a bit of a problem with the temperature. By dinner, I decided to give the cake another more objective try to see where I needed to improve. Surprise, surprise! I really wonder why the recipe author did not put in "Refrigeration required" because it sure did miracles for my now solid but moist cake. Sure I need to improve on the sweetness and the icing but it was all right for a first try.

The second solo project was certainly worthy of an encore. It was a few days before my dad's birthday and he had long forgotten about the chocolate cake incident. I volunteered to make dinner for both my family and my grandparents - a do or die situation which meant I had to make dinner early so that we could rush out for Lapaz batchoy just in case. I had downloaded a very interesting recipe of Chicken Alexandra from the WMN website and another interesting salmon stew with apples concoction by Norma Chikiamco from the Inquirer. I added more milk, cream and corn than the recipe for the chicken required and I carefully piped in the mashed potato topping. I have to say, without any pomp or pride, that it came out very, very well. It was smooth, creamy and absolutely perfect that my parents loved it. My Lola is still keeping some of it in her ref back home for reheating. As for the soup, I needed some help and Mom pitched in, adding two cups of apple juice just to bring out the taste. In the end, everyone forgot about the batchoy.

My dad turned 57 two days ago and because I received my paycheck only today, I once again volunteered to make dinner. After all, in my rulebook, birthday gifts come either in cash, in kind or in effort. This time, I decided to give the oven a rest. I made use of another Norma Chikiamco recipe for pineapple chicken, something I had tried in Manila last year and absolutely loved that I brought home one bottle of kecap manis. The verdict: the birthday boy was more than satisfied and he lamented on his now widening bottom

Last night, I got reunited with the oven after we received yummy fresh oysters. I decided to toss the oysters in the oven but not after trying to copy how this small but famous restaurant called Allan's in Oton, Iloilo makes baked oysters. There was no recipe in my hand so everything just came off my tastebuds. Sauteed garlic in butter and poured them on the oysters. Sprinkled the oysters with powdered milk then pushed them into the oven. Dinner was crazy good and my fingers are getting fatter.

Oh the joy of starting to fit into my own kind of apron! Make mine purple with nice yellow Saturn prints.

Some things off the top of my head as I end this food blabber:

1. Practicing really makes me comfortable. I still need help in the kitchen and I like to get a second opinion when I test taste what I'm cooking but the more I pitter-patter about with the pots and ladle, the more I'm feeling right at home.

2. My oven mitts are mismatched on purpose. I love it when things don't make sense once in a while.

3. It's good to have someone with you when you're cooking. One of my favorite companions is my 5-year old dog Balrog. She's my fierce dark angel and I love her sense of protectiveness when I'm using her perceived enemy: the mixer. Once I turn the mixer on and it starts bumping the edges of the bowl, she starts pawing, growling and barking at who knows what. She stops when I turn the mixer off, perfectly on cue. It's hilarious.

4. I don't think everyone follows any recipe to the letter. Along the way, everybody makes changes, whether major or minor.

5. It's really great to cook for my family, even if they sometimes pretend the food tastes better than it actually does. Now that does put my supposed kitchen success, pun intended, under fire now, doesn't it?

In My World

Note: Entry written on November 29, 2009, a week after the gruesome massacre of fifty-seven people in the town of Ampatuan in Maguindanao. Most of the victims were part of a caravan en route for the COMELEC office in Shariff Aguak in order to file the certificate of candidacy of Esmael Mangudadatu, a challenger of incumbent mayor of Datu Unsay, Mayor Andal Ampatuan, Jr. The convoy was composed of Mangudadatu's wife and sisters and also included supporters, lawyers and journalists. Even motorists who were mistaken to be part of the said convoy were killed. Their bodies were strewn about a hilly area in Ampatuan, Maguindanao. In the crime scene, a backhoe which belonged to the Maguindanao provincial government and which was supposedly used to dig a mass grave for the victims stood prominently in the hilly area.

Fast-forward to April 2010. Acting Department of Justice Secretary dismisses the charges against Maguindanao Governor Zaldy Ampatuan and Vice Governor Akmad Ampatuan, brother and uncle of Mayor Andal Ampatuan, Jr., less than six months after the carnage.

November 29, 2009

If I were asked to describe everything that transpired within this week in just one word, it would definitely be "disturbing." So disturbing to the point that I cannot even come up with a word which could aptly describe the horror, the sadness, the anger that seeps right into my psyche. Even before the primetime news went into broadcast, my classmate Terry's Facebook shoutout already spelled out initially what had happened. All he said was that two lawyers were among those killed in election-related violence in Maguindanao. The strongest emotion I was able to muster then was sadness and sympathy for their bereaved families.

The 6PM news however brought vividness and drama which Terry's Facebook shoutout obviously could not properly illustrate. Corpses, bodies of what used to be living, breathing, vibrant people, littered a grassy hillside. The pictures were monochromatic and some were pixellated, sheer giveaways that the images were too violent to be shown in their original state for national TV. Torsos were exposed and still fingers had become new landing posts for flies. Some of the bodies were mutilated whereas some of the faces were mangled beyond recognition, even for their closest friends and kin to identify. One dead woman had her blouse hiked up to her chest to expose a swollen belly as if to testify that a fetus had started the earlier hours of a set of 24, initially enjoying the warmth in his mother's womb then all of a sudden losing grasp of air, food and life. The bodies scattered in the hillside were covered with mere banana leaves, an attempt to give the dead the least bit of respect and courtesy.

