Things Better Left Unsaid - Part 1

I want to cry. I need to cry. But it seems like my tear ducts have dried up.
They say that some things are better left unsaid. I didn't believe in that.
Until we stopped. Until he stopped.

First Sunday of April 2008. I woke up at around 2 pm. I felt like the world was resting on my head. I couldn't stand up because the world around me was spinning. So I sat on my bed. I was trying to recollect my thoughts and trying to remember how I got home. Nothing. The only thing I could remember was I was with Dave and Caren having a discussion, err, argument about Conrado de Quiros the night before at some bar.

Two days after, I wanted to go out but everyone was busy. I decided to go out all by myself and went to this bar where I was last time. I was getting in the bar, then I thought the car parked near the bar's entrance was familiar. But nothing registered. The place was full. There was one table near the counter though, a table for three that seemed empty. I was about to sit myself when this guy pulled one of the chairs and sat himself too. He was smiling at me. As if struck by lightning, everything came back. That's why the car was familiar. That's why I woke up at 2 pm. It was Steve. He was wearing a white shirt. The print said "Don't even think about it." It was black, the print.

He's working at the City Hall, at the City Treasurer's office. He is 29 years old and about 5 feet 6 inches tall. His hair, well, he has a shaved head. He has quite a nose. It looks very much like Michael Douglas'. He is a tad darker than I am. His eyes, black. And when they look at me, they're like the most sincere pair of eyes that ever locked into mine. His voice, well, like a rock star's.

"Damn! I couldn't believe it. Look who's here?" "I couldn't believe myself either," I replied.

The first Saturday of April 2008. I was with Dave and Caren. We've had just two rounds of beer. We were feasting on these beef strips cooked in coconut milk, butter and shrimp paste. And some nuts. We were arguing about Conrado de Quiros. I was telling them that I started hating the columnist since he started hating PGMA. But I still read him though. Dave was saying that someone had to stand up and simply say bluntly what evil PGMA is. I was saying, more like shouting already, that she isn't all that bad, when this guy from across our table grinned and he was looking at me. I didn't so much mind about it. But he kept doing it, every time I was getting too emotional defending PGMA.

I was calm at that time. I approached him. He was all by himself. He was already there when Dave, Caren and I arrived at the bar. "So, you seem to be enjoying our conversation back there." "Not really," he said. "I mean, you are drinking your beer. Give those guys a break. Just enjoy your beer," he continued. He politely asked me to join him in his table. For a moment there, I hesitated. But heck, how many times do I get invited to join a guy's table!

He was having pizza with his beer. There were six slices left on the platter. He was almost done with his second slice. It was carelessly placed on a saucer, black saucer, (the second slice). He asked Rafa, one of the waiters, for another saucer and a fork. I excused myself for a while. "I'll just go tell my friends I ran into someone, ok?" "Ok," he replied and then sheepishly smiled.

I was back at his table in a jiffy. I sat in front of him. The table had three chairs. "So, you often do this? I mean go out alone?" "Some nights, well most nights actually," he answered without even looking at me. His thoughts seemed to have been wandering someplace else. He called out to Rafa again and asked for a bucket of 5+1. This guy wants to be drunk tonight, I mumbled to myself.

We made this a regular thing. Usually on Sundays and Thursdays. Of course there are weeks that we miss out. I was busy. He had to go out of town. I had to be with my friends. He had to be with his mom. I fought a bout with colds. He had a fight with his Dad. I had to finish some slides. He had to chaperon his kid sis.

(To be continued...)

Underneath It All

Something I wrote three years ago...

I feel safe around him. I feel appreciated. And, I want to play with the idea that I am loved every time I am with him.

But I really don’t know if he does love me. I just have this crazy feeling, crazy thought, crazy dream that like me, he too has been found by love.

Like a bird who has broken its wings, like a nightingale who has lost its voice, like a cloud pouring hard its all, like them, I have broken my wings, I have lost my voice, I have cried my all.

It is funny how you suddenly realize that you have missed so much of the world because you have made him your all, your world and still would want to miss more of the world just to spend one more day with him, even for just one more.

And I thank him for that. Because I could not imagine moments passing by, life coursing through, without him, without having known him, without having to know that there is one person in this world, this strange world, who could make me believe when there is nothing more to believe in.

If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t have realized that even the daisy is also pretty, I wouldn’t have realized that the sun is just as romantic as the moon, that dreams come true and that love is love. I wouldn’t have realized that even I can be loved. I know it’s such a strong word, love, but it is what it is, love is love.

Albeit this same love has made me realize that I can’t have everything, most especially him, it is this same love that has taught me to believe in everything and in forever.

