i believe

I believe

How can I not?

 

I look up at the sky

And realize the infinite possibilities

 

Could you really be up there as the great book describes?

Or here, somewhere with me?

Around me, in spirit, as my heart swells with joy

 

I believe

How can I doubt?

 

I look at myself

Humbled at my insignificance

 

Have I really crossed the line as my conscience prescribes?

Or fear, chastising me?

Surrounding me with guilt, as my principles puncture with conceit

 

I believe

How can I not?

 

I feel you close

And understand your strength

 

You really do know me

i want more

To want is human.

To want more, divine?

 

I wonder, where exactly did this concept of “wanting more” start?

 

In the beginning, when God was supposedly in His “creative mode,” He designed the heavens and the earth. Now, at that time, “the earth was formless and empty.” And so the Old Man flicked a finger and there was light. “He saw that it was good.”

 

And so, for seven days, He pointed here, and perhaps clapped there until Adam was “born.”

 

Ah, Adam. “The Man.” Created in the “image and likeness of God.” Adam supposedly had a little of God in him… or something.

 

As most of us know, by this time, the earth was seemingly complete – there was light, darkness, water, land, fish, animals, trees, air – everything a man could need… “bliss by remote control,” so to speak.

 

But no, God felt it needed something more. He wanted more for Adam.  “It is not good for the man to be alone,” He said.

 

And so, there was Eve.

 

Now, why would He want more for man if He knew it would lead to his eventual destruction? “God is all-seeing, all-knowing,” remember?

 

Was it not Eve’s fault that He was forced to banish his precious Adam from paradise and curse the sinful temptress for all eternity?

 

But He wanted more, right?

 

He wanted more for the earth, so he needed to create more so everything would be complete… Perfect.

 

And so, is it safe to say that the present man actually “inherited” his insatiable need for perfection from God?

 

… that in the struggle for completeness, we have the propensity to want more. It’s in our genes. We were “made in His image and likeness,” remember?

 

Now, my point really is, who do I attribute my inexhaustible I-want-more disorder? To the figurative serpent/“the devil” who allegedly dangles all worldly desires to tempt the feeble man? Or to our creator, God, who actually started the trend in the very first day of His reign?

 

Really, if I may push a little farther, I hold the Catholic Church responsible. I mean, they published these parables, right?

 

Talk about major ingenuity. Really, I think these people are the first entrepreneur… but that’s another story.

 

Hmm. I wonder what my cousin-priest, Father Johnny, would say about this.

until I conquer Jose

I feel myself smiling.

This is nice.

Everything is warm… dreamy… almost fuzzy.

 

Wait.

Ouch.

Something hit my head.

 

No blood.

That’s funny.

I could’ve sworn something smacked my skull.

 

Must be the noise.

Why is everyone shouting in my ear?

Stop! I shouted.

Laughter.

 

Why is everyone laughing?

Why do I feel like I’m floating, with my arms outstretched, like a bird that’s about to fly?

Now, this doesn’t feel nice.

 

“Is she okay?”

“What happened?”

“She locked herself in the restroom for almost an hour!”

 

Wow. Really?

Who are we talking about?

I turned my head to see the face behind the voice.

 

Whoa!

Why does Mike have three heads?

Or is that Christian?

 

Something’s really wrong here.

Everything feels queasy now.

I tried to tell my friend, whose face, I suddenly realized, is severely squashed to my cheek.

What the…?

 

“Hello? What’s happening?”

Again, laughter all around.

“What in f*cking hell is funny?”

 

Was that me talking?

Why does my voice sound like a slow-motion drone from an old recording?

Disgruntled. Incomprehensible.

 

Suddenly, a chorus of disgust.

“EEWWW!”

 

My stomach feels creepy.

My mouth tastes sour.

 

I feel myself smiling.

This is inexplicably funny.

HAHAHA!

 

Wow. It’s cold.

Is it raining?

 

Somebody is stroking my hair.

Now that feels nice.

Reassuring. Calming.

 

It feels warm again.

This is how it must feel like in a cocoon.

my life-saving saturday nights

All work and no play make Jack demented… so to speak.

I wake up weekdays and I hear Korn playing “Freak on a Leash” in my head. You can imagine my mood.

And so I go to the office, Monday to Friday, like a malfunctioning robot with a scowl.

