So My Sister Got Married Yesterday

December 12, 2013

“So my sister got married yesterday.”

I thought as I sat in front of my dresser with a small tub of cotton and acetone, dabbing the liquid on my fingernails as I slowly began to remove the remaining traces of the pale pink nail polish my lola’s nurse had painstakingly painted on the keratin wads of my phalanges just a day before the wedding.  I was drowsy, having ingested a rather strong antibiotic in a pre-emptive bid to counter an impending fever, and had fallen asleep as she began to work on my fingers in an effort to hide the mud and and dirt which had left ugly brown stains under my nails.  I was not about to let the sickness - and the horrid sight of brown stains - get in the way of a wedding my mother and I had been working on for the past eight months.  With Yolanda stirring a frenzy just a month before the big day that my only sister was scheduled to tie the knot, our work went on quadruple time.  All of a sudden, there was a need to divide our efforts between distributing invitations, making last minute AVPs and finalizing the wedding menu with supervising the repair of the church where she was to be married and replanting its yard which was completely overrun with fallen trees and patches of mud.

The church where my sister was to be married two days after typhoon
Haiyan (Yolanda) hit the Philippines.  The trusses on the right
side were licked clean of the gavlanized roofing sheets.  A tree
fell on the left side of the church, causing the steel trusses to
curl like noodles.  

The church's front yard was overrun with fallen trees.

I did not quite understand what or how to feel.  After all, my sister and I practically had been living somewhat apart the past couple of years so there was no need for a dry run, so to speak.  Besides, she was now all set to live in a house just a few minutes away from ours and that necessarily did not seem to spell “never seeing her again.”  But undeniably, things were indeed going to be different.  Our longtime cook was telling me it was going to be awkward leaving her place on the table blank and that, she said, made her feel quite sad.  I munched on my cookie as we talked, still trying to understand what she was trying to say.  The house was certainly going to feel more roomy and sound less noisy.  But this was the way it was meant to be, I thought.  That’s what my dad often told us when we were children, that we were all someday going to fly the coop and look for our own places to nest.  It just so happened that she went ahead and did it first, a stark contrast from our world where it was I who usually made the initial step. 

The strong smell of acetone was making my nose twitch as I replaced the cap.  I began to notice the usual white film develop on my fingernails and proceeded to scratch them off with one nail tip like snow from a car’s dashboard, watching almost-microscopic flakes flutter into the vinyl floor of the room we used to share as children.  My sister, the rambunctious, cheery, naughty, silly member of the family, was now officially off the singles chart.  That most likely meant that my days as “the one who made things happen for her” - in my mom’s words - were finally over.  Now that was a relief, in some sense.  From another perspective, it left me with a pair of pants that suddenly felt a little looser.  

My sister and I, much like a lot of siblings in the history of mankind, never got along every time.  Sometimes, we would get along fine.  Other times, we would be sneaking jabs or pinches at each other.  We fought like feline and canine and, in one instance during the days of black-and-white TV with just four channels, she was so angry with me when I refused to switch to a show she wanted that she sank her incisors on my belly, resulting in one of my most traumatic of wounds and the most persistent of scars.  With us, there was always eventual screaming and kicking after a rather peaceful episode of play.

Despite our penchant for always getting on each other’s throats, our parents had carved out our roles early on - she was to be the baby and I, as the “ngangang,” (my sister’s mispronunciation of the Ilonggo word “manang” becuase of an early speech impediment) was to be the one looking out for her.

It surely was not an easy task growing up, especially when I was always outdoors climbing mountains and trees with the bigger kids and she was always too little to grab the nearest branch or too slow to catch up with all the running.  When we started doing children’s choir together, I had to make sure I did not leave her behind.  In Sunday School, I had to walk to her classroom to check on her every so often because she was scared of her teacher for reasons only she could give.  In school, I would do a huge bulk of her writing assignments or check her work.  Often, she would tell me how one classmate would pick a fight with her so that in the afternoon, I would find myself hovering over that poor classmate like a Ringwraith, big sister style.  We both hated being compared to the other, although that never became an issue between us.  People would brand us with labels and there was always the expectation that one of us was going to be like the other.  But with my sister and me, that was never going to happen.  Early on, we both knew we were meant to do different things. 