Everything else passed before me like a blur. I was angry, raging, furious and at the same time seriously disturbed and unhinged. Come election time, stories about intimidation and some form of election-related violence start to pile up like a stack of papers but nothing has been as bloody, as violent, as brutal, as hair-raising as the massacre in Maguindanao. One of my best friends who now lives in Finland reacted to my earlier shoutout about not getting the Maguindanao events out of my head. She said a couple of her Polish friends were excited at the prospect of visiting the Philippines after she had practically bragged her head about her country of origin. If I were in her place, I would say the same thing. I do hail from a beautiful country and my people also have their share of traits which should earn them a spotlight in the global stage. When the news broke out in Finland, her friends started having second thoughts and decided to forego a visit, the bloody mess in Maguindanao having done its job effectively of stripping away at the Philippines' international reputation, further destroying whatever good image we had left in the international eye. And it all came nipping at the heels of Efren Penaflorida's CNN triumph.

The Philippines' international reputation was the least of my worries. After all, if matters ain't harmonized within in the homefront, no amount of PR could fix the mess and the stench would certainly reek beyond our borders. I was more concerned with the answer to the question "Why?"

Why would anyone want to kill more than 50 unarmmed people? Why would anybody want to violate these women, these wives, these sisters, these mothers before dealing them a cruel blow of death? Why murder journalists and people's lawyers who were merely doing their jobs, noble professions that they were? Why should their untimely execution be as horrible and unforgettable as this?

Why? Has our system of morality declined to a point so low that human life is given this scant a value? Some sinister mind hatched this plan and saw through its execution like an invisible hand. Those who saw it done, whatever their reasons for doing so were, did carry out the orders in a manner so sadistic, the hillside still cries for those who perished and laments for the lives that could have been. To be riddled with bullets, to have corpses mutilated, to tear faces to pieces, to hurl bodies and vehicles into mass graves and pound them into a mound twisted flesh and metal...I could go on and on and anybody would certainly agree with me that this is indeed no way to die, no matter how horrible one lives his life on this planet. Looking at the Maguindanao massacre, a person's life has become something like loose change thrown around casually when no longer needed. Cambodia no longer earns the distinction of being called the land of the "Killing Fields." The Philippines just had to share the grisly honor. And that is, in my world, enraging and disturbing.

Why? Have our priorities been altered so radically that political positions are afforded with such high a regard that it has become the end-all and be-all for the country's so-called public servants, that one is willing to lose his sense of right and wrong in exchange for a political position? Souls have been sold and lives have been lost all in the grand name of politics. To stand at the helm of power and to have everything within your fingertips is maybe perhaps indeed a cause worthy of death. However  I certainly hope that I never would come within a thousand meter radius of understanding such a twisted concept of what is worth shooting fifty lives to a bloody, mangled end. It is not only lives which have been lost in this deadly exercise. It is the also the real value, the real meaning underlying the word "politics." Common good, conciliation, the people...they have all floated down the River Styx toward a land that time has forgotten. And that is, in my world, infuriating and disarming.

Why? Has justice become a fable, a dream, an illusion that we can yak about it all the time like parrots and yet never fully taste its sweetness? Has it become a myth, something that ranks among the halls of Valhalla, something we can gawk at with mouths hanging agape like brainless fools, something we strive so hard to reach yet we can never ever quite attain no matter how hard we try? Has justice become so elusive to the point that spirited Diana herself could never touch even its heels with her golden arrows? Is it a dying man, grasping at the fading light, groping in the darkness for any warm hand it could wrap its fingers on? The blind-folded lady still stands proud like royalty as she holds aloft the scales which have now come to be regarded as one big joke, her formerly gleaming sword slowly yielding to the slow decay of truth and morality in this country. It is not too difficult to imagine the same lady on her knees, cowering, hands tied with what formerly was her blindfold. Such a sad sight but in the light of the Maguindanao massacre, it sure is a reality. And that, in my world, is harrowing and heart wrenching.

It is quite easy to simmer in the cauldron that is anger and feel the steam rush out of all my possible foramina. But what should take less effort, what should easily come as a snap is second-nature to one's fingers is remembering. Throughout history, Filipinos have exhibited what seems to be short-term memory. We find it very easy - or convenient, as the case may be - to let certain milestones, certain experiences drift with the wind. This is akin to the expression "ningas cogon," in reference to the fury with which fire consumes cogon grass and then, almost immediately, dies out to nothing but white smoke and ashes. Maybe, to be extremely positive or altruistic about it, we innately are very forgiving as a nation, choosing to move on to the next square in chess board. But the purging seems to be absolute as what flows down the river of forgetfulness also includes the lessons which should have been learned, those which should have been carried with us as we take the next step forward towards tomorrow. That, in my world, is not how things should be.

In my world, death is not an eraser. It is a hallmark, a beacon, an obelisk etched to every corner with all the names of those who are to be remembered because their lives were either stories to be told for generations or tales awaiting a just ending, a lighthouse which will shine even in the darkest night on Earth. In my world, the horizon will be dotted by such reminders of the work that needs to be done - not out of sheer rage or seething revenge but because it is what is right, it is what is just.

In my world, the fifty people whose lives were deemed lost still inhabit the hilly slopes of Maguindanao, crooked fingers not only pointing at those who carry the scythe but also to those who have chosen to bury them via the backhoes of forgetfulness. In my world, they are not dead.