But come Saturday, I wake up, and like in a music video, the curtains slide open and the sun’s rays light up my bedroom and I hear a remix of “Shiny Happy People” by REM and “Groove is in the Heart” by Dee Lite.

Now, that must be a really bad video. I know, I know.

But you get the point.

Saturday. I look forward to it like a kid does to recess… with hand-rubbing anticipation and pent-up exhilaration.

I absolutely loathe going to noisy, dirty disco and resto bars that are full of pretentious, dumb kids who sponge on their parents’ money for a weekend night-out with their equally shallow friends.

Been there, done that.

Weekend romantic escapades were a rarity even when I was still attached. Poor me, I’ve only had losers for boyfriends.

For the longest time, I have practically searched everywhere, befriended everyone, done everything and gone everywhere just to fill my Saturday nights.

And I would always wake up Sunday mornings feeling tired, irritable… unhappy.

Until Quezon. As in Quezon Province.

Just when things were starting to go wayward in my life, one of my friends arranged for a weekend getaway for us, a group of old college friends.

We’ve always been really close, these friends of mine. We were inseparable as   teenagers. Then  came  college  graduation…  then  first  jobs…  then relationships…   then   marriage… then  kids…  then  self-absorption  and disorientation.

Despite all these though, we would always try to call each other. Or see each other maybe 2 or 3 times a year. Or whenever one of their kids would celebrate a birthday or something.

And that’s how it was for many years… that is, until Quezon.

It was neither Boracay nor Palawan, but for us cheapskates, Quezon was paradise.   With big waves and warm water, it was perfect for us, small-minded guffaw-loving geeks.

It felt like college again:  careless, reckless fun and major chatting, while downing SMBs like drinking water. Silly stuff, really.

But beyond beer-drinking and merry making, we found what we’ve lost through the years – the warmth of friendship… the sense of belonging… the strength of togetherness…

Like a kid finally stumbling on her Hide and Seek playmates, I finally found something to shriek happily about.

My friends!

And so, we made a pact after Quezon – to see each other again regularly at least twice a month. And like kids who never really kept promises, we broke the pact and saw each other every Saturday since then!

I’ve known these people for 11 years, but I’ve never really valued the role they play in my life until now. I’ve never really told my friends about this, but they save a part of the dying me every time I see them Saturday night.

Having said that, I may have just risked a lifetime of Saturday nights of torment and mockery for being a sappy shithead.

Oh, well.

“shiny happy people holding hands (groove is in the heart)…”

the dreaded 30s

Two more years and I’ll be 20-10.

 

Kill me now.

 

As I write this, a number of celebrity names pass my mind who are over 30 and are also still single or have just broken up with the supposed “special other” – Jennifer Aniston, Nicole Kidman, Renee Zellwegger, Sienna Miller – no, wait, that waif is barely 25.

 

Oh, so that’s what this is all about? The shitty life of singledom and the deafening ticking of the fuckin’ biological clock.

 

Yes. So, sue me.

 

Sure, I think about it, man.

 

I ponder. I wonder. I bite my nails endlessly over it.

 

I’m tired of filling up a form and marking an X right next to “single” box.

 

Then again I see people everywhere breaking up and insulting the hypothetical sanctity of marriage, i.e. the abovementioned Hollywood stars.

 

Then I take a really close look at myself.

 

3-0. (cringe)

 

Do I look it? (For the wise-ass, this is a rhetorical question.)

 

I certainly don’t feel it.

 

I mean, half the time, I think like a 17-year-old college freshman for Pete’s sake!

 

So, what’s the freakin’ big deal?

 

I certainly love my life right now – well, not at all times, but you know, I’m OK.

 

I earn my own money. I buy my own jewelry. As Beyonce and the rest of the children would put it, “I depend on me.”

 

And maybe I’m better off without a man – how would I know when all I’ve ever dated are boys?

 

Oh, fuck it, I don’t know, OK?

 

Contrary to what most people think, I don’t know everything. Couldn’t resist – now, this is the real me talking. =D

 

Argh.

 

I hate this.

 

Maybe I’ll go shopping today… and have a haircut… and buy some nice stuff for the house… and…

dark

i’m a mess.

 

not that my day ever started out fine.

 

well it used to…

back when i still believed in the unbelievable.

 

that smile…

i would give anything to have him smile that smile at me again…

 

oh, how lethal remembering could be!

