Month: June 2007

Fickle-dee-dee

Pardon my fickleness… Been trying to find the nicest template I could live with for many days.

I’ll settle on this for now.

And, yes, by the way, how have you been doing?

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Morning bliss

The Sun peers up shyly from the tree tops. It is as if he does not want to disturb Night’s work just yet, content only in sending down tentative rays of light that barely reach the dew-blanketed ground.

Birds are calling their neighbors to an early breakfast. The mountain air is cool. Leaves rustle in the soft breeze. A rooster clears his throat outside the hut and utters a muffled scream for his brood to come down from their perch. I hear the hens and chicks scrabble the earth for pre-breakfast morsels below the window.

I wake up and see that the scenery isn’t only in my dreams.

I’m back in Valencia. The warm arm that has encased me in a protective embrace is a proof of this reality. Tata is still asleep… smiling in his dreamworld. On the other side of the bed, Faith stirs and fixes her half-asleep eyes at me. She smiles and touches my face.

“Goodmorning, mamamai,” she murmurs then closes her eyes again, her warm hand still on my cheek.

The sky is still purple outside. Dawn.

…I close my eyes again, aware of the two beings I love who are with me, their warmth a blessed comfort in this early morning.

Spirited away

Tonight I float.

Blame it on the cups of coffee amply laced with cherry brandy (which later I poured a good measure of unto my cup when we’ve exhausted the coffee) I had over at my granpa’s house where I went for dinner.

The affair was pleasant enough. But there was something sad about the whole thing.

Ma was there, a grand-aunt, my uncle (presently lord of the manor, hehehe), a lodger at one of the rooms we had rented out, and myself.

Conversation flowed.

There was the gay tinkling of silver upon china.

There was the soft gurgling of liquid being poured unto expectant glasses.

Yet the laughter shared was hollow. As if it was not really appropriate. Or welcome.

I felt the house was lonely. There were too many dark hallways now where light and laughter had permeated in my childhood years.

Most of the rooms are now rented out to strangers who are oblivious to the history of the family which occupied it years and years ago.

There are framed photographs on the walls of dead and once-young ancestors staring down at anyone passing through from the living room to the dining area. Within each shelf lining the living room walls are the memorabilia of the past I had shared with the family. Yellowed greeting cards with my brother’s and my childish inscriptions — addressed to the grans, once-lost toys, more framed photographs of young aunts and uncles and parents and grandparents, my brother, myself. Ashes of cremated ancestors.

The display case of my grandparents’ wedding china and silverware has gathered sad shadows and inches of dust, forlorn in its role as the sole witness to numerous hours when the dining room spends its day in unpopulated silence. The silence of a crypt.

For most of the grandparents are gone to the lights. Those who are living have gone to America and chose to seek their missing selves there.

The house was left in the care of uncaring people who, as time passed, began to take up the thinking of Denethor, that steward of Gondor’s throne who refused to relinquish his comfortable position in the great halls of Minas Tirith (I’m smiling wryly as I write this far-fetched juxtaposition) to some raider. For some reasons I have yet to uncover, these stewards have taken it upon themselves how to manage the affairs of the “ancestral” household that even my uncle who lives there feels like a stranger. A guest. A bedspacer.

The family members, such as my mother and myself and all my other immediate family, have gone to far-flung places to seek things we have yet to find… the fault rests on us by taking it for granted that a house will be there for us to stay in whenever we happen to be in the city. The end result is we have to call beforehand if we are coming over. Indeed, we have become guests in our own house.

I don’t have a point to make… this is just the sadness I feel as I float with the spirit of the cherry brandy. The bottle may have been haunted. And the old ghosts of that old house may have dined with us tonight.

Life is too short to hold back on what I really wanted to do since I was a kid. (~sigh~)

A long, long time ago I used to moonlight that I am the editor of some magazine. I never had the courage to grab that dream and go in a wild ride with it.