In college, she joined me in Manila and our mother was surprised to see she had packed so a little in a bag that was about as big as a carry-on.  Mom asked her about the things she needed like extra jeans, towels, shirts and other things.  She nonchalantly answered, “I’ll just borrow from Manang.”  This she said, despite the fact that she knew I deeply despised her closet raiding.  I kept a sharp eye out for guys who were interested in her and did not keep my reins in telling her off that a guy she liked who most probably liked her too was seriously bad news.  When she came home one day with her heart broken, all I could really do was listen to her as she talked while looking mournfully out the window and offer to swing by 7-Eleven for a towering cone of ice cream.

Eventually, when we both went to law school, I would do her groceries, pick her up from her dorm every weekend and, sometimes, reformat her computer.  I still screened her suitors and would tell her when I did not like one or the other.  I had, however, slowly taken a backseat as I noticed she could do a lot of things on her own already.  That felt good, knowing that she was slowly growing up and taking charge.  Oftentimes, she would do some things which I felt were not right, inadequate or up to my standards.  She would then quickly retort, “Well, you let me do that didn’t you?  If you don’t like how I did it, you should have done the work yourself.”  She was right in some aspect of that statement.  I had to give her a bit of leeway if I let her take the wheel because, in the event that she made a wrong turn, she would learn from that a lot faster.

“So my sister got married yesterday.”

What did that exactly mean?  I had finished rubbing the stubborn remnant of the nail polish from my fingers and threw the cotton wads into the trash bin.  Probably that meant letting go and letting someone else do the job - of being the one who looked out for her, the one who made things happen.  That thought made me smile.  Because despite the fact that in my eyes, my sister still needed a lot of work, especially in terms of her cooking, I knew she could take on the job of being homemaker, wife and mother very well.  

Maid of (Dis)Honor duties during my sister's wedding.

That is, until today, when she told me she would need help setting up her router and Wi-Fi.  Then I remembered what she told me one day when I was finalizing the souvenirs for her wedding: “Manang, when I have kids, can I leave them with you?”

I twiddle my thumbs at the thought.

Twin Tussle

Sometimes I think there’s a little tug-of-war going on inside of me.  On other days, it gets worse and escalates into a full-blown, all-out rampage as the wide-eyed wanderlust-cum-daydream believer gets her knees all wound up around the hands of the small-city girl who thrives on simple joys.  

The wanderlust/daydreamer is ambitious, hopefully not to a fault.  She wants to see, hear, taste and touch everything not just because she wants to say “Been there, done that.”  It’s because she wants to answer questions on her own.  She wants to take up the sword that she knows is a tad bit too heavy and slay the dragon that she can see is a mite bigger than a skyscraper.  She wants to get a burn on her shoulder so that she can feel the rawness of the pain and the almost barbaric way it eats into your flesh.  She wants to feel what it’s like to get up and walk again.  She wants to feel her head spin like a kaleidoscope until she hits the threshold.  She wants to be blinded momentarily by the sun as she stares at it straight.  She wants to feel the wind on her face and to walk on sand that she has never stepped on before.  She wants to lose so that she could win again.  She wants to see whether the books were right when it spoke about lightning and fairytales.  She wants to see for herself how cocoa becomes chocolate and how the sugar could eventually lead to diabetes - in technicolor.

On the other side of the spectrum, steadily grasping at the ankles of the wanderlust, is the one of quiet mornings.  She gives in to the persistent knocking of the other one but continues to hold on, not barely, not defiantly, not desperately.  She is patient and tempered and knows where her vision ends and what her hands can reach.  She is easily satiated and looks forward to tomorrow without thinking about the days that may follow.  She is settled, calm and collected.  She may not completely know what she wants but she realizes there is joy in mystery and value in surprises.  She lets her more turbulent twin go off to the world in her whinnying pony but keeps her grasp firm just to make her presence felt.  

As of today, it’s the latter who has taken a backseat as the wanderlust walks the streets while Davy Jones sings in the background.  