 

it hurts.

like it does now…

 

and it’s almost physical, this hurting.

like a twisting pang from the stomach to the heart…

 

biting. raw.

 

then it fades…

but not the self-loathing.

 

then “if only’s” flood.

 

suffocating.

choking.

sickly sweet.

pseudo-entrepreneur

For as long as I can remember, I’ve done nothing but write.

Professionally, I mean.

And it’s OK. I’m not complaining.

It’s like playing your favorite sport for a living… only on a way lower level, salary-wise.

But you get what I mean, right?

 

As much as I enjoy what I do, I’ve often wondered if I could actually do anything else.

Professionally, that is.

So, I always take on what we Pinoys call a “sideline.”

Raket ako…

 

I’ve this affinity to sales.

Don’t ask me why but I love selling stuff.

From hot pants to boneless bangus – I’ve sold them all.

 

I’ve done MLM or what we call here networking.

I’ve done Puciel, Forever Living, First Quadrant, and now Agel.

 

I’ve owned a food cart a la Kiss – and even cooked fish and squid balls myself.

 

I’m a sucker for “business.”

 

Naks, ang galing mo naman, may day job ka na, may business ka pa!

 

I love hearing that.

 

It makes me feel like I’m smart with money…

Like I’m very “together”…

Like I actually know what I’m doing…

 

Truth of the matter is, I’M BORED.

 

I’m bored with the sleepy, sluggish way my life is going.

I’m bored with the sense of ordinariness that seems to envelope my entire being.

I’m bored with being bored.

 

So, raket ako.

 

And whenever I’d start a business, it’s always with passion and enthusiasm – that is, in the first couple of months.

 

After I’ve gotten back my start-up capital and earned a few bucks for a major drinking spree, I’d go back to my normal mode – bored.

 

And you know what happens when I get bored, right? You knew it – I’d start another business, leaving behind the one I’ve previously started like yesterday’s stale LOs (left-overs).

 

Downer, huh? So, sue me.

 

And so I was bored again.

 

So, very recently I partnered with three people to open a small restaurant.

 

Boy, was I hyped!

 

We had what we called the silogs – the all-time Pinoy fast food favorite. Well, at least to me.

 

(Side story: I once dated this American guy, who was into food and asked me about exotic Pinoy cuisines. And because of my lack of involvement to food, except to eat it, I went on to describe the “exotic” tapsilog. He said, “That sounds like breakfast.” I mumbled something incoherent, I think it was, “But you know the beef is soft and shredded. Like corned beef. You know corned beef?” He never called me again.)

 

Anyway, I was hyped about my new business.

 

I’d go there almost every night after work, at least 3 or 4 times a week; stay until 3 or 4 AM, or until every customer has gone.

 

I was tireless.

 

Regulars became more than just customers, but friends.

Suppliers became more than just dealers, but lifelines.

 

Before I knew it, I was in love.

For the very first time in my pseudo-entrepreneurial life, my business wasn’t just for show.

 

I was a restaurateur.

 

And while delighting in this idea, I turned a blind eye on the problems that have obviously cropped up among the partners.

 

Until one of my partners left… I was devastated.

He was the closest to me.

 

And so there were three.

I tried really hard to make our relationship work.

And so did they – with each other.

 

Hanky panky is never good for business.

How can one think clearly if, in his mind, he’s in it for the screw?

 

And so one of the partners left.

Me.

 

I have no excuse or details to share.

It felt like filing for divorce – due to irreconcilable differences.

 

And it hurt.

It hurt when I said goodbye to the customers.

It hurt when I hugged the cook and crew and thanked them.

 

It still hurts now.

 

Maybe I’m better off as a writer.

Maybe business is not for me.

Maybe I’m right, I’m a pseudo-entrepreneur and that’s all I’ll ever be…

 

I’m bored.

Better left unsaid

You never told me you loved me.

I mean, I heard about the time when you smashed that window over me.

Yes, they told me about that.

You were so drunk that you opened up and told our friends that you were having a hard time dealing with what you felt for me.

So, you took it out on the window.

Poor Carlo, he had to pay the landlady big bucks.

You knew I felt the same way, too.

But you never did anything about it.

Then again, neither did I.

Then, I met another guy. We fell in love.

You were the first one I told.

You were devastated, I could tell.

But, you embraced me anyway and wished me well.

Years passed.

We saw each other now and then.

But, I would always make sure not to bring him along when I knew you’d be there.