And if this love has finally left him but still lingers on in me, I will love, I will believe. And I will always remember that the daisy is also pretty, that the sun is just as romantic as the moon, that dreams come true and that love is love.

Random Non-sense

3rd bottle in 3rd cup. The place, serene and quiet, suddenly turned into a market place. To my right, a group of teeners, high school teeners for sure, are a group of first timers. I could listen to their stories. One is talking about his basketball game, being benched for like the nth time. Another talks about his encounter with some girl he saw in Giordano. In front of me are a group of men, barely men I suppose. They were enjoying their PSP game a while back. But, like me, on their 3rd bottle as well, they have entered into a conversation they are so into. I could not make out of what they are talking about, except for the occasional laughs. They are intently engaged in watching at their Sony Vaio laptop. One of the men, err boys, is wearing a peach shirt. I just had to mention it. Nothing special. Another, the guy to his right, is wearing a bull cap. Oh, I was to segue from the part when I typed the word laughs.
Laughter. Someone plurked something about what makes you laugh. Looking at my self in the mirror makes me laugh, I replied. I just posted that because I did not know what else to post.
This whole post is not going to make any sense. So don't start rationalizing what you are reading right now.
I have been a software engineer once in my life. I have worked with a lot of people. Some weird, some weirder still. But it didn't matter. It didn't matter if one was weird. Because there, so long as you were doing your job, which was to meet deadlines and code elegantly, you were fine. It didn't matter if at lunchbreak you were listening to Michael Jackson then on to April Boy Regino the next. It didn't matter if you liked Erap but hated FPJ.
Now, well, I just have to smile.
I would like to think that it wouldn't matter if I met someone who doesn't like me. I met many of them by the way. I would like to think that I am doing them a favor, at least they have someone to laugh about, to say bad words about.
And that is not about to change, my belief that it shouldn't matter.
I have realized that we can't please everyone. Some will disappoint us, others will disappoint us some more.
Like I said, this is a random non-sense... :)

Wednesdays

I have seen red rose buds bloom into immense beauty

I have seen them wither too, petal after petal.

I have watched the sun heed to the dark

I have watched the dark heed to the bright of light.

I have seen the moon, full and proud, bow

I have seen the moon, invisible and new, shine

I have watched Wednesdays dawn into Thursdays

I have seen all these, but not you.

Low

I have done stupid things in my life. But what I did last night tops all of them. It was disgusting. It was bordering on psychosis. I was so damn stupid. Bien tanga! gago!

On Wet, Cold Saturday Mornings and Cory Aquino

I had a hard time getting out of my bed this morning. It's been raining for hours already. It's cold, not the devilish kind, but the kind that makes you want to not get out of bed and just lie down there and dream. I wanted to fall asleep. And dream of you. I haven't seen for almost two months now. I can't say if you are avoiding me. You said you're just busy. I can take that lie. I seem to have been feeding on those lately, your lies. Lie to me, one more time. Lie to me, and tell me you miss me too.

The dream never came and it's getting late, one peek outside the window, tells me that the truth is cold, and that when the rain falls gently, it's going to be a while before the chilling pain goes away.

I got out bed, brushed my teeth, washed my face and logged on to Inquirer.net. I got intrigued by this news which read "Cory Aquino: Use People Power to fight poverty." Then I was fuming. For a while there I wanted all her yellow clothes to change to the rust colored kind. You see, I never liked her.

Yes, why not use people power? Use the power of the people to fight poverty. When the two people power revolutions were staged, there was a ridiculously great amount of money involved. Businessmen, mostly, did not bother to pour in money just to have a corrupt and evil administration toppled, in a bloodless revolution.

Why do we find it hard to the same in fighting poverty when it is very easy for us to go to the streets and point fingers at the wrongs of an administration who might just have been trying its best to solve the gargantuan problems of this seemingly small country? I don't want to go into telling you that it's because of personal interest. That helping out in toppling down an administration is an investment.

I pity my fellow Filipinos who, in all fervor and patriotism, just want a peaceful and corrupt-less nation (myself included). I feel used. I feel betrayed.

The rain has not stopped yet. It is still cold. I am going to take a bath now. And it will be cold.

The rain gently falls. Slowly. Telling me it's going to be a while before the chilling pain goes away.

On Ben Chan, "I am Ninoy" and de Quiros

Ben Chan was the player in this afternoon's episode of Deal or No Deal. When down to the last two cases and with PhP150,279 offer from the banker, he opted to go for his case, briefcase number 5. This number has always brought him luck said Kris. With this, he was standing to lose the offer and bring home 10 pesos or lose the offer and donate 300,000 to a charity. He promised to give the charity the 300,000 if his case turns out to be 10 pesos. The number 5 must have been very lucky for him as it contained the 300,000 (and you hear Kris shriek!). As if he cared, he is freakin' Ben Chan.