One Quiet Afternoon

I arrived in Iloilo a little over two weeks ago and yet this is my very first lazy afternoon at home - with no appointments to rush to, nothing important to do, no life-altering event to mull over. It's just me sitting by a couch my mom had strategically placed beside my window. My mother remodeled my room less than a year ago. It's the very same room I occupied as a child when we first moved into our house about 24 years ago. I walked in one day in October, hours after arriving from Manila to twin emotions - first, the utter elation of seeing my mini-library of books piled on extra wooden shelves she had installed on the wall and second, to the complete horror that she had repainted a significant part of the room avocado green and the remaining three-quarters a pale pink.

But the one thing I do love about the room is the newly added couch which she had positioned strategically beside my window. I had always wanted a couch by the window on this side of the room because I had always thought it would be one of the perfect places to read, write, play guitar, think or just be plain quiet. I don't know how she knew that I wanted it that way because I never told her. Case of mother's instinct, I suppose. Sometimes, when my sister's beagle Mai wanders into the room, she occupies one end of the couch while I sit on the other end and we both live a rather peaceful co-existence for about fifteen seconds until she realizes my bed is way more comfy and makes a sky-high leap for it.

The two weeks since I've been home have been nothing but sheer madness. Yesterday, Doi asked me if I was back in Iloilo and I told her I was in town but I was practically living in my grandfather's hospital room. The routine was pretty much very easy to memorize - up by 7 (or 8 if I like the pillows a little too much), in the hospital about an hour later, lunch with the grandparents, while the afternoon away in the company of IV tubes, sphygmomanometers, pulse oxymeters, nurses and tubs of hospital pancit canton, dinner, drive home then slumber party time. It doesn't help much that the traffic here is snarling insane, something I am totally unused to in this side of the country. What used to take about ten to fifteen minutes travel from my house to almost any point within the city has now shot up to half an hour or even more. Blame it on the construction of (only) the second flyover in the city and on a dozen or so road improvements, drainage repair and any other activity which involves noisy drilling and slight ground trembling in random parts of Iloilo. Interesting how all these so-called infrastructure developments always make their presence felt come election season.

Lately, my gwamps has been doing very well, loads and heaps better than the state he was in when he arrived in the hospital on the night of Holy Thursday. The past two weeks were akin to being in a theme park - a carousel for the first couple of days, followed by a walk through the haunted mansion, then a sudden shift to the gyro drop...just one monster rollercoaster all through out. Now we're sort of in one of those floating swan rides and hopefully heading straight for the exit right after. I have a feeling a lot of people are thinking I should be used to such a set-up by now. Believe me, I too thought the run-down has become all too familiar but I was quite surprised at the revelation that I had grown too comfortably close to the routine for comfort that I was always expecting to see the light a the end of the tunnel all the time. Maybe this time that light has somehow showed up again but what then will I do when everything remains pitch dark and I forget my Coleman flashlight in my desk drawer with the colorful, springy keychain still lopped around it like a boa constrictor?

In short, I've barely been home. The house has been transformed into nothing more than a hotel/changing area and to have this quiet, lazy, leisurely afternoon all to myself is certainly as precious to me as the Shy Violet rag doll I've had since I was four. No, actually scratch out "quiet" in the description. The four dogs have been barking at each other just outside my window, their fangs out and vocal chords exercised to the max. Turns out the beagle is back to terrorizing the three others who are older and more laid back, howling at their noses just close enough to give them temporary deafness yet far enough to escape a nip. Add to the interesting array of canine sounds is the occasional noise pollution thanks to campaign jingles which are played on speakers mounted on mini-trucks and prowl around the city. So far I've heard versions of "Jai Ho" and Willie Revillame's "Igiling-giling" among others and the roving music boxes make their pass every half an hour or so in our relatively quiet neighborhood.

It's a good afternoon, not too hot and the canopy of clouds gives the sun a bashful appearance. I'm not exactly sure what time it is as my wall clock is off to the repair shop. It's a pretty old thing, about 14 years old in a plastic blue casing. I miss the ticking sound the second hand makes, a faint mini-version of a whoosh that travels short distances. I can't throw the clock away because it is the only one of its kind. I dolled it up myself back in high school and tried to make it quirky-cute, gluing an old family photo underneath the clock's hands then sticking colorful buttons and paper clips all over it, along with a 10 centavo coin and the old version of the 25 centavo coin (the one with the butterfly), just so I will never forget how both metal pieces looked like. Besides, I like old things, much like the thingamajigs taking their own special spot in every nook and cranny in my private space in this house. They make me feel like I'm somehow in control of time and memory, two of life's best gifts which could someday turn into any person's biggest betrayer, depending on how one looks at it.

I took time off from reading Alice Sebold's "The Lovely Bones" just a while ago. It's the third book I've picked up ever since I got home and I'm well on the way of fulfilling a promise I made to myself to catch up on non-law related material for reading despite all the hospital duties. Maybe tonight I might go back to reading that after I finish writing this...this...random nonsense. It is quite a page-turner and is beautifully written, much like the other two titles I finished earlier in the month. If not, maybe get a head-start on all the movies and TV series Anissa gave me before I left. Honestly they all look so interesting, I don't know where to start. Again, it's mostly old stuff, period material or movies made (or based on events that occurred) way before I wsd even a thought...and definitely lots of Austen. Add that to the other flicks that have had their share of abusive rewatching in the hospital: "Little Women," "The Last of the Mohicans (and the sigh-inducing Eric Schweig two decades ago)", "Willow," "The Truth About Cats and Dogs (Janeane Garofalo's unrivalled wit and humor)", "Rainbow Brite and the Star Stealer," and "Reality Bites (and defining irony)."