Which worked out for the best because, after four years, he cheated on me.

And you said if you knew what he looked like you would kill him.

I never doubted you for a moment.

Then you kissed me.

Our very first kiss.

It was soft at first, then moist, and finally, raw.

For the first time, you weren’t afraid to show me how you felt.

But I was.

This is wrong, I thought.

But, like any other mistake, it felt right.

I backed down.

Now, I must admit, I wish I hadn’t.

I never heard from you since then.

Until…

“Hey, you busy this Sunday?”

“Who’s this, please?”

“Awww, right through the heart!”

That line.

Reality Bites. Our favorite movie.

It could only be you.

I was ecstatic.

“I’m never busy for you.”

“Great! I want you to be the Ninang of my daughter… I told my wife so much about you, she can’t wait to meet you.”

I bit my lower lip. Too hard, I realized, because a droplet of rustic blood stained the receiver.

I accepted, of course.

But, almost too happily.

Feigned. Artificial. Contrived.

Then I met them – your girls.

I was surprised to have felt only one thing – happiness.

Sure it was bittersweet.

But, then I saw your eyes.

They were glowing.
You seemed content.

Then I realized what they meant – some things are better left unsaid.

Poop: chronicles of the barely sober

We all know it.

We all do it.

We all feel it coming.

 

Poop.

 

All encompassing.

Sweeping.

Inevitable.

 

An ode to the power of Poop, as it knows no race, no gender, nor stature, the following account is one of the pointless results of recurrent close encounters with everyone’s best friend, SMB.

 

For drunkards, I mean “alcohol-friendly,” the probability of recycling topics during drinking sessions is insanely far above the ground.

 

But since all of you are smashed and happy, you don’t really care if you’ve heard the same story over and over AND over again.

 

And so you take a swig of beer… then another… and another…

 

Before you know it, you start it – because if not, somebody else will.

 

The Poop talk.

 

And here are some sample anecdotes, which you know you’ll be talking about until the next drinking spree… or perhaps until you gross out of your wits.

 

Note: Imagine a chorus of drunken laughter every after story.

 

“Nung grade four ako, na-tae ako sa brief ko habang nakatambay sa school campus. Syempre andaming dumadaan na ibang bata. Eh, bully ako nun. Yung ibang mga bata, habang dumadaan sa tabi ko, nakatakip ng ilong tapos nakatingin lang sa akin, bumubulong bulong na mabaho daw. Tapos ako naman, pandidilatan ko sila ng mata, tapos sasabihin ko, ANO, BAKIT? HA, BAKIT? Hanggang sa may sumigaw na isang bata, WAAAHHH SI ___________ TUMAE SA BRIEF!!! Sabi ko, TANGINA MO MAMAYA KA SAKIN PAGKATAPOS KO LANG DITO, MAGHINTAY KA GAGO KA!!! Anyabang ko pa din kahit napa-tae na ko sa brief.”

 

“Sa school ko nung kinder, salbahe yung mga madre, mahigpit masyado! Nung one time, nata-tae nako. Sabi ko SISTER, MAY I GO OUT? Eh hindi ako pinayagan. Sabi sakin, SLEEP! So, sleep ako – habang tumutulo na yung tae sa palda ko, hanggang medyas…”

 

“Nung first-year high school ako, napag-tripan namin ng best friend ko na mag-skip ng lunch at kumain nalang ng sandamakmak na M&M’s with peanuts. So nung uwian na, taeng-tae nako. As in alam kong LBM! Eh nasa fourth floor yung classroom ko, habang pababa ng hagdanan, napatae nako sa shorts ko sa loob ng palda. Eh alam ko tutulo kase nga LBM, bumababa ako ng hagdan, hawak ko yung gilid ng palda ko ng mahigpit na mahigpit! Tapos ipit na ipit yung pagbaba ko ng hagdan. Pagdating ko sa CR, paghubad ko ng shorts ko, puro mani!” 

 

“Nung bata ako, namasyal kame ng Mama ko at sister ko, eh bigla akong natae sa jumper ko. Sabi ko MAMA NA-TAE NA PO AKO SA PANTY KO. Sabi ng Mama ko, NAKU WALANG MALAPIT NA BANYO DITO. O, TARA UMUWI NA LANG TAYO. So sakay kami ng jeep. Sabi ng Mama ko, WAG KA NA UMUPO PARA DI MAPISA. So nakatayo ako mula Cubao hanggang Pasig habang bina-balance yung tae sa loob ng panty… gumugulong eh!”