Kris asked for this black shirt, one of the "I am Ninoy" shirts. She thanked Ben for makin' them and making her mother, Cory Aquino, very happy. The shirt is available in all Bench outlets and in all sizes.

Last week, the country remembered the heroism of Ninoy, his assassination's 25th Anniversary. To this day, those sentenced to be imprisoned for life, the supposed culprits in the assassination, deny ever having been involved in that monstrosity.

On December 30, 2003, President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo pledged not to run in the 2004 presidential elections. There must have been sincerity in that, she made it on Rizal Day. Almost everyone praised her. The many projects that she started to pay attention to were no longer considered as campaigning for the next elections.

Suddenly, she filed her candidacy. That's when de Quiros lost faith in her. It's as if, the only glorious thing about her was her name. It no longer mattered that she was daughter of a former President of the Republic. She was devil incarnate to de Quiros.

That's also when I stopped reading de Quiros. Almost all his articles were about how evil PGMA has become. You see, I've always loved de Quiros. He used to be the only reason why I read the Inquirer.

Then he wrote this.

Hindi ka nag-iisa. What has made this country a little less bereaved by August 21 is that it dwells too much on a particular martyrdom to the exclusion of all else, turning it as well into a conceit, wrote de Quiros. Very well said. I think it is important to remember that it wasn't only Ninoy who was assassinated. It wasn't only Ninoy who shed blood. It wasn't only Cory who lost a husband. It is important to remember that it was the nation's sacrifice. They were in the hundereds, thousands even. They were nameless and faceless, and they remain to be in the eyes of the Filipinos to this very day.

De Quiros concluded his article with this: "I wonder when we’ll ever make August 21 a little more meaningful by adding that dimension to it. True enough, Ninoy, Sin and Cory were, and are, heroes. But hindi sila nag-iisa. There were, there are, more.

A lot, lot more."

And that's probably the reason why we have the National Heroes' Day. That's today, by the way.

The Separation of Church and State

I've been wanting to write about this ever since the Catholic hierarchy has been threatening Catholic lawmakers of not giving them communion if they will support the Reproductive Health Bill. I never got to write what I wanted to say though. Then I read a news in the Inquirer where the Catholic Hierarchy reminded its flock of its non-endorsement of condoms even to married couples with HIV (if your husband has HIV, the Catholic hierarchy reminds the uninfected wife to never resort to wearing a condom during intercourse). This didn't just bother me, it angered me. But I kept my cool. This morning, while reading the paper, some bishop was in the news again, threatening members of his church of excommunication if and when they will support the Reproductive Health Bill! I still can't say what I want to say.

I remembered MLQ III's article in the Inquirer. I guess he said it perfectly. The following are the article's last two paragraphs:

"At the very least the hierarchy not only has the right, but the duty, to mobilize. It is up to the faithful whether they will follow their shepherds’ lead. Personally, I do not think it either desirable or productive to question Catholics on questions of faith or morals: Any serious Catholic is under the same obligation as any decent Filipino to defend his principles, to the death, if need be. To demand of Catholics that they restrict the application of their faith and morals to the confines of their homes and churches is essentially to ask them to commit apostasy.

But it is fair and just to remind the hierarchy and the rest of the Catholic citizenry that our Republic does not exist for Catholics alone, and this means that their faith and morals cannot be made the exclusive basis for state policy."

You can read the entire article here.

Comme des Garcons

That's French for "like boys." No! Read it again. It's "like boys" and not "I like boys." Although that is true as well, very much in fact.
Comme des Garcons by Junya Watanabe. That's what's written on the pair of shoes I recently bought. It's a pair of browns. Comme des Garcons is a famous brand in Japan with over 200 vendors around the world. It also has a store in Paris. I know, I can't afford these kinds of shoes. They are out of my league, so to speak. But I just bought a pair bitches! Be jealous, be very jealous!
On second thought, don't be. I bought them for only PhP120.00. It's that cheap. I got it from ukay ukay. That one near the United Pharmacy. Every night, that small alley there turns into an ukay ukay of shoes, shoes of every kind. Littered, quite disorderly, on the pavement are all kinds of shoes. Brand new class A pairs of all brands. But what I consider real finds are those pairs formerly owned by God knows who! If you just patiently look, more like hunt, you will find a pair that will suit you best. Like the Comme pair I found.