It's finally quiet, perhaps because Mai has finally decided to leave the older dogs alone. I could hear Mrs. Chu, our next-door neighbor, playing her piano. It's a series of soft tinkles, a sound that almost resembles the wonky-tonky mini pianos that kids usually get for Christmas and sound like xylophones. Mrs. Chu is a great with the ivory keys, I swear. I took lessons from her for about six years until high school came in. I'd walk into her house in my PJs and she'd give me chocolate after some lessons. Now, I listen more intently as she strikes the notes with the precision of a samurai wielder. No matter how hard I listen, I can't seem to make out the piece she's playing. The sky is turning into watercolor before my eyes, bluish with a highlight of orange. It's nothing short of breathtaking and it's all just from my window. I am not quite sure how it looks like outside so I take a step out as I am sure it would turn out grander.

When I come back minutes later, Shy Violet still sits in a hunch beside my old Simba stuffed toy. I take my seat once more on the couch with my fluffy pillow propped on my back. She stares at me through her rubber, painted glasses and I return the stare through my own specs. She certainly has done nothing in all the months and yearss I've been away, in all the hours I've never been home but wait for me. And though she will never know it, I'm certainly more than glad to be in her and Simba's company on this quiet, lazy afternoon.

Of Valentine's Day Lists and Queues

I should have known today was the wrong day to go grocery shopping. But to be rather honest about it, I really thought that all the lovers of the world would be congregating in restaurants or cafes and not in the grocery store. As Master Yoda goes, "So wrong I was."
I was picking up some last minute things for my friend's wedding tomorrow when I was asked to drop by the grocery store to pick up a dozen eggs. The lines in the check-out counter were kilometric and even if there were hearts dangling all over the place, I could say "all the loving'" was the the last thing everybody was feeling.

I lined up at the express counter which allows payment for baskets or carts carrying 15 items only. It was exactly like the rest of the supermarket - bursting with people jostling for space, toddlers crying and kids going through the gondolas near the counter, asking mama to buy a stick of gum or a bag of candy. A guy and his best friend were ahead of me, carrying a basket of chips and some prune juice (or so I think it was prune juice). I cradled the eggs on one hand while I started texting with the other. I was dead-tired since school had started early in the morning and all I wanted to go home, have dinner and then walk the dog before going to sleep. I was suspiciously eyeing a cart half-full with groceries which was parked right beside the express check-out counter, wondering what in the world it was doing there.

The next thing I know, this lady of about 40 elbows her way past us and starts pushing the cart in between the two guys ahead of me and the girl standing in front of them. "Excuse me," she said. "That's my spot," she indicated, pointing at the microscopic space between the girl and the two guys ahead of me.

Bewildered, I glanced at the sign in the counter to check if I was indeed in the right queue. The sign remained the same, still screaming "Express Counter, 15 items or less." My eyes ricocheted to the lady's half-full cart. I am no mathematician but there was no way either beyond or below the stratosphere that the items inside the cart would amount to 15. It was more like 15 sets of 15.

She kept on jabbing her cart at the eensie-weensie space in front of the two guys. One of them, a guy in a brown shirt with closely cropped hair let out a very polite protest. "Ma'am," he began to say, "this is an express lane. Only fifteen items are allowed per transaction."

I eyed the lady who was now teetering close to an uproar. Her eyes bulged as she started pulling items out of her cart. "I know," she said curtly. "That's why I'm transferring my items to a basket," she declared.

She should not have said basket. She should have said basketS. Yes, that's with an "S" as huge as the Rio Grande.

She and her husband started pulling out one basket after another, filling each basket with, you guessed it, fifteen items and then lining them up in the express counter. The two guys and I watched with eyes aghast as she did this rather mechanically, dropping one item after another into one basket, two baskets, three baskets…four…

I had never been so flabbergasted in my entire life. Well, no, maybe I have been before but what I meant was, I had never been this stumped in the longest time. We all know very well what the point of having an express counter is. The name precisely implies its purpose. But this lady was being smart about the entire set-up and was working around a prohibition, much like a lot of people in this country. In fact, much like a lot of lawyers in this country. Haha. Anyway, if she was tired, so were we. If she hated long lines, so did we. If she wanted to go home, so did we. If she had a long day, she could take a look at mine and realize it was equally as intense. We were in the same boat, pari passu as my Banking teacher would say. It just so happened that the sign technically allowed us to fall in line right there but the same could not be said for her. But, no! She was going to have her way and we either had to take it, leave it or face up to her. And man, did I want to stand up to her, to tell her she can't just push us around like that, not when the sign has clearly chosen our side, no matter which court in the land takes jurisdiction of our potential dispute.

I wound my fingers around the egg crate and did a mental countdown that my mom told me to do whenever I felt my internal fuse box starts to spew fumes of some sort. "Patience," I told myself. When part of the plastic crate went "creak," I stopped with the squeezing lest I crack one of the eggs. I bit my lip so as to diffuse the anger that was now welling up within me.

