Old House

There used to be a big house next to where my grandparents live. Back then, others just referred to it as the "lumang bahay", and no one is allowed entry through its front or side doors.

Access was limited at the back, through a wooden staircase leading to a small reception area, where you must remove your shoes before entering. From there is a short hallway leading to the room where Ingkong, my grandfather's mother, lived.

I don't remember much of her. I was too young. But that house drew me in. During summer, when we were deported to the province, I would usually go to the old house and just wander its perimeters. Even then, I felt that there was more to that house than the wooden balcony and hallway we were permitted to enter.

There was one time I was able to enter that forbidden place beyond the bolted door by the hallway. Once, I chanced Ingkong's helper cleaning inside, and I crossed to her side. Instead of throwing me out, she told me to watch my steps, as the floor boards were creaking, and weak at some parts. 

Inside was another hallway, larger than the one leading to Ingkong's. To the right were rows of capiz windows, and at the end was a pair of bolted doors. There was another door to the left of where I was standing; more mysteries to unravel, if one were bold enough.

Only muted light was able to penetrate those capiz windows, giving the hallway the forlorn atmosphere of the forgotten. I dared not touch anything for fear that I disturb the sleep of the house, equally scared and excited that the house would awake and tell me its stories.

The old house is long gone, torn to its foundations and buried in memory. I can't even remember which side of the family belonged to that house, nor where it used to stand. But every once in a while, it appears to me in the vagueness of dreams and fading recollection.

Downtime

Brace yourself, the long weekends are coming.

And after weeks of overtime brought on by innumerable deadlines, the long weekend is a godsend.

But with little budget and no plans (and no time to plan with), the long weekend is relegated to staying at home and reading my books.  Or maybe watching cable tv.  And sleeping the whole day off.

My body clock is all but ruined.

But with nothing to do and the bed so inviting, there is no reason to not sleep more than my usual 4 hours daily.

I'm no longer used to staying at home, unlike before, but with little else to do, I might as well enjoy my stay.

It is a plus, though, that most of the people here are out, obviously enjoying the long weekend somewhere else, that I am afforded my quiet time.  I get to hog the tv and the kitchen, and that is always a good thing.

Scratch

Our cat scratched me as I was carrying her upstairs.


Going home, I found the cat sitting at the table on the first floor.  We normally do not allow the cat to go down.  When it was little, the litter it belonged to got poisoned and died; she was the only survivor.  Matriarch nursed her to health, and applied eye drops on her when cataracts started to form.  She got out of that ordeal, but one eye remained foggy.  So Matriarch named her Juana, the one-eyed cat.


I scratched her between the ears and she gave no hint of resistance.  I think she rather enjoyed it, with her mild purring and closed eyes.  I picked her up under her forepaws and proceeded to go upstairs.  Juana doesn't usually go downstairs; she's got plenty to occupy her upstairs and food to satisfy her cravings.  But when she goes down, it means she's after one thing, and that thing is never food.


It was smooth sailing until we got to the second floor, when Juana started acting up, and try to remove herself from my grip.  She tried every which way to buck herself off of my grip, scratching me in the palm and the back of my hand in the process.  For some weeks now, she's been trying her best to elude the people in the house, hiding under tables and sprinting for the open door.  Or else mewing incessantly at the door, hoping someone would relent and open it for her.  And now that she's finally downstairs she doesn't want to go back up again.


No matter how many times I replace my hold on her, she would just buck up and try to escape, scratching me more.  She got a good hit, drawing blood on my palm.  I decided then to change tactics and take a firm hold on her nape, and Juana went limp.  I'm not sure how or why, but both cats and dogs go still when held that way.  Probably they remember when they were pups and their moms handle them that way when moving them from one location to the next.  Anyway, it did the trick and I was able to get the cat back up without any more incidents.


Juana and I aren't very close, but she's usually not violent.  But one does not simply deter a feline in heat from her natural urges.  And I guess we are like cats in that respect; going to all lengths and doing everything in one's power just to get that itch scratched.  

We Have Babies!

Well, puppies, but we're not checking on semantics now.  


More than a year ago, when Garfield has settled a bit after moving back in, he bought a little bundle for himself.

She was the cutest princess ever!  A cute little bundle like her deserves a kick-ass name to be remembered by.  And since Kick Ass was just recently shown in theaters then, Garfield named his baby Mindy.


And Mindy lived up to her name, bouncing up and down the corridors; attacking the other dogs, even our half-feral cats; and insisting that she be included in everything that we do.  


She also cries at night when she isn't allowed to sleep in bed with any of us.  We can't help but allow her, and then she makes her way under the pillow or in the crook of your arm.  We only stopped indulging her when she became too rowdy, scratching our arms and faces while we sleep.  We bought her a basket to sleep in and she was forceful enough to ward the three other dogs from sleeping on her basket.


Cosmo, the pack's alpha, have tried multiple times to mate with her, but Mindy, being headstrong, and as the only female, is de facto alpha, has denied him multiple times, to injurious, but thankfully, not bloody, consequences.  His patience bore fruit though, for Mindy did relent the last time she was in heat.


Mindy gave birth yesterday to four cute little babies.  Matriarch was with her the whole time, keeping an eye on her as two pups came out, and acting as midwife to help birth the two other.


Garfield, being away, feels like an absentee grandfather, knowing his daughter gave birth, but is unable to come hither.


With four new pups to bolster the pack, it seems the house will be busy for quite some time.

Devil Dogs

I got home late and I am greeted by a heavy air in my room.  Warm and humid at 10pm, it seems rather unusual.  But with the weather being rather unforgiving lately, it may have just been unspent heat collected over the day; my room being shut the whole day, after all.  Almost immediately after I turn on the lights, the reason for that air of unease made itself apparent.

I love my books.  Even with ebooks and audiobooks aplenty and just a download away, I'd still go for the paper variety.  There's still no replacement for the tactile and olfactory stimulus an actual book gives.  That's why I take great pains to care for my babies; I refuse to open them until I cover them in plastic.  And I cover them again in paper whenever I bring them out of the house.  What the dogs did was so horrific, I was hyperventillating when I saw it.

But who among my little devils could have done it?  And it's not as if I can punish them for the act; it wasn't them after all, who opened the door to my room.  They got in because someone opened my door, and let them.


Punishing a pet for an act they've done hours ago isn't also helping.  It merely confuses their notion of rewards and punishments.  It makes them think that the