Seeing Double

    Ever since high school, there was always one other person in school who supposedly looked like me.  Now that I find pretty amusing since my own sister and I barely resemble each other and the closest people who supposedly share some of my facial features are my Tita Vilma and my cousin Denise.

    Who knew that law school would yield another person who seems to bear an uncanny likeness to my physical appearance?  After years of reading about how much fun it would be to have a twin, I was finally able to slip into that opportunity just last week thanks to the fact that my supposed doppelganger (actually reflexive since she could very well say I am the clone) was also fun-loving and was willing to capitalize on an opportunity to potentially sow confusion in the optic nerves of anyone we would meet.

    It all started when Rach and Cha told me that I had a "kamukha" or "kahawig" - same facial features, practically same length of hair, about the same height, similar build (I was slightly pudgier) and so on.  When I was finally introduced to Phibs, my supposed "twin," I really took the time to study her face and to see for myself whether or not we really did look alike.  I was not sure if she was told the same thing though since she really didn't say anything about it. 

    By the second semester, we were in the same team in legal aid.  Rach and Cha still continued to label us as "twins" so Phibs decided to go along and call each other, well, "Twin."  It was all together quite amusing since the more I looked at photos of us, the more I came to realize that we indeed looked alike.  The semblance was more apparent when we were were not smiling (since Phibs has smaller teeth whereas I have humongous choppers and showcase three quarters of my gums like the Cheshire Cat).  Our profiles were undeniably similar and our bangs fell in the same way across our faces when we tilted our heads.  We both even like the shade of purple!  Good heavens, we even part our hair in the same way!  We tried to look into our family lines to check if we were indeed related but apart from the fact that we both trace our roots to the north (she is from Baguio whereas my father hails from Pangasinan), our bloodlines do not seem to have intersected at any point in time...except perhaps if we go ahead and do blood compact.

Phibs and me.  I saw this photo on her Facebook page and for about
three seconds thought I was staring at myself.  Even our
shirts are quite similar.

   Phibs and I both thought such indicators of resemblance were not enough to make people mistake one of us for the other.  Even if we looked somewhat like Chip and Dale when we hung out, it still had not gotten to a point wherein someone actually thought Phibs was me or vice versa.  I had always thought we were somewhere in that area about three blocks away from "deadringer."

    Until one day about three weeks ago when Cha's boyfriend Allan saw me in Uncle Moe's, a restaurant in UP Village, at around 7 or 8 in the evening.  Allan texted Cha to tell her that he saw me in the restaurant with a couple of friends.

    That would have been all right if I really had been in Uncle Moe's.  But the truth was, I was at home with my dog somewhere in the southern part of Metro Manila when Allan supposedly saw me in Diliman.  What was even more hilarious was that Phibs had texted Cha at about the same time as Allan, telling her that she had just seen Cha's "Prince Charming" in Uncle Moe's.  In Cha's words, this was how the text exchange went:

Phibs: Charito, andito sa Uncle Moe's ang prince charming mo. hehe. :-)
(simultaneously)
Allan: Hi hon. Bahay, kasama ko sina sis pau. nagtext sila. nakita ko sina aida.

***

Cha: San ang uncle moe's? And kasama mo ba si Aida? Haha nagtext si allan grand, nakita daw nya si aida. :)
Phibs: Dito sa Teacher's Village, and nope, hindi ko kasama si twin. hehe....
Cha: Haha malamang napagkamalan kayo. Bwahahaha!! :) or ibang prince charming ko nakita mo. :)
Phibs: Haha, ano ba yun. :D

    Phibs told Cha that Allan even said goodbye to her when he left with his friends, thinking all the while that it was me he saw in Uncle Moe's.  Poor Allan only realized his mistake in a clarificatory text exchange with Cha later that evening.

Allan: Bahay ka na?
Cha: Bahay na. :)
Cha: Aida?
Allan: Yup. Aida . 3 silang sis mo, dito sa may malapit sa bayantel.
Cha: Si Phibs yan. :)
Allan: Ay oo nga pala. Si sarah (another nickname for Phibs since she supposedly looks like singer Sarah Geronimo). :) Magkahawig eh.

    I am quite sure that the last response by Allan was as sheepish as Baa Baa Black Sheep could possibly get in the same situation. 

    Since Phibs and I had unknowingly (and unconsciously) precipitated an ever-so slight wave of confusion (either that or Allan just had eyestrain from work), we decided to go all-out on one duty day just for the heck of it.  And if anyone should fall for the ploy, that should make the entire thing well-worth it but confusing people was not a major objective.  We just wanted to play around with the concept of "looking alike" We had initially decided to wear an all-black top and go for any kind of bottoms we wanted but in the end, I decided to match Twin's weapon of choice: grey skirt and black heels.  I was not quite sure if my grey skirt was even ready for pressing and I made up my mind to hang it in the back of the refrigerator just in case it was still a bit damp.  The next day, the very minute Phibs walked in to the room for case conference, I just knew coincidence was a gleeful and willing conspirator because even the style of our respective collared, frilly black blouses was almost identical.