"1…2…3…" I began to count when all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I just burst like a bubble - and started snickering. It wasn't a sarcastic, sinister kind of laugh. It was laugh that was initially born out of audacity and was now nurtured by nothing but sheer amusement. I stifled my gurgles with my handkerchief and turned away from the sight of the lady and the two men before me. True, this lady was mean and unfair but, in a way, she was also outrageously, creatively funny. And besides, it was Valentine's Day and the world needs some love going around.

The two men ahead of me were fuming mad and moved to the express counter beside us which had an even longer queue. I followed suit, still with my handkerchief practically glued to my mouth, still fending off sporadic snickers. The line moved slowly until I finally got to the cashier and paid for my plastic crate of eggs. As the bagger handed me the plastic bag with my purchase, I eyed the the counter where I had originally stood earlier.

The lady still stood there, two people away from the counter, her baskets clumped around her like eggs arranged in a mother bird's nest.

---

Since tomorrow is Valentine's Day, I figured I could at least ride along with the lovey-dovey feel and the deluge of pink and red. Back in college, my friends and I used to have a movie marathon come February 14 (of the weekend closest to that day). We'd rent the sappiest, cheesiest romantic movies, pile up on the chips and chocolate and lug around huge bottles of soda then soak ourselves in a jacuzzi of all the schmaltz possible, non-stop from morning till…er…early the next morning.

Now since I am practically drowning in all the saccharine possible, I'll just pour on more sugar and get as mawkish as possible as I go through my list of favorite romantic books and movies and, of course, sappy love songs.

Though I've never been a huge fan of the romantic genre when it comes to my books, there have been a number of standouts in my bookshelf - and nothing beats the classics. Wuthering Heights is as sweeping as the lush moors which bear witness to Catherine and Heathcliff's turbulent love for each other. Pride and Prejudice is quirky and entertaining in its own right - no matter how quaint it may seem at every page - and I indeed have lost count of the number of times I asked myself, "Will Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy end up with each other?" Nicholas Sparks churns out one charming story after another but my favorites have to be the book-turned-movie A Walk to Remember and The Rescue, a poignant story about a troubled fireman, a single mother and her autistic son. An interesting pick is Train Man, a Japanese novel of sorts which actually looks like an Internet forum, complete with posts from fictional netheads and even graphics. It follows the travails of a quiet, nerdy guy who falls for a girl he meets on a train in Tokyo. Not knowing how to ask her out, he asks for help from an Internet forum where anonymous people all help in, pitching in advice bits here and dating tips there.

In terms of movies, rom-coms are among my favorites but I also like the serious ones. One of my ultimate favorites is the monochromatic classic Casablanca. I love the contrast between the sardonic yet sentimental Rick (Humphrey Bogart) and the sweet but tortured Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman). The movie's dark conclusion on the airport runway, along with Rick's trademark swipe at Ilsa ("Here's looking at you, kid."), will always make this movie memorable. Roman Holiday is generally light, fun, predictable and made me pine for my own Vespa. However what makes it a choice pick is the movie's final scene, after Princess Ann (Audrey Hepburn) ends her press conference and walks out, leaving newsman Joe (Gregory Peck) all alone to traverse an empty hallway. The miniseries version of Pride and Prejudice did not disappoint. Neither did Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle who were both born to play Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett, respectively.

A little drama always makes a movie a little bit more endearing. Who could forget a Lloyd Dobler (John Cusack) standing outside Diane Court's (Ione Sky) bedroom window, holding up a boombox playing Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" in the movie Say Anything? Rain also adds a bit more drama to any film. A perfect example is another favorite, the Korean film The Classic where university student Ji-Hae (Son Ye Jin) manages to run from building to building while staying dry, thanks to her secret crush Sang-Min (Jo In Sung), who holds his now-dripping jacket over her head the entire time. The movie itself was actually a good combination of both light and heartbreaking scenes. By the end, I actually felt rather bipolar in a nice way. In the tradition of quirky rom-coms, Tootsie will always be cute, endearing and everything adorable. But my top pick would have to be the superstar-packed Love, Actually, a movie I love watching over and over again courtesy of Hugh Grant dancing, Andrew Lincoln playing Christmas carols on a radio for Keira Knightley while flipping flashcards, Colin Firth slow typing and mumbling awkward Portuguese when he proposes to Lucia Moniz with the entire community in attendance...the list never ends.

To complete the schmaltz attack and the Valentine fever, music has to enter the picture. Apo Hiking Society's Panalangin is easy on the ears yet bursting with optimism, especially in the new version of the song courtesy of Moonstar88. One of my favorites, Take That's Back for Good, has poetic prose for lyrics while Jon McLaughlin's So Close is, well, enchanting. Side A's Forevermore is one of my ultimate favorite love songs as it is brimming with hope and promise. I keep my fingers crossed that someday, I'd get the chance to sing it for one or two of my best friends on their respective (future) altar dates. That and, maybe, Endless Love (we could borrow Mr. Schuster for a while).

Love songs though do not always have to be sweet and sappy. I also like stirring, emotive songs sung by hauntingly beautiful voices such as You're Still You by Josh Groban, Every Little Thing by Dishwalla and Yuki no Hana (Snowflower) by Japanese singer Mika Nakashima. But in terms of a song being both "haunting" and "beautiful," no other song fits the description to a perfect G-clef other than You by The Carpenters. There is nothing grand about the music or the lyrics. As a matter of fact, it is the song's innate simplicity that makes it absolutely perfect in my scale (pun absolutely intended). After all, lines like "You are one who makes me happy" and "You are one of the few things worth remembering" are certainly quite tough to beat as they are rather plain to see but beautiful when heard.