But she who grasps knows that, at the end of the day, the only place anyone would want to head for is home.

Thank You

    I promised myself that if I either passed or failed that grueling mind-bender called the bar examinations, I was going to write this "thank you" note.  After all, "thank you" notes do not depend on the outcome as an expression of gratitude is always deserved by those who simply go out of their way to do something for another.

    The entire bar examination process - the review starting late April, the examinations in November and the sanity-sapping wait until February - was what a recent reflection article called my "wilderness experience."  It was at this point when I encountered my lowest, most trying moments.  I came face-to-face with the fact that I was not ready for this mastodon of an exam.  I was not good enough, I did not know enough and I was not smart enough.  I reached the teeniest, tiniest ends of all my ropes and I was tempted more than once to just throw in the towel and shift my game to next year.  I was either being very silly or being very brave.  In the end, I threw caution to the wind and took my chances when I realized that I was not going anywhere if I did not stare at fear straight down its gigantic throat even if it really looked like the thing was going to swallow me whole and spit my bones out for the flies to suck.  It was only when I was pared, peeled and diced to nothingness that I really felt my God infuse me with strength which I knew could not have come from any part of myself despite the ten-pound weight gain.

    The waiting period was different.  God had been so unusually quiet the entire time.  A lot of times it felt like we were both sitting side by side in a bench and I'd ask Him a bar exam update question to which He would respond by talking about something else which was completely unrelated to my concern.  I never got so far as to ask him for a sign because I was too puppy dog scared to do so.  But I talked to God a lot, especially when I did my long walks or took my bicycle out.  I tried to talk to Him when I biked along the rocky terrain of my hometown's dusty roads.  No response.  I tried to talk to Him when I walked down the entire length of Boracay's white beach, with the fine sand between my toes.  No response.  I also tried to talk to Him as I hiked up and down Camp John Hay's off-road trails, smelled the pine trees and shivered in Baguio's chilly air.  Still no response.  Even on the very night before my exams, He was leading me towards Song of Songs.  Seriously?  Song of Songs before the day which was threatening to wield an enormous impact on my life?

    A few times, God did respond.  But seriously, it wasn't always helpful.  His replies were ambiguous and almost playful at times.  For instance, when SC Spokesperson Atty. Midas Marquez made the announcement of the number of bar passers on Tuesday, my sister and I were in the mall and her bladder all of a sudden went haywire.  The first thing we saw after she emerged from the bathroom was a book sitting in its holder in a bookstore's sill: "Pass or Fail," the title said.  We went downstairs to buy something and we almost ran into a standee of actress Judy Ann Santos carrying a cake which bore the words "Let's Celebrate!"  Feeling more optimistic now, we hurried to the parking lot where we were met by a huge, ominous looking tarpaulin complete with pictures of lightning bolts which proclaimed: "The end is near."

    But God knew my limits.  He knew when I could take the silence no longer.  Like when I was walking aimlessly around a bookstore and I chanced upon a book written by a pastor sitting on top of a shelf on Trade and Industry.  "Help My Unbelief" the book title plainly said.  Right on the Trade and Industry shelf, I tell you.  A few meters away, as I ambled past the crafts section, a framed colored sand artwork clearly stated "I will not leave you nor forsake you."  Ambiguous as to what I wanted to hear?  Yes.  But not ambiguous as to what I needed to be told.

    At the end of my wilderness experience, I come out overwhelmed and greatly humbled.  It is true that I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me - yes, even those which I know very well are beyond my capacity.  I also emerge eternally grateful to you who have been His instruments in more ways than one.  

    My mom and my dad!  I cannot say "thank you" enough.  You have taught me everything I know and have never withheld anything from Inday and me.  I know, Mom, I told you several times that you needed to calm down but who am I to downplay your natural tendency to ensure no bad thing ever walks us.  The next time that something like this happens, I will have a sphygmomanometer and extra tablets of Catapress just in case your BP shoots up like crazy again.  Thank you, Dad, for meeting us just after the first and last set of exams ended on the first and fourth Sundays of November and for going all the way to Manaoag to pray and for being a pillar of strength even if inside you were all Jell-O.