    The day ended without any casualties although we did get a lot of inquiries about our wardrobe.  Everyone in legal aid knew the two of us pretty well to be able to distinctly identify Phibs from Aida or Aida from Phibs.  Except for, well, one applicant who was being interviewed by Twin.  I was working in a separate cubicle when the applicant walked in, clutching her photocopied documents.  She was heading straight for the cubicle where Phibs was conducting her interview. Unmindful of the applicant, I spontaneously rose from my seat to get my bag from another table across my cubicle.  I unmistakably saw the applicant do a double take when she saw me.  She made a quick U-turn then walked towards my direction, holding out her photocopied documents to me.  I was initially puzzled, wondering why some person I didn't know from Adam was handing me documents.  Then I belatedly realized she thought I was Phibs so I gestured that I was not the interviewing intern.  For a while she had a confused look on her face but after about two more hard stares my way, she realized was thrusting her documents upon the wrong intern.

    As for my next project with Phibs, it's all still under contemplation.  For the time being, we can perhaps work on reading each other's minds and finishing each other's sentences while saving up for eventual DNA testing.  And that also means I should postpone any plan to cut my hair.

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.

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.

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.

Sentimental Blue Highlighter Writes '30'

(Note: I wrote this immediately after my final exam in my toughest subject last semester and promised myself I wouldn't post it if the story does not end well or has no semblance of a happy ending.)

10 p.m., October 16, 2009

I am sitting on my bed with the covers pulled off as I am typing this. It actually feels rather good to have my legs graze my sheets again and to have absolutely nothing beside me except my extra pillow. The alarm clock is not set to go off at a particular time tomorrow because I am going to sleep for as long as I want, for as long as I think I need. For the past two weeks, I would find myself awake at 4 a.m. and realize that I have slept on my schoolwork again - and quite literally at that. I wake up with papers rustling in my back, my pens and my blue highlighter strewn all over the bed like a Jackson Pollock work and my books wide open beside me in various states of disarray.

Tonight has finally come. If you asked me yesterday how I think I'd be doing tonight, I would have probably answered "brain dead." This week has become probably the most stressful of my entire existence. It was difficult not to see myself as an endangered specie, one whose very existence and sanity was dangling by a hairline from the edge of a precipice. As each day passed and stress levels hit the ceiling, bore a hole in the roof and shot like fireworks through the exosphere, the day for the finals loomed before me and my classmates like a burly grizzly bear. All week, we swam through the text of the Rules of Court as they floated in our heads like a million random corks in the middle of the ocean. The day had finally come to tie them down to paper. The exercise of answering the examination itself was, to put it simply, difficult. It felt like I was grasping at a hundred helium balloons which were floating in the air in different areas, a situation so tricky when you don't quite know which string to pull out of the mess.

My genius-friend Bryan SJ once told me that he loved written exams better than class recitations. I wouldn't choose either of the two of I had any liberty but he did explain his choice to me with his trademark humor. "At least iyong papel hindi nagsasalita, hindi ka sinisigawan," he told me with a laugh, his fingers opening and closing like a bird's beak. That was the one of the first things I thought of as I scratched my answers on my exam booklet with my pen. I did manage a smile as I imagined my paper rise before me and transform into a mouth like those Harry Potter howlers before screaming into my face like a banshee.

Four hours later, when I turned my booklet in and walked out of the examination room, I felt very, very tired. That was expected. I felt a curious mix of relief and dread. That too was expected since a huge chunk of load had been lifted off my shoulders but I honestly did not know how I did in that exam. My head was spinning and my stomach was grumbling. That was another development I had anticipated since the only meal I had which had some semblance of decency was a heavy breakfast.

But there was another feeling lurking somewhere in the corner, something I had neither expected nor anticipated. It was the quiet, nagging feeling that said, with all certainty, that this fragment of my life would be missed - in a sorely sadistic way that I never thought would be possible. No matter how I much wished I would never go this way again, I certainly could not deny that a part of me would certainly miss all the ups and the downs that came with my ordeal of the last four months.

There were the little things, like the undeniable, uncomfortable silence before every class when my classmates and I would wait for the earlier section to end. The minute that first class adjourned, we would rush to meet the deluge of students (usually Kiyo, Jat and Jonas) and the air would then be thickly populated with all sorts of permutations of only one significant question: "Hanggang saan kayo umabot?"

Then there was that feeling of dread which came with the sound of the professor's heels echoing down the hallway. After all, those footsteps were so distinct they were almost equivalent to DNA evidence in terms of weight and sufficiency. My classmates and I would listen for them and when the familiar "clak clak clak" would reverberate across the walls, you could almost taste the panic in the air and feel the calories drain through your ears. The minute she would walk into the room and effortlessly swing the heavy wooden door open, you could almost hear the symphony of hearts hammering and pulses racing. Everybody stops breathing for a minute, whether consciously or unconsciously. The entire experience was insanity-inducing but, on hindsight, at the end of every class session, it was also as deliciously thrilling as wakeboarding in the Pacific Ocean in the middle of a squall.

The scarier moments would come when the questions would hit the student out of nowhere like shots from a sniper. Sometimes, the student dodges the recitation bullet but in other instances when the sniper finds its mark, makes a mortal wound and leads to the dreaded "Sit down" booming through the classroom like a bazooka, there is nothing left to see but necks bared, heads bowed and hands furtively leafing through pages of whatever pieces of paper are on the desks. The silence is, to make a direct quote, "sepulchral." Prayers rise through the air like steam as the area is scanned for the next target and if such steam clouds were visible, they would all have read the same way: "Not me, please."