Fine.

The Sound of the Sky

For Lois

11:58 PM, sometime in 2009

The sky was black and the streetlights had just been switched off. I sat by my window, surrounded by complete darkness. The cool wind blew a soft caress into my cheek and I warmly grasped its cold fingers. I had set a date with the Sky at 12 midnight because a meteor shower had promised to make its appearance. I sat and waited for quite sometime, looking at the darkness of the sky, my eyes slowly adjusting to the blackness. My sister was asleep and she twitched a bit when she heard me open the window across her bed. "Close it, please. It's bad for my throat," she croaked. I opened the window across my bed and sat beside it. I called out "The meteor shower's starting anytime." She then mumbled something inaudible about ice cream and candy, a rather obvious indicator that she was sleep-talking again. I went back to the Sky. The stars, though not as numerous as the sparkly dots in the night sky back in my hometown, were bathing in their simple radiance. They were twinkling miles away, small as they were before my eyes but huge, incendiary, gaseous bodies somewhere in the deepest recesses of space. As I gazed at the Sky, I realized I had long forgotten how beautiful the celestial blanket could be if only one paid very close attention. It seemed to be breathing on its own and everywhere, life in the outermost bowels of space was pulsating in its own silent, rhythmic beat. The longer I gazed it, the more I seemed drawn to the darkness, swallowed even, as my eyes tried to reach as far as they possibly could. Eventually, the feeling of being stuck like a galactic bolus in a wave of astronomic peristalsis ended pleasantly in a warm embrace courtesy of the quiet grandeur only fulfilled by the Sky.

In the darkness and stillness of the night, I could hear hearts breaking. It is a sad thing to hear, hearts breaking. There is no sound at all like that in the rest of the world. It is the sound of silence, of a heart ceasing to beat. It is the sound of wings, fluttering desperately. It is the sound of fragile crystal transforming into tiny shards as it crashes albeit muted into a cold stone floor. It is the sound of a dream slowly drifting to nothingness, of light passing through a black hole and then sucked into its unforgiving vortex.

In like manner, there is no other soreness which comes with a heart breaking. It is quiet pain, a slow death. It goes deep into the very core of your spirit and refuses to die or go away quietly. It hangs like a pall over your face, a veil both translucent and opaque. It is pain which seemingly has a life of its own and roots of its own which, when left unattended, could drain or strangle the very essence out of all hope.

Out of the corner of my eye came a streak of light as thin as a hairline. It flew through the Sky like a short strand of golden thread, disappearing as quickly as it came. More streetlights a block or two away were simultaneously turned off. The weatherman promised a night full of meteors, a shower even of about 20 or so bright strands of light every minute. I peered through the darkness, egging the Sky for more meteors on horseback. But all I got was about three or four random streaks every minute or so, randomly swooping in any point of blackness and then disappearing completely. Just when I thought I had seen the last one, my date did not renege on its promise and let loose a bit more of the sparkling threads. Though conservative at best, the sight of happy-go-lucky, fiery little meteorites certainly made bedtime a little more magical than usual.

In the middle of all these sights and non-sounds comes the quiet whisper of a heart mending, a heart growing, a heart coming back to life. God knows how frightened anyone would be at the realization that the little life that many thought had been nursed to a slow death is now stirring back to existence. How different then is this creation, an entity both old and new? What then would set it apart from all the hearts breaking or self-combusting in their little ribcages all over the world? The shards of a broken heart may not have completely disappeared because they are still a bit too precious too discard so they just sort of hang around there like deadly icicles in some self-imposed winter.

My eyes were slowly giving up on me and I leaned out to close the window. The air was chilly, almost nippy outside and I made a mental note to say a prayer of thanks for not having been born in Siberia. I blew my cosmic, taciturn date a quick kiss as I locked the window and it responded with a bit more flashing meteorites displaying their subdued brightness. I could still hear the sound of hearts breaking, unmistakeable and distinct. I could hear a million voices quietly whispering, promising never to subject the poor, throbbing little muscle to any more emotional distress. Yet, in the wake of what could be an aortal massacre and a mad scramble to tediously put the pieces back together, I found myself consumed by the last thought in my head before being completely overtaken by slumber - I found myself, once more, believing.

2009 in a Nutshell

Had been meaning to do this since 2010 began but I never got around to doing that. So before January ends, here goes my annual blogging tradition.

1. What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
It was my first time to go parasailing during the summer…my first time to be on a parachute actually. I was partly thrilled, partly nervous but I absolutely enjoyed every minute I was being dragged through the air.

I had never been caught in the middle of a raging typhoon before - until 2009. When Ondoy swept through Manila, bringing heavy, unceasing rains in its wake, I was driving my car through the northbound lane of EDSA. When I got to Pasig, the floodwaters were getting deeper and my dashboard lights were coming alive in colors I had never seen before. Tried to go back home via EDSA's southbound lane this time with floodwaters raging. Took me two whole hours to get home (normally takes 10 to 15 minutes) and by the time I walked in the front door, I was so shaken up I had to curl up on the couch with a blanket and a pillow and watch helplessly as water invaded Metro Manila.