    My crazy sister!  You have done it!  Pushing you when you stubbornly refused to budge was a more difficult job than learning Hungarian.  This bar exam was all about you and not me.  Besides, truth be told, you really know a lot more than I do.  You will promise me that you will not let anyone put you down or make you feel any less than the person that you are.  Unless you want me to follow you around for the rest of your life which is really not  good thing to see when you're 90 and I'm 92 and your dentures are falling off.

    My Tita Vilma and Tito Dan who kept us fat with all the food, especially the yummy Mien San beef tendon noodles.  You cried and rejoiced with us and took time off from your busy schedules just to listen to us rant.  You reminded me to keep my chin up and to just keep on pushing until I could no longer feel my own fear.  Thank you for encouraging me to always keep on trying, that "bara-bara" may just get you somewhere.  And, oh my goodness, it actually did.  My uncles, aunts and cousins from the Villanuevas and the Espinosas who sent their encouragement and prayers, I truly appreciate being able to talk to you when everything just seemed a little to much to bear.  Manang Apple and Manang Maya, thank you so much for being there for Inday and me, just like the older sisters that you both are to us.

    To my dear blockmates, you guys have been amazing!  From the goodie bags to the early morning hugs and send-offs, my words just fall short.  Bryan, Jojo, Marge, I really appreciate your reassurance that everything was going to turn out all right.  Lora, you were my rock and I do not know how I could have gone through each day without texting you.  Joey, thank you for your notes, your time and your reminder to always keep my chin up.  Rean, I took your advice to heart when I started panicking because I couldn't answer anything initially in the Political Law exam.  I took a deep breath just as you said and I was fine again.  Caps and Ricky, thank you for dropping by my room to calm me down that first Saturday night.  Kooky and Yella, thank you for forcing me to sit down and eat breakfast that you set before me on that first Sunday morning when I absolutely refused to ingest anything and was fighting off continuous retching.  

    To Cams, Jill, Loraine and everyone in the UP Bar Operations Commission - we cannot thank you enough for everything you have done for us from the reviewers, lectures and food up to the last-minute tips and the send-offs.  What goes around comes around.  To Raj and UP Women in Law, thank you for facilitating all of our needs and requests and for the academic materials which made cramming so much easier.

    To our band of prayer warriors - I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  The texts, phone calls, Facebook messages, letters and tweets just did wonders for our confidence and once more fanned our resolve, especially during the difficult days.  To Tita Bebing and Tito Martin Sanchez, Tito Ben Aplaon and family, Tito Stanley Madera family and Manong Deo Arroyo and family who always made their presence felt, Inday and I are just a loss for words as to how thankful we are to you.  To all our friends in ILIASCO Canopy Church, Taguhangin Christian Fellowship, ERM Baptist Church and Greenhills Christian Fellowship, you constantly lifted us up to God as we went through our period of tribulation.  When we were down on our knees with desperation, you reminded us that we were already in the best position to pray.  Indeed, there is great joy in praying for each other.

    My professors in law school - I can only hope that we will make you proud.  Thank you for teaching us that there is a huge responsibility that comes with knowledge and for the reminder that we must serve the nation in the best way that we know how.  Dean Marvic Leonen, Prof. Ted Te, Prof. Victoria Avena, Prof. Domingo Disini, Prof. Beth Pangalangan, Dean Tony Lavina, Profs. Gigo Alampay and Rudy Quimbo and Prof. Vic Mamalateo - I really valued everything I learned in your classes.  Thank you so much.

    My dearest friends who get their name from an episode of Futurama (hahaha), can I just say...this is crazy!  Sue and Doi, you know I love you so I'll stop now.  Ronald, I appreciate that you prayed for me on all four Sundays and texted me every afternoon just to check if I was still alive or breathing.  If I told you I was fine, I lied because I was always a bundle of nerves.  But I am really all right now, for real.  Sharon, thank you for scaring me a couple of times and for reassuring me that it was all right that I couldn't remember everything I read...and that Tax Law was, in a lot of ways, similar to Organic Chemistry.  Now hurry up and come home with that PhD.  Dang, Jenny, Thea, Julie, Zaid and Reah, now is probably a good time to start laying the groundwork for that project.