But there was a time when…

During summers, and living hundreds of kilometers away from friends, I came up with the idea of somewhat hurdling the homesickness and the feeling of loneliness when I decided to create my own magazine — all articles of my own composition from the cracked part of my brain. I also tried to be heroic and draw everything in it. To quell the palpable loneliness, the magazine had a posse of contributors, field crew, features writers, etc. who were named after my friends.

Thus, my magazine, Cereal Box(TM), was born. The magazine ran for at least a dozen issues, all pages created by hand. I often had to scavenge for black markers and sign pens all over the house so I could finish those issues before “deadline”. And eventually, the loneliness eased and I was in my element.

Then I went off to college. And had a boyfriend who couldn’t care for “kids drawings” as he liked to call my works. When I think about his derision of my magazine now, it dawned on me that he was uncomfortable with the fact that I could be missing friends whom he’d never met. He was so insecure about his role in my life that each time he had a chance, he would comment how childish I was, living in my secret world of caricatures and made-up stories. He felt he was alienated from my life. Or something like that.

So I guess I sold out. I left my magazine to rest in peace and discontent under piles and piles of old blankets and personal documents inside my steamer trunk. Somehow, some “issues” were brought out by relatives and friends and I lost track of the copies I had.

And so I tried to forget about that blissful part of my youth to be with a boyfriend who had the personality of a social-climbing leech in heat.

But this isn’t a story about that a**hole wanker so I’d move along to the present.

~Hah~

Three days ago I was in Antipolo to help an old friend pack her things up for her move to Dumaguete where she’ll start teaching this school year.

Amidst the rush and confusion of packing up, the anxiety of having a plane to catch and being in the airport in the middle of the night, there was a moment when the squall around me in that Antipolo house suddenly stopped — held back by a force, invoked by a powerful spirit of my past.

A copy of my Cereal Box peeped from a sheaf of documents I was shoving into a full briefcase.

A ghost.

A specter.

A friend.

And I cried. Amidst the packing boxes and the papers and household things which have to be displaced from their old home, I cried.

For the lost part of me… for the part of me that mattered most and I had thrown away for some worthless mortal.

But there is still time.

I am rebuilding who I am. Finding those lost parts of me. Strengthening. Reclaiming what I had been.

That boyfriend is gone a long, long time ago. Booted out of my life for being such a disgrace to humanity.

And Cereal Box is again open for subscriptions.

An Update About Miss Guided Muffet

It seems that Miss Guided Muffet has irked other people other than myself with her insipidous charm.

Far as I am from Dumzville (Dumaguete for those who want the appropriate geographical name), I have received update that Miss Guided Muffet has exited the Golden Gates of The Concentration Camp and has now spread her ruffled, sequined wings towards the Great City.

And never once did she ever give any news of what has happened to her, just so to quell the fears of those who are left behind — that perhaps, she didn’t make it in the Big, Big World Outside.

What could the reason possibly be?

Maybe it was so much a bother for her to make use of her thumb to send an SMS to anyone of the people whom she called assets friends when she was still in the grip of the Fuhrer inside the Concentration Camp. Or maybe she does not have any one peso to spare to send off a message saying am ok.

If that was the case, she could have sent in a dove with an olive branch between its beak. Those doves have cheaper air rates. That could have been equated as good news already and could spare all those people rooting for her escape the added burden of worrying. wondering. worrying. wondering. about what happened to her.

The Wimpy Kitty Cat tried to communicate with her, and was rewarded with nothing. Andromeda, too. But still — silence.

Personally, it is really a bad move to burn bridges. Bad escape plan. Bad strategy in life.

As for Miss Guided Muffet, if she’s in the Great City already, I sincerely hope that she’s alive and well and that she wasn’t run over by a bus or that she didn’t accidentally trip and fall headlong onto the MRT tracks while the train for 5:05 pm was approaching Ortigas station.

Well, that could be one reason she didn’t contact anybody back where she came from.

But I’ll never know for sure.

I so hate user-friendly people.