The tough moments make their entrance when the recitation shotgun is whipped out and an entire row of people rejoin their seats a little soon after being called to stand, one after another in rapid succession. Sometimes, there are days when you've practically read the entire assignment and committed everything to every possible fold of your synapses, thinking you cannot be as ready as ever. Then with one question, your day comes to an end. Those are the days when the heart weighs heaviest, when you realize that the old adage of "failure means you didn't try" does not apply at all. Those are the lowest moments, when you think you could sink far lower than the Marianas Trench, even when you already feel buried neck-deep in quicksand.

But then, there were also the lighter moments, like the jokes before class about how karma goes around and comes around. Teasing another classmate "You will get called" is practically like opening yourself up to heaven's wrath. This tirade is usually exchanged while waiting in line for orders of instant pancit canton or fishballs, the kind of food so unhealthy that they will surely kill you if the over-the-scale stress levels don't do the job. Wailing is a standard and can come in a variety of forms. The usual goes something like "Hindi ako nakaaral" with matching (fake) sobbing. Sometimes, it can be as blunt as a frustrated "Ayoko na!" or as overused as a desperate "Hindi ko natapos!" The most commonly overheard is "Hanggang saan inaral mo?" which just makes everyone more nervous, especially when the case assignments are as thick as pocketbooks and you feel you've only scratched the surface.

Then there were the brief after-class laughs, the coffee shop study sessions and the rides in my "magic school bus" where none of my passengers paid me anything even if I made the appopriate legal demand. Coffee Bean Balara is probably the best joint to study as a group because hardly anyone ever shows up in the daytime and Cha and I still have a good supply of those "buy-one-take-one" coupons for cheesecake and ice blends good enough for all of our tummies. But the overall winner for the best source of a snicker would be Mims who could still manage to crack a joke about why Herce vs. Cabuyao was included in the subtopic about hearsay when everyone else thinks the world is coming to an end. Get it? Herce and hearsay?

After everything else, there are the class members, the ones you'll remember for their quips, their mannerisms, for the days they have saved the class sessions with their recitation answers, despite the extra strain on their legs from all the standing which could last up to three hours. The ones who will applaud and whoop at the end of every class session, at the precise moment the wooden doors swing shut. The ones who do not mince with encouragement and are generous with the handshakes, the high-fives and the pats on the back. The ones who celebrate the smallest of victories and ignore the bad days. There's Mr. Mendoza, otherwise known as Mr. Evidence, who could recite all 37 disputable presumptions word-for-word without the slighest hint of hestitation. Then there's Miss Rios, the resident Miss Evidence, who picked up a nuance in Africa vs. Caltex which no one in the entire history of the course had ever noticed. Of course, there is Mr. Dumlao, the class saviour who stood till the very last day and could tell you where the periods and the commas are in the text of the law. There's Miss Cabrera who always leaves at 7:30 for her Succession class and Miss Canete who does not buckle under pressure. There's Mr. Muniz, Mr. Quilala and Mr. Revillas who are always called at about the same time, one after another. Then there's Miss Boncaron who is always persistent; Mr. Asilo who is always confident and Miss Salazar who is always brilliant. There's Dr. Simangan, the resident physician; Miss Buenavantura, the class beadle and Miss Martin, the cool cat. There's Mr. Salinas, the perfectionist; Miss Sabitsana, the firecracker; Miss Rial, the one with the quiet confidence. They were labelled as our "first line of defense" because they sat on the row immediately in front of ours and once they were called to recite, it would automatically mean we, the ones who sat in the back, were coming up next. Of course, there's Miss Pineda who is great (and loud) at broadcasting her answers to those who are fielded for recitation and Mr. Ridon who was so unlike himself during class hours. There are my seatmates, Mr. Arcilla with his "small eyes" and Miss Mendoza with her pink laptop who types simple reminders like "Relax" on her computer screen, all visible for the ones who are standing, stretching their calf muscles and have to deal with more than just trembling patellas.

And then there's me, the one who started this walk with a curious mix of pessimism and optimism and will sign off at the kiss of sunset - and the adventure - with a grateful heart, a quiet laugh and a fervent hope that this fight will indeed end well.

Redefining Yellow

"It could have been the sunniest day," I thought as I stood in the midst of a sea of yellow. It was the perfect day to go out, take a walk, go for a run, do anything to celebrate the vibrance and warmth of a life well-lived. The sun was back in her golden throne after days of seeing nothing but rain and the dreariness of clouds.

I was standing across 6750 Ayala Avenue at 11 in the morning with my hair wet all scrunched in a ponytail. I had belatedly decided I was going for a walk and my companion was on her way. I didn't mind waiting because the breeze was cool and the air was thick with a stillness which had remained elusive for the longest time.

A few minutes later, I saw her approaching. She made her way through the street with the quiet grace that had long been her trademark. There was nothing pompous, nothing grand about her last walk except perhaps for the yellow blooms which kept her company or the four uniformed men around her who kept quiet watch.

I waited as she came closer, my fingers gripping the iron railings which lined the street. The metal was still curiously cool to the touch despite the sun's grand re-appearance after days of unceasing rain.

The stillness had since dissipated and there was now a wispy feel to the air, like giant cats padding quietly across a stone floor. My walk was about to begin any minute now and I adjusted the strap of my bag on my shoulder.