    Anna Banana, Em and Kate, thank you for taking the time to text or call to remind me that I needed a break.  Thank you for the dinners, the late-night conversations, midnight cupcakes, Twitter requests and for "s"-less congratulations.  I really value your friendship.  Now we can finally focus on Banana's wedding.

    To the people who knew exactly what we were going through and always made their presence felt, you made me feel stronger than I thought I was.  My cousin Barbie who tweet-held my hand from morning till the moment the results were released in the afternoon,  you will have your place in the sun.  I fiercely believe that.  Let me hold your hand when your turn comes, just as you virtually did for me.  What are cousins for?  My cousin Atty. Jeeli Espinosa, you are a person we look up to.  You taught me that fear is a great motivator but that a desire to be become a better version of yourself is to be given utmost importance.  Atty. Radney Garcia, thank you for the lectures and the Sababan Tax notes which literally saved me from complete Tax ignorance.  Atty. Maricor and Sheen Parido, thank you for taking care of Inday for the first three Sundays of the exams.

    Ate Carol, I missed our Figaro/Taco Bell sessions when I was reviewing.  Thank you for your time.  I really miss talking to you.

    My PINC growth group mates, I miss you most of all.  Lianne, your call completely changed our afternoon, especially when the web browser stubbornly refused to reload and all we could see were the surnames ending in "L."  Riza, Macor and Mayla, I thank you for the prayers.  Ate Sheila, thank you for keeping it real for Inday and me.  Jessica, you have been so encouraging.  And dear Joyce, you have been nothing short of inspiring.

    Harvest, giving you all up, albeit temporarily I hope, was a huge sacrifice I had to make.  But thank you for ministering to me as I listened to you sing from the congregation when I decided to go on leave.  Thank you for being a group which I could easily call my family - where I had "mother figures" (Ate Katsch, Ate Ann, Ate Lorna), older sisters (Anissa, Ate Jocy, Iting, and Sara), kaberks (Tepi and Venice), a deluge of older brothers who always knew the best places to eat (Kuya Zeb, Kuya Jojo, Kuya Stan, Ross and Edmund) and a cute bunso bunch (Jourd and Hannalee).  You all saw me struggle through every difficult exam, every bad recitation, every challenging court hearing, every lengthy pleading and have prayed incessantly for my sister and me.  My deepest thanks.

    To the people who went on this journey with me - I am simply beside myself with joy in seeing how much we have grown all these years and I am excited to see where this new road is going to take us.
        Charisse, my legal aid partner, my go-to girl, my study buddy, my closest friend in law school and my constant fashion critique - thank you for teaching me to seek my own level and to see the joy in waiting even when the rest of the world seems to be in hyperspeed.
        Edel, talking to you always makes me smile and laugh.  Always.
        Jonas, you said "We got this" and I didn't believe you.  Now I do.
        Anton and Ajang, I think I told you a lot of wrong things and I'm sorry.  I'm gonna say it again: I'm the wrong person to ask.
        Jat, I'm itching to go to Coron because of (what used to be) your tan.
        Chris, I'm going to borrow Tyrion's words: Know who you are and wear it on your sleeve for they shall never be able to hurt you.
        Giulia, victory comes in every encounter.
        Rach, Dahlia, Apple, Ice, Ja, Terry, Sarah, we finally got what we had long worked so hard for.
        Tito Romy, it was a privilege, an honor and a blessing to have been your blockmate all these years.    

    To the complete stranger who went up to me when I was reviewing early in the morning in Jollibee East Avenue just to tell me to study hard and give it my all, that gesture was something I would never forget.

    To all the fastfood establishments and coffee joints that tolerated my almost-daily, invasive presence, it was a symbiotic thing really.

    To the two little girls I met in the Office of Legal Aid who gave me the affirmation that being a lawyer was really what I wanted to be, I pray that I can carry that focus with me as the days and years go by.