 

“Nung teenager ako, pinag-da-drive ko yung Mommy ko papunta ng Divisoria ng maagang-maaga. Ang gawain namin, bibili sya ng paninda, ako bantay sa Piera. Nung one time, taeng-tae nako. Eh naka-park ako sa tapat ng Metrobank. Sabi ko sa guard MANONG PARANG AWA MO NA, PWEDE BA KO MAKIGAMIT NG CR? Sabi nung guard, kupal, HINDI PWEDE! DI KA NAMAN CUSTOMER EH! Tang-inang to, sa isip-isip ko. So naiiyak na ko kase taeng-tae na ko eh. Tiningnan ko yung Piera. Hmmm, may kurtina. Madilim. Pasok ngayon ako sa loob. Ni-lock ko. Hinarangan ko ng kahon yung pintuan. Naka-kita ako ng tool box. Tinanggal ko yung laman. Sabi ko, PWEDE. Kuha ko ng supot. Pinatungan ko ng dyaryo. Tapos upo ako. May utut-utot pa. Tapos, tinodo ko na talaga lahat. Yung natirang dyaryo, pinamunas ko sa pwet ko. SOLVED. Tiniklop ko pa ng maayos yung dyaryo saka ko tinali yung plastic. Dumating na Mommy ko, so alis na kame. Habang paalis nako ng parking, dumungaw ako sa bintana, sabay hagis nung supot. Sigaw ako, GUARD, PARA SAYO!!! Sapul!”

 

And so to Poop, as it makes us weak in the knees the way that not even sex can… as it makes us quick-witted and imaginative… as it makes us succumb to do the impossible… CHEERS! You stink!

i complete me

A direct contradiction to the famous (but sappy) line, “you complete me,” from the popular pre-Katie Holmes Tom Cruise flick, Jerry Maguire, the above title is the new thought-provoking slogan of a Pinoy clothesline for women.

 

i bare.

i seek cover.

i make mistakes.

i recover.

 

i complete me.

 

Wow.

 

Finally, a clothing line that promotes something more than fashion!

 

Self-worth.

 

Something often undervalued, underrated, taken for granted…

 

One minute everything seems perfect.

 

Coming across your true love. Landing THE dream job. Finding the perfect pair of shoes.

 

Then the next minute everything falls apart like in that cartoon where a ton of bricks plunges unto Wyle Coyote’s head.

 

You discover true love is fictional… that your job is a joke… and the perfect shoes don’t go with any of your bags.

 

Then you get depressed. Manic even.

 

You have this imaginary list that you show your imaginary god every night:

 

Please make me happy. I want the following:

 

• my soulmate
• a higher-paying job
• and while you’re at it, please let there be a midnight sale where I can buy the perfect pair of shoes

 

And you get what you asked for.

 

Except it didn’t satiate that void.

 

It felt… nothing.

 

Just nothing.

 

And you think:

 

i ache.

i feel sh*tty.

i drink.

i feel empty.

 

i don’t complete me.

 

Then you start to do every kind of stuff imaginable just to fill that empty space seemingly situated right in the middle of your chest.

 

You try speed dating. You apply for another job. You rummage around the mall for the perfect bag to match your perfect pair of shoes.

 

When will it be me? You ask yourself. How come everyone else is getting lucky?

 

And you burden yourself with a million questions more; then you relentlessly quest for that someone or something that would make you feel what you’ve always yearned for – HAPPINESS.

 

And it’s a vicious cycle, this roller-coaster ride.

 

And by worrying yourself over things that only fate can answer, you miss out on the fun. You fail to benefit from the feeling of BEING ALIVE!

 

Then your friends give you what they offer best – a good kick in the a** and a hard slap on the face. As my sporadic-Catholic friend once said, “God did not put you on this planet to WORRY!”

 

And throughout the succession of depression and self-pity, you overlook the one true thing that is actually of importance. Yourself.

 

Then, little by little, you learn to internalize the maxim, “you can never truly love anything else, until you learn to love yourself.”

 

Self-worth.

 

Then you smile. And have fun. And maybe come up with your own slogan. Maybe something like:

 

i hurt.

i falter.

i learn.

i matter.

 

i complete me.