Nothing could have prepared me for the deluge of yellow flowers and the sight of my country's stripes - the deepest blue, the most fiery red, the purest white, the most vibrant yellow - draped over a wooden box.

As my former President's body slowly passed my inconspicuous little spot along Ayala Avenue, the tears came quietly in a stream as steady as the flow of people who had come to pay their respects to the woman in yellow.

Martial Law Babies in a Revolutionary Society

I was born during an interesting point of Philippine history - right at the fringes of the martial law era and smack at the doorstep of a revolutionary tide that was to radically reshape the environment that I was to grow up in. When I was a couple of months old, then senator Benigno Aquino Jr. was felled by an assassin's bullet in the tarmac of the Manila International Airport and by the time I was three, the Philippines had its first woman president in the person of his widow, Corazon Cojuangco Aquino.

Bespectacled. Calm. Gentle. Mild-mannered. A woman of quiet strength and relentless courage. It was easy to look up to President Aquino with all admiration and hope as her husband had now become one of my great personal heroes. Her smiling face graced the pages of a coffee table book on EDSA Uno, her thumb and index finger stretched out to form the letter "L," symbolizing the Filipino word "laban." That pretty much summed up how the American-educated widow was thrust into the public limelight. She had taken up the cause of her deceased husband and was now fighting for freedom, for liberty and for democracy which the Filipino people deserved. Little did she know that her fight was not to stop the moment she stepped down from office in 1992. The Filipino people still came running to her like little children with scraped knees everytime the cornerstones of democracy came under intense attack. Willingly she came out of the confines of her life as a private citizen, her clear, steady voice cutting like a knife through the haze, akin to the constant sting a probing conscience makes on a guilty mind. At the last moments of her life, she fought the cancer that had ravaged her body until she finally yielded to the eternal rest that she so belatedly deserved.

To be honest about it, I wouldn't be able to tell you exactly what she was like as a President in terms of policy. I was three when she took her oath and was nine when turned over the presidency to Fidel Ramos and all I cared about back then was my daily game of dodgeball. She survived seven coup attempts from disgruntled members and officers of the Armed Forces of the Philippines and I do know she got flack for some of her policies, including the Comprehensive Agrarian Land Reform.

President Aquino was not a perfect President but then she was someone who worked very hard to do what she could in an imperfect society. The fact that she has not lost the people's respect and admiration I think says a lot about the kind of President she was. Her support was still sought after by people in all the issues which has rocked this country's foundations and has threatened to suck our people's pride dry as dust.

President Aquino's strength and courage as a woman was of a different breed. She was not a Gabriela Silang, not a Boadicea, not a Joan of Arc, not a Xena Warrior Princess. It was difficult to imagine her with hair in wild disarray, mouth curled in a raging fit of anger, arms raised in a battle stance. She was more of deep water which ran with a strong current that belied its stillness. I vividly remember a picture of her sprinkling Holy water on her slain husband's coffin. Ninoy's body still bore the marks of his death and his clothes still carried the bloodstains. Her face was composed and her courage was unmistakable. She was determined, unfazed and focused but all tucked within the folds of gentleness, integrity and conscience. She could be tough and unyielding when the circumstances called for it, when truth and freedom were to the impending victims of a pillage. It is interesting to note how yellow, a color which supposedly relates to cowardice, has come to hold a different meaning in the Philippine context.

Yellow: A Color of Courage, Faith and Selflessness

Ever since news of her hospital confinement hit the country in June, yellow ribbons were seen fluttering all about the metropolis - in cars, buses, bicycles, motorcyces, lamp posts, tree trunks. Masses for her healing were held one after another. Where so many politicians and public figures had failed, an ailing former President had succeeded - in uniting once more a nation that was polarized by bitter divisions in class and politics. President Aquino was a woman of intense faith and she had urged the Filipinos to unceasingly pray for the Philippines. The support through prayer came spontaneously like the yellow ribbons which sprouted overnight, like the love which a grateful people felt for the simple housewife who stood up against a dictator.

Her simplicity was astounding and were she not selfless, she would not have taken the burden of becoming the country's president along with all its trappings, intrigues and the immense pressure. When Ninoy Aquino was in exile in Boston for three years, Cory described that time as the "happiest" in their married life. She obviously preferred a quiet life away from the limelight but because her duty as a citizen called for being more than just standing by the sidelines, she bravely accepted what had been thrust into her hands.

A Tale of Two Women

In a time like this, it is difficult for me not to draw comparisons between her and the current President of the country. Both are women, both came from politically affluent families, both were educated, both were thrust into power by a peaceful revolution, both came to prominence at a time of clamor for change, both took their seat as the highest official in the land with the highest hopes of their people spread before their feet like a sheet all ready for treading.

One has earned her people's love and sad to say, the other is in the opposite side of the spectrum. One has constantly upheld the truth and sad to say, the other has not. One has consistently fought for freedom and justice and sad to say, the other has attempted to bury them. One has tried her best to live a life of integrity and has become a beacon of light to her people. Sad to say, the other, even after eight years, has yet to earn her own people's trust.

The Presidency cannot always be about popularity but it does speak so much about what a leader is when her own people have not ceased to respect her.

Walking By

As I stood by that railing in Makati on Monday and walked along with the procession up until the Ninoy Aquino memorial along Paseo de Roxas, I realized that most of the people who stood and walked beside me were people my age. Most of them might have been toddlers or little children when President Aquino came to power. Some of them might not have been born yet even. But we call came to bid our farewell and pay our respects to the woman who had allowed us to grow up in a society where we have a significant degree of freedom, rights and liberties. A woman interviewed on TV said she withstood the heat and the rain just so she could see the late President at the Manila Cathedral, saying it was her "only way to repay" President Aquino. I understand where she was coming from but in reality, we could do so much more for her by continuing to safeguard the democratic ideals she had fought to restore, by not allowing anyone to take away our pride as a nation and as people and by continuing to fight for what is right, what is fair and what is true even in the simplest of circumstances.

A quick to flashback to 2001: I was a freshman in university and I was standing in the middle of the intersection of Ortigas Avenue and EDSA. Right in front of me loomed the huge image of the Virgin Mary atop the EDSA Shrine as people chanted and waved huge placards, urging then President Estrada to resign. It was almost 5PM and I was urging my friends Em and Shyne that I needed to go home badly. I had gone to the rally without my parents' permission and I had to be home before my mother checked on my whereabouts. We were weaving through the crowd and we finally reached a clearing. We slowly walked towards Galleria but when we passed the gate of Corinthian Gardens subdivision, I suddenly stopped and turned around.

"Did you see that?" I asked Em.

"What?" she asked.

I turned around and walked towards the direction of the Shrine just to confirm what I saw. All of a sudden, my excitement took the best of me and I ran back, my knapsack jiggling as I dashed back to the crowd.

Shyne and Em ran after me while shouting "What's going on?"

I turned around and shouted in one breath, "Cory, Cory, Cory!"

It was easy to remember how Shyne ran faster than I did when she heard me. After all, she was shouting "Kris, Kris, Kris" like a true fan girl. It was easy to remember the faces of the people in the crowd looked when they saw the former President approach. After she did so without the slightest bit of fanfare or deluge of bodyguards. But I will never forget what I felt the first moment I saw her emerging from the direction of the subdivision gate. She was in black and walked slowly, casually. She unaccompanied except by her eldest daughter Ballsy on one side and her actress-daughter Kris on the other. The three of them had walked past me when I was heading away from the crowd. I knew it was the former President when I first saw her but my mind went blank just like the black shirt I was wearing. She had a pleasant look on her face and gave everybody a ready smile. I felt something indescribable well up inside me and that was when I ran back like mad just so I could stand in the same crowd with a freedom fighter.

That memory rushed back to me as I stood momentarily in front of the Makati Stock Exchange on Monday morning. The flatbed truck bearing her wooden coffin had come to a halt because of the crowd. When a quiet chant began somewhere, I allowed my fingers to form an "L" as I spoke in unison with the people on the streets: "Cory, Cory, Cory..."

Detour

de⋅tour [dee-toor, di-toor]
–noun
1. a roundabout or circuitous way or course, esp. one used temporarily when the main route is closed.
2. an indirect or roundabout procedure, path, etc.

I don't like detours, especially when the huge yellow sign with a twisted arrow makes a surprise appearance in a place totally unfamiliar to me. When I was learning to drive in Manila and every street corner was as strange as the last one, detours scared me to the tips of my hairstrands. I then had to make use of my inner sense of direction as I'd navigate streets that were totally unfamiliar in order to find my way into a road that I would recognize.

I remember when I had to get a new OR/CR for my car two years ago in some obscure LTO branch located somewhere within the labyrinth that is Sta. Mesa. The streets were narrow, cars were parked along the sidewalk and a couple of streets were closed so I had to take one back road after another until I saw the familiar throng of jeepneys along Aurora. As I made one turn after another in those little side streets, all I could think about was getting out of that maze.

If that was one detour I never want to go through again, there is another detour I wish I relished being in. In Cebu, there was a detour we took by mistake which saw us driving through a breathtaking view of the mountains and a rushing river. But because we were in a hurry to catch a Ro-Ro to San Carlos, all I really remember about that trip was the sound of my fingers angrily drumming on the glass window of the car. All the blah about view of the mountains and the river was just something I tried to reconstruct in my head.

Last week, I turned 26 and everything about this new stick added to the little tally board welded to my brain is a detour. A couple of years back, I had plans of how things would go about at this time of my life and now, those plans are a few blocks away, obscured from my range of sight. Like jeepneys honking their horns, like a train roaring through the tracks, I can hear them, I know they're there but I can't get to them just yet because I need to get in touch with my Inner Compass and work my way through these streets.

For someone who has pretty much mapped out his destination ala the Human Genome Project, being greeted by a detour is like getting whalloped by a thousand pound animal in the face with such intensity that he starts seeing psychedelic stars dancing the cha-cha-cha before his eyes. It is easy to get carried away with the "whys" and the grunting and the whining and the complaining and the scuffling of shoes down an unknown curb. Theseus must have felt the same way as he worked his way along Minos' elaborate labyrinth had he not had Ariadne to guide him.

But no matter what a detour is, despite the extra effort, the longer distance, the expense of time, it still is a journey, no matter how short or how long it may turn out to be. And in my world, every journey thoroughly deserves to be enjoyed with all its peaks and its valleys. Though unexpected, it is littered with little packets of possibly everything which could make this walkabout worthy of every memory cell's mitochondric activity.