    To everyone (friends, classmates, family) who sent my sister and me encouragement and support in every way, my deepest, most profound thanks.

    And lastly to my grandparents,

    my Papang, Nemesio Villanueva, who taught me to love my country;
    my Lolo, Atty. Gerson Espinosa, who taught me to love the law;

    my Lola, Aida Rojas, who taught me to love my God; and
    my Mamang, Rosita Beltran, who taught me to love the written word,
    this is for you.

The Night Before

28 February 2012, 11 p.m.

So what does a girl do on the eve of one of the most important days of her life?

Months ago, I imagined I would be biting my nails to nothingness and fighting off sleeplessness, all while leafing through my Bible furiously and perhaps waiting for some divine sign that everything was going to be all right.

Instead, I am combing through about seven hundred photos of a recent family trip to Boracay, rinsing my seawater-infused snorkelling gear, picking out really stubborn whiteheads from my nose with a tweezer and trying to get one of my dogs to stop following me around.  There is a certain calmness which has enveloped me and I know I will be reaching for my Bible just before bedtime to do my nightly reflection and say a small prayer.  I can feel a slight pinch of nervousness, the kind that is less disturbing than the pain brought about by a small red ant taking a bite off the flesh in my toe.  I never imagined I would be tweeting or uploading photos in Facebook.   

Even THE day itself is typically non-existent.  The day I either pass or fail the bar examinations technically exists only every four years.  So if I intend to celebrate the anniversary of my deep heartache or extreme jubilation, I would be unable to do so every year.  I guess it makes one realize how insignificant this day should be - how ever it turns out, even if it unfolds in my favor.  This day does not define me, it does not make me who I am, it does not set what I can or cannot do.

Tomorrow will be another gateway into something better.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

When the Laws of Science Collide

One of the many things that I love about science is its universality in terms of application. Many scientific concepts have found their way in daily conversation and sometimes, their scientific root is forgotten.

In high school, chemistry and physics were two subjects I had to study. I loathed physics whereas chemistry was always the more interesting read (nothing beat biology, though). There were two concepts from these branches of science which have come to have a different meaning for me as time goes by: momentum and catalyst. One starts things off and the other technically gets the ball rolling.

A catalyst, if my high school memory would not fail me, is a substance which allows a chemical reaction to proceed at a much faster rate. The catalyst itself does not undergo any major change in the course of the chemical reaction. Momentum, on the other hand, is one of the simplest formulas to remember. It is simply defined as M = (m) (v) or mass multiplied by velocity. It is that amount or quantity of motion of a body which would depend on how heavy it is and on how fast it is going at a point in time. The easiest example for such a concept is a ball rolling (thus the last sentence in the previous paragraph). A bigger ball rolling at a faster speed naturally has more momentum than a smaller, slower ball. Both the concept of a catalyst and of momentum have no apparent relation in the realm of science but upon closer examination, one can see that both fit the earlier correlation I earlier made. As I said, a catalyst gets things started at a much faster rate whereas the momentum keeps the ball rolling.

In both the theoretical and the figurative sense, a catalyst may not be the equivalent of momentum. After all, what started the spark in the first place may not be the same as that which keeps the candle burning. The natural progress of the inquiry would then delve into the question of which among the two would be more important: the firestarter or the one which keeps the party going. An almost immediate answer would naturally point to momentum. After all, any explosion can start but if nothing propels it forward like a grenade launcher, it's going to pretty much burn itself into the oblivion that it dust particles. But upon closer introspection, the catalyst itself is also rather important. In the first place, it gives the push, the shove and practically determines how far one can go. It sets the direction for the movement, where everything is headed and whatever it is that needs to be hit, crashed into or, simply, achieved.

If every new door, every new opportunity, every new year were a catalyst, I'd wish it were the type that would accelerate the right chemical reaction at the right pace with a particular end product in mind. If it were to be the momentum one seeks, I wish it would be the perfect combination of the optimal mass, the appropriate speed, the best angle and the most favorable of circumstances so as to send any ball rolling and any pendulum swinging for as long as it is possible.

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.