Seated like a five year old near a bush, she was wearing a hat. It was more like a rag wrapped around her head. I couldn't make the color of the cloth, it was past 8 pm. She was seated there on the side walk, near the bush. The bush was fenced by four lines of barb wire. Behind her was a brown box. It was empty. Tin cans of four different sizes were neatly arranged right in front of her. They were rusty. Two of the cans had water in them. One was almost empty, the other almost half empty. There was one big can with its lid cover folded away from it. It contained what seemed like leftover rice. There wasn't any mat nor rag nor even flat cartons that may have served as her floor. Between her and the soil is that rough, cold and heartless pavement. There were plastic bags around her. One bag was black. The rest were either white or red. Tucked in one of those plastic bags was a cat. Almost a foot long, curled in a spoon position. Unmindful of the people passing by the street. Another was asleep near it. Both were a collage of orange and brown feline hair. Carefully watching people pass by the street was a third cat. It was comfortably settled on its belly on the old lady's skirt. Together, the cats, the plastic bags, the tin cans and the old lady, they formed a circle. The brown box at the back of the old lady. It was a picture of how life must be lived. Simple, uncomplicated and full of care. The lady's eyes never wandered away from the cats. She must have provided for these cats for a long time now. They were a picture of a happy family. Like the first cat, the old lady was as well unmindful of the things that was happening around her. She did not even notice I was carefully studying them from about a meter away. Why should they bother us anyway? Why should she even mind about us? When they were perfect, just like that. It didn't even cross my mind if they had dinner already. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to ask how she was and how long has she been taking care of the cats. I wanted to ask her if she had a home, if she had a family.
All she had to do to appease me was to be herself, to look after her cats under a dark, cloudy, starless sky.
I feel heavy, writing this one. I have to end this now. A tear just fell from my left eye. I can still see her face, full of love and full of passion. It's raining hard outside.

Salted Peanuts

She couldn't have been any younger than 50. She had this black lace, littered with golden glitters that kept her hair up in a ponytail. Her forehead was oily, and her cheeks as well. She seemed tired. Her eyes seemingly wary, mostly tired and a bit reddish. Between seconds, she reaches for a bag of Sugo salted peanuts. She was carefully munching the nuts, ever cautious to part her lips in every munch. I could see that she kept munching the nuts with her left set of molars. She probably have lost her right set of molars, seeing that she's in her fifty's. She was sitting in a stooped position, almost unintentionally. She just wiped her right hand on her pants, the right pair to be exact, right on her thigh. She was wearing a pair of black corduroy pants. The side of each pair open, about 2 inches in width, knitted in designs of "x". It was annoying, her wiping in her pants every 4 or so nuts. With her right ring finger, she scratched the bridge of her nose. Her nails must have not been manicured for a year. She then reached for the bag of nuts again. She wasn't wearing any ring, I noticed. Either she's allergic to rings or she's a spinster, but hopefully not the mean type. She seems to be a nice lady. She's wearing a pair of golden earrings.
A screaming siren shook me and made me stop staring at her. It came from a speeding PNP car that had "Bomb Squad" written on its side. I figured, probably there was a bomb threat in Guiwan. That's where the car was heading in a flash. Then I noticed that we were following an old Volkswagen beetle. It's plate read "LAW 241." I'll be honest, I am not sure with the digits that came after the letters. His plate read LAW. That was what caught my attention. It made me think, what's the use of having laws when bomb scares and bomb explosions seem to be routines in our place?
What are laws if they cannot deter would-be criminals and terrorists? What are laws when law enforcers become the criminals and the terrorists?
Cicero once said and lectured that "The good of the people is the chief law." What does it mean when one says people that are good, anyway? Before I become the philosophical fish that I sometimes am, I just have to look at the hungry Filipinos who are running out of patience, running out of time, running out of options.
She reached for her bag of nuts, again, not minding the bomb squad that just crossed our way. I wonder if she even heard the siren. She kept munching, wiping her right hand on her right thigh, reaching for the bag of nuts and munch again.
That's my stop. I signaled the driver, stood up before he slowed down and stepped on the breaks. That's when I noticed she was wearing a pair of black leather shoes. The kind that high school teenagers wear as part of their uniform ensemble.
Oh joy! There were no pedicabs in sight. I didn't want to walk one-hundred fifty meters to our house. I was really exhausted. I came from the grandstand where I jogged almost six rounds. I was with Jerome, Romeo and Paulo. We headed for the boulevard afterwards, ate balot (I had two), tempura and downed a 12-ounce bottle of mountain dew.
There was nothing at that moment I wanted to do more than just lie down on my bed and get a power nap before I hit the showers.
Bent on not having that walk, I waited. Ten minutes have passed but still no pedicabs in sight. Pissed off, I started walking when someone called out my attention. The Lord is so magnanimous. A pedicab!
I reached our house still thinking of the bag of Sugo salted peanuts. I completely forgot the lady's oily face.