2. Did you keep your new years's resolutions and will you make more for next year?
Yes, I kept almost all of my resolutions for 2009 but I still need to work on other things. I'm getting better with the cooking thing. If I made dessert (Ate Jocy's no-bake cheesecake) for giving away as gifts two Christmases ago, I made pasta this year almost single-handedly. Almost! Will definitely be making more resolutions (and food) this year. Yay!

3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
Had a new cousin (and another namesake) this year in the person of baby Aida Shara.

4. Did anyone close to you die?
Didn't know President Cory Aquino personally but she holds a special place in the hearts of all Filipinos, including mine. Michael Jackson's death was a shocker too.

5. What countries did you visit in 2009?
Didn't travel outside the Philippines this year.

6. What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
Haha! A Mini Cooper! In my dreams.

7. What date from 2009 will remain etched in your memory and why?
Lots!
August 3, 2009: Walking alongside Pres. Aquino's funeral cortege along Ayala en route to the transfer of her remains from San Juan to Intramuros. The procession stopped for a while in the corner of Ayala and Paseo de Roxas and in the midst of a downpour of yellow ribbons, yellow balloons and confetti, everybody started singing "Bayan Ko" while flashing the Laban sign.

December 27, 2009: Finding the perfect place and time to sing for my Creator.

8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Starting out the school year with insecurity and uncertainty and emerging victorious in the end. As my friend Rachel said, "Go happy endings!"

9. What was your biggest failure?
Hmmm…I can't think of anything.

10. Did you suffer illness of injury?
Had stomach flu about twice or thrice this year.

11. What was the best thing you bought?
A nice red dress which looks good, fits well and cost me less than $6! Wait…did I just say the best thing I bought was a dress?!

12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Every Filipino.

The Bayanihan spirit once more made an appearance when Ondoy ransacked much of Luzon. It wasn't just about helping each other out in times of need. It was also about looking at every Filipino and finding a bayani, a true hero, right before your eyes.

13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
Sad to say, the President. This seems like a pretty constant answer. Yes, PGMA and Peter Pan. :D

14. Where did most of your money go?
Photocopies, load for my Broadband stick, KFC Twister treats on Saturday afternoons and buying my sister's dog.

15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
Getting Fully Booked gift certificates for my birthday! I schedule the books I buy so that I don't consume the gift certificates in one trip. I still have a couple more left!

16. What song(s) will always remind you of 2009?
a. "The Show" by Lenka because it's the first song I hear every morning…overtime my alarm goes off.
b. "Defying Gravity" from the Wicked soundtrack because it's a beautiful song with great lyrics (and Idina Menzel and Kristine Chenoweth really blow my socks off overtime I listen to the song).
c. "Jesus Take the Wheel" by Danny Gokey. First time I heard him sing it live on American Idol was mind-blowing. And my goodness, how does he come up with those runs?
d. "Stray Italian Greyhound" by Vienna Teng. Great song, perfect lyrics with the right amount of abstruseness and very fitting for my year.

17. Compared to this time last year, are you:

i. happier or sadder? -- Way happier!
ii. thinner or fatter? -- Ha! Fatter…slightly fatter. :D
iii. richer or poorer? -- Richer! YES! :)

18. What do you wish you'd done more?
I wish I laced up my sneakers and spent more time running or hit the pool more often rather than just sleeping. I wish I read a lot more law-unrelated books this year. I only read a handful and it's pitiful!

19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Less procrastination! My gosh, it's like a disease!

20. What was your favorite TV program?
American Idol Season 8 made my year! Everyone on that particular season was really good. As for teleseryes, I was so hung up on Tayong Dalawa despite the horrendous ending and Boys Over Flowers even if the Korean version of Rui Hanazawa/Hua Ze Lei looks like a girl in some angles.

21. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
No…not really.

22. What was the best book you read?
The Time Traveller's Wife was a great book to just sink into. It was a different kind of read - very straightforward prose, very masculine even in some instances but surprisingly emotion-laden.

23. What was your greatest musical discovery?
I realized that I was not a Michael Jackson fan but many of his songs were ranked among my favorites. Slightly irreconcilable but true.

24. What did you want and get?
Mara Jade, my new laptop and latest manifestation of geekdom! :D And getting published in the Inquirer again in January of 2009 was certainly a thrill. :) I was on Cloud 11 for days.

25. What was your favorite film of this year?
Toss-up between Slumdog Millionaire and (500) Days of Summer. Slumdog Millionaire was the best feel-good movie I have seen in a long time whereas (500) Days of Summer was hilarious, quirky and boasted of a great soundtrack.

26. What was the worst film you saw this year?
Didn't get to see a movie I didn't like in 2009…which is good. :D

27. What did you do on your birthday and how old were you?
I turned 26 this year and on my birthday, I wore my red headband and had dinner in Glorietta with my high school friends and classmates.

28. What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Watching the Lea Salonga Your Songs concert would have definitely been like a cherry on top of my parfait that is 2009!

29. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2008?
I love the long shirts/tops and fitted jeans ensemble and that plaid made a comeback!

30. What kept you sane?
As always, the Bible. :)

31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Oh my goodness…Danny Gokey! He's a guy who sings like no other and does so with his heart! Kristin Chenoweth is hilarious and Idina Menzel is a showstopper!