Everything that happens in the year that I turned 26 will all be a surprise, pretty much like Jack jumping out of the box, like getting an extra strawberry chunk in my strawberry ice cream. It is good to be in unknown territory once in a while and I easily forget that I had one of the best times of my life when I was thirteen, alone and walking around in a new city in a foreign country.

I am looking forward to a year of long walks
and even longer talks,
tough lessons for the mind
and even tougher lessons for the soul
pealing laughter to rival church bells
endless songs to sing
beautiful mornings
and even more beautiful nights

A year for bones to be broken
and dreams to be restored,
for first chances
and even more shots at a second,
for strawberries to be picked
and for grain to be sown,
for unexpected arrivals
and graceful exits.

A year of tears in battle,
perhaps more tears in victory,
for family, for friends,
and anyone else along the way,
A year for the weary minstrel
to find his song,
A year for the stream of promises,
waiting in the silence of fulfillment.

That should be enough to turn those psychedelic cha-cha-ing stars into black holes.

Me-and-Me

May 1, 7 AM.
Boracay Island, Malay, Aklan

I toss my empty cup of hot chocolate into the trash bin, still bewildered that a Starbucks branch now stands proudly along the seashore of what is touted as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. I always thought the tourism council of Malay was considering a more rustic feel but with the coffee shop proudly showing off its dark green signage along with a Shakey's branch somewhere in Station 2, I was getting the idea that the more natural look was maybe abandoned.

I had gotten up early and judging from Ate Carol and Iting's steady breathing, none of them were about to depart from Slumberland anytime. I quietly changed in the bathroom and locked the room upon leaving. The morning was slightly chilly so I slipped into my coat and realized there was a tiny hole near the right sleeve. Drat!

It had been a long time since I've had a "date" with myself and on that morning, I went on a long walk. I was also trying to rid myself of the guilt from licking my plate of quesadillas clean the night before when I should be on a diet. I had taken off my slippers and the feel of the wet, soft sand and the cool water between my toes was almost magical. I passed by a number of local kids doing cartwheels on the wet sand, their toasted bodies reminiscent of jumping white dots on a piece of white paper. Further on, I walked by two kids racing their Hot Wheels trucks by the seashore. Upon closer inspection, I realized that each truck carried a rather unwilling passenger - a black and white rodent which was frantically trying to get off the moving toy. I walked past Willy's Rock and Jona's Fruit Shakes. The people began to thin as I reached Boracay Terraces. I then turned around and walked back to my point of origin. Upon reaching D' Mall, I walked back towards Boracay Terraces again when I realized the sun had reared its warm head in the midst of the clouds.

I finally walked back to the place where we were staying and reached a row of plastic benches arranged right in front of our resort. None of my companions - Iting, Ate Carol, Ross or Kuya Stan - were anywhere in sight. I figured they might still be enjoying the company of the covers a bit too much. Oh well, that was fine with me.

My feet were still a bit warm from the long walk so I sat on one of the plastic benches positioned strategically under a beach umbrella, took out my Bible and began to read. The passage was about Jesus' encounter with his disciples while they were fishing. This was my favorite post-resurrection story. The disciples had been fishing all night long and they had caught nothing. In the morning, Jesus saw them and told them to cast their nets on the other side of their boat and to their shock, their nets were filled with so many fish that the ropes of the net began to fray.

At that moment, I heard a loud series of "thuds." I looked up from what I was reading and saw that the morning dragon boat race had just started. The wind and the waves had been treacherous ever since we arrived in Boracay and the sky was constantly overcast. The rowers were definitely taking a serious beating as they plunged their oars into the water and drew them back with all their might. The guy up front who was the equivalent of the coxswain in a rowing team was beating his drum steadily. With every stroke, it seemed like the dragon boat and its rowers could be washed ashore but none of them were.

There were about four boats clustered right before me. From the corner of my eye, I spotted one dragon boat which was speeding ahead of the cluster. I figured this boat was be powered my super rowers with arms made of metal or something. As the dragonboats in the cluster desperately tried to catch up, the leader of the pack simply continued to pull ahead and emerge as the runaway winner.

A person can rely so much on his own strength, on his muscle power, on his intelligence. Somehow the assumption is that such strength, power or intelligence is like the fuel which gives rockets that thrust and sends them into the outer realms of space. People can rely on that with absolute dependence that they are left at a loss when such strength fails, especially in times when they are desperately needed. Going back to the rowers, they may have practiced and strengthened their arms but what happens when the situation they are plunged in is far from the ideal, different from what they expected? What happens when their own strength fails them and the heart and muscle fall prey to vulnerability and discouragement?

The years have taught me never to depend on my own set of strengths and abilities. My knees have buckled, my mind has shut down, my strength has been seeped to the point of emptiness. I've slept many nights and such sleep has done nothing to relieve me of the intense weariness which has invaded every corner of my body like a vine. I had grasped at some things and squeezed with all my might only to find them unchanged and my own hands slashed like ribbons. I have reached down deep inside me to pluck up whatever strength I had left and came up wanting.

God picks up where I leave off. It's all a matter of laying everything down at His feet and claiming the promise that I will not be left alone nor forsaken. Indeed He makes up for everything when my strength comes short, when I have done all I can and everything seems to amount to nothing. He has proven Himself to be faithful and true as my Sustainer in so many circumstances I have completely lost count.

I closed my Bible and sat alone for another couple of minutes, breathing in the sight of the sea and the waves crashing into the shore. I knew that at that point in time, I was nowhere near the shore. In one way or another, it was more like I was somewhere in the middle of nowhere, bobbing with the waves like a cork and I know that no matter how much I flail my arms or pull myself toward the shore, there was absolutely no guarantee that, on my own, I could bring myself to shallow water.

A little while later, I turned around to see Ate Carol greeting me good morning. It looked like she had a good night's rest and she volunteered to take a picture of me sitting on the bench. I was glad to have some company again and my me-and-me time had finally come to an end. Actually on second thought, as I went for my long walk on that beach, I did not really have a me-and-me time to begin with.

The Special Jam

Once upon a time, in a blue planet called Earth, there was a tiny, nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific. On that tiny, nose-shaped island was a city criscrossed by a river. Somewhere near that river was a house with a white roof, stone walls and a 30-year old tree which stood by its lonesome in the front yard. Somewhere inside that house, there lived a little girl.

This little girl loved to do so many things. She played her little wonky-tonky piano. She climbed the huge tree in the garden. She made an obstacle course out of old tires and string. She dug a hole in the front yard, hoping to get to Brazil. She dug another hole on another side of the yard with hopes of finding a velociraptor fossil. She made mud pies and topped them with flowers. She washed her socks near the water pump in the garden. She sang lullabies. She flew paper planes with secret messages hidden under the flaps. But above all this, there was one thing which topped the little girl's list of things to do. She absolutely loved to eat.

The little girl's father was an excellent cook. In fact, he was a wizard in the kitchen. No one else in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth was as skilled in the culinary arts as the little girl's father. He made sunny-side ups with ketchup smilies and mouth-watering shepherd's pie. His fish-and-chips was a mealtime winner as well as his trademark macaroni-and-cheese. The steamed rice was always fragrant and the vegetable dumplings were crunchy. The roasted chicken was a runaway hit as much as the fresh salad. The mashed potatoes were always warm and drowning in gravy and the cheesecake and chocolate-chip cookies were sweet and soft.

But the little girl's father made one farely simple meal which his daughter absolutely loved above all the fancy meals he made - toast with butter and his special home-made jam. No one else in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth made jam like this. The little girl usually had her sweet snack a couple of hours before noon, just around mid-day when she was in the middle of her front yard activities. Her father would call out her name and when he did, she would drop whatever was in her hands to rush inside the house and enjoy her snack. The toast was brown and crisp. The butter was soft and warm but the jam was the best. The sweetness was not too strong for the palate and the jam had a fruity-creamy taste to it which went absolutely well with the toast and butter. The jam and the butter were generously spread all over the toast that the filling would sometimes drip beyond the bread and onto the plate where it usually sat.

Day in and day out, the routine proceeded as such. The little girl went through her daily activities in the front yard while her father would keep an eye on her while doing his own brand of magic in the kitchen. By midday, he would call out to her for their quick snack together and she would rush in and sit beside him as she licked her fingers clean of her favorite toast, butter and jam ensemble. Day in and day out, morning till night, that was the life of the little girl and her father who lived in a house in the city criscrossed by the river nestled in a nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific on the blue planet called Earth.

One day, the little girl woke up as usual and walked to the front yard for her usual daytime activities. She brought out her tiny tin box filled with small, plastic soldiers smartly dressed in their red coats and fur hats. She arranged her mini army in flanks and ranks and brought out her little bugle so she could play some form of battle music for her plastic troops. She was so engrossed in her work when she realized that it was already past midday and her father had not yet called her in for their snack of toast, butter and jam. Puzzled, she ran to the kitchen and found him there, emerging flushed from the oven as he took out freshly baked loaves of bread.

"Papa," she said. "It's midday. Are we not going to have our snack?"

Her father smiled at her and answered, "I thought we ought to try something different today. I was thinking you were getting a little pudgy," he answered with a tease. "But if you're hungry," he added, "we can have the toast now."

The little girl bit her lip and thought to herself. She did not think she was as pudgy as her father hinted she was becoming but she realized she wasn't that hungry yet anyway. Besides, while building her mini version of the battle of Waterloo, she had a bright idea of constructing a make-believe town out of her dolls and other toys just a few meters away from the "battlefield." That ought to give the entire setup a more realistic feel.

"I'm not hungry," she declared. "We can have the toast later, Papa. Thank you." With that she skipped back to her front yard while her father shot a quick glance at her retreating form.

She sat down on the grass and arranged her dollhouse on one side of the garden, a few feet away from the battlefield. She made pinwheels out of plastic and paper and moved some pots of plants and flowers into her little town center. She placed her dolls in various positions and scattered small branches and twigs in a make-believe park. She made mini-skyscrapers out of matchboxes. She shook beetles from the leaves of the tree, tied up their wings and placed them on the little town center as overweight horses.

Morning sped into noontime and the little girl continued with her work, not even noticing the noonday heat pierce through her red dress. She blew into her little bugle and the mock battle proceeded. The enemies were defeated and the little town and its horse-beetles were declared safe from the invaders. All was well in the front yard.

Except, that is, for the little girl's stomach.

It was now rumbling and grumbling, as if a herd of buffaloes went on a stampede inside her tummy. She glanced up at the sky and saw that it was blue bordering on orange, indicating it must be pushing into late afternoon. She wondered where her father was and what on earth he was doing.

As if he were reading her thoughts, her father called out her name and said "Snacktime!"

She abandoned her little town and sped to the table like a bullet to have her long overdue meal. She found her father sitting on the table with the toast on a plate and she rushed to her chair.

"I thought I was never gonna have one of the--" she began to say as she climbed into her chair. She stopped midway and stared at the toast sitting on the plate on top of the table. She looked up to her father with eyes full of bewilderment and then she frowned.

Her father again read her mind perfectly. He inhaled slowly and said gently, "That's the different thing I wanted to try today."

The toast was warm and the scent of the bread with butter and jam was unmistakeably familiar. But this time, the butter and jam filling was almost invisible. In fact, it only occupied a small section of the toast, right on the center of it, like a ballerina in the middle of an otherwise empty stage.

"But I'm not pudgy," she began to protest.

"I know," her father answered. "But that's all you're gonna have today."

"Why?" the little girl asked as her eyes began to brim with tears and her stomach continued to roar in rage.

"Just eat," her father said calmly and pushed the plate towards her.

She knew better than to protest or whine. She reached out for the piece of toast and stole another glance at her father. His answer to her silent plea was "Go on, eat."

She exhaled sharply and began to nibble at the bread. It was warm and crisp like before but without the jam and the butter, it did taste a bit flat. But she was hungry and she needed to quell the revolt that was now being staged by her gastric system. She sighed and continued to chew. She was so eager to get to the center but realized she ought to save the best part - the section of the bread with the oozing chunk of butter and the sweet jam - for last. So she bit and chewed and nibbled at the toast - right, left, small chunks here, bigger chunks there. She carefully worked her way around the areas without the butter and the jam, ignoring the clamor for the sweetness and the creaminess. All the while, her father sat on his chair, watching her.

Finally all she had left was the remainder of the piece of toast with the jam and the butter on top of it. She stared at it, as if it were cherry on top of a cake. She turned to look at her father who gave her a small smile.

"Do you promise we won't have to do this again tomorrow?" she asked hopefully.

Her father looked at her with quiet gentleness. He brushed back a stray strand of hair which had fallen out of place from her ponytail and his hand finally lingered on her face.

"I can't make that promise, I'm sorry," he answered. "That's the last of my special jam."

Her eyes widened with surprise. No more of her favorite jam? No more of that special sweet concoction which was the only one of its kind in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth? This cannot be happening!

"Well you can make more, can't you? You always have," she pleaded through tears which now refused to stop flowing from her eyes.

Her father shook his head slowly but he never took his eyes away from her. "I'm not making the special jam anymore."

She placed the remnant of the toast on her plate and began to cry. How was she to go through each day without her special snack of toast with butter and her father's special jam? It was what she looked forward to every morning, after a long day in the front yard with her dolls, her soldiers, her mudpies and her beetles.

The little girl felt her father's hand on her shoulder and she heard him whisper "I think you need to eat your toast now. The butter is melting."

She took another glance at her father. His eyes still had that quiet gentleness but were themselves brimming with tears. He gave her a small, quiet smile as he wiped her face. "Go on, eat it. Eat it, my child," he prodded.

Struggling with her fingers, she picked up the remnant of the toast, closed her eyes and made her first bite. Her teeth sank on the warmth of the bread, the softness of the butter, the sweetness of the jam. The creaminess was beyond what she remembered. The jam was subtle in its sweetness but it had never tasted as delicious as this before. The toast all of a sudden acquired new life with the butter and jam. As she chewed, she remembered the sound of her father's voice calling her, the waft of baked bread from the kitchen, the slurping sound she and her father made as they both licked their fingers clean after the meal, their hearty laughter as they bit into their favorite midday snack.

The toast was gone a little bit too soon. The little girl brushed the bread crumbs off her dress. Even if she was full, she felt hollow somewhere inside as if she had swallowed chunks of air which left her feeling bloated. That was it. With one bite, the last piece of toast with butter and her favorite special jam had disappeared, never to be seen or tasted again in the city criscrossed by the river, in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth. The sweetness left a sting on her tongue.

She blinked back tears as she clambered off her chair. Her father watched her patiently. "Are you going back to the yard?" he asked.

She knew she ought to go back. Dusk should come in a while and it looked like it might rain. She needed to untie the beetles and allow them to crawl back to the tree. The dolls were probably getting dirtier by the minute and the little plastic soldiers were scattered all over the yard.

Instead she walked up to her father, clambered into his lap and began to cry as he enfolded her in his arms.

Rain began to fall on the white roof of the house with stone walls in the city criscrossed by the river, nestled in the nose-shaped island somewhere in the Pacific, in the blue planet called Earth.

Note:
Thanks to my friend Bannanna for introducing me to Kopiroti's Kaya toast (the progenitor of the toast-with-butter-and-jam concoction in this story). It's really great comfort food, especially at a time when the heart is overcome by what author William Young has called the Great Sadness. It also goes well with a mug of milk tea! A quick shout-out to Bananna's boyfriend Marbs whose weird/unique manner of eating Kaya toast is illustrated in this story.