32. What political issue stirred you the most?
Hmmmm…the controversy surround election automation, PGMA's supposed extravagant dinner abroad and the Maguindanao massacre, of course. The Maguindanao massacre was especially disturbing since it made me reflect on whether or not the value for human life is almost nil in this country to the point that politics is enough a motivation to brutally slaughter so many people. What for?

33. Who did you miss?
Pastor Acosta. I always looked forward to his sermons whenever I went home for vacation and I still need to get used to the fact that I will never hear him speak again.

34. Who was the best new person you met?
Getting to know people more is better than meeting new persons. I thank God for giving me the chance to get to know Ate Wawa and Ate Germaine this year. I was also so glad be "bus mother" to my Evidence posse, people who have become not just a support group but friends (you know who you guys are). :)

35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009.
It's good to make long-range plans but always be on the look-out for detours - and be ready to take them. They may faze you at first but going through them be something you won't regret doing.

36. What was the nicest thing someone told you about yourself?
My cousin James to me when I was parking rear first: "Do you realize how sexy that is?"
That got me thinking: if a parking slot were a runway, I'd be a supermodel! HAHA!

37. The most touching experience you had this year.
Sitting next to Lolo's bed in his hospital room and reading the Bible to him.
Crouching beside Mamang's tombstone and clearing it of grass and dried leaves, all the while hearing her speak to me in my head, "Finish your story, Aida Rose."

38. What did you like most about yourself this year?
I liked the fact that I didn't let fear take hold of me this year. I didn't dwell too much on not getting what I wanted but instead made do with what was given to me.

39. What did you hate about yourself this year?
My hissy fits! I need to install a circuit breaker in my head or something. Still working on it…still working on it.

40. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"Oh no not now,
Please not now,
I just settled into the glass half empty
Made myself at home

So what do I do with this?
This stray Italian greyhound
These inconvenient fireworks
This ice-cream-covered screaming hyperactive thought

So what do I do with this?
This sudden burst of sunlight
And me with my umbrella
Cross-indexing every weatherman's report
I was ready for the downslide
But not for spring to well up

What do I do
With a love that won't sit still
Won't do what it's told
What do I do
With a love that won't sit still?"
- snippets from Stray Italian Greyhound, Vienna Teng

41. Was 2009 a good year for you?
Yes, it was a great year.

42. What was your favorite moment of the year?
My cousin Loida's wedding was something all of us had been looking forward to for a long, long time. Getting to dance "Jai Ho" during her wedding with the rest of my cousins was a blast…and the rehearsals were more of a riot.

Going on a homecoming trip to Pangasinan with Tita Vilma, Tito Dan and my cousin James was quite poignant.

Coming home in October to find my grandfather moving past the fact that he was practically married to his wheelchair and was now "walking for real."

43. What was your least favorite moment of the year?
Having to go through this school year's enrollment by bidding for subjects. Everything was just so uncertain…and I ended up in a class that I really didn't want to be in! Yikes!
The summer was also particularly difficult to deal with as total nerve compression paralyzed my Lolo from the waist down and I know I will never see him walk again.

44. Where were you when 2009 began?
In Taguhangin, Ajuy, Iloilo.

45. Who were you with?
With my parents, sister and grandparents.

46. Where will you be when 2009 ends?
Still in Ajuy, Iloilo.

47. Who will you be with when 2009 ends?
Hopefully…still the same people.

48. Do you have new year's resolution for 2010?
I hope to be more patient, more optimistic and less of a pain.

49. What was your favorite month of 2009?
December! I took a lot of pictures during Christmas season in 2009. Plus, Tito Stan and Tita Ping took us to a surprise road trip to Aklan where we visited the Sampaguita Gardens and practically froze our toes off in the cold springs of Nabas! Wooohooo!

50. What was your favorite record from 2009?
Lots! I loved Lenka's The Show, the original Broadway cast recording of Wicked and Rock of Ages and the soundtrack to (500) Days of Summer. And oh, my own personal compilation of MP3s of Danny Gokey's live and studio performances.

51. How many concerts did you see in 2009?
None…except the Easter and the Christmas cantatas in church.

52. Did you drink a lot of alcohol in 2009?
No. Ha!

53. Do a lot of drugs in 2009?
Evervon-C.

54. You do anything you are ashamed of this year?
As always, yes. :)

55. How much money did you spend in 2009?
I'm not an accountant.

56. What was your proudest moment in 2009?
The day I got a text that Evidence grades were out and I ran to the OCS to see for myself how I did. And I actually fared well! I was so freaking scared to be in that class and every class session was always met with apprehension.

57. What was your most embarrassing moment of 2009?
Ask Sue about December 26, 2009. :) HAHAHA! I wanna hide under a rock.

58. If you could go back in time to any moment of 2009 and change something, what would it be?
Ask me…but not here.

59. What are your plans for 2010?
Hope to enjoy whatever academic work is hurled at me this year. I keep on forgetting I'm in the rut...er…place I'm in because I chose to be here and because it is something I'm interested in. I plan to live a bit more healthy this year - cutting down on Coke, going back to swimming and running, giving up on fries and hamburgers (except when I think I deserve a reward). I hope to get the chance to write more.

60. How are you different now that the year has ended?
I hope I've become more mature and more appreciative of the smallest things that every day throws at me. I'm thankful for anything and everything.

61. What are your wishes for the new year?
I wish this year would be the year for change. I say that every year and I do mean it. I pray for a complete overhaul in terms of not just our lives but also with regard to our country, our families, our homes and our relationship with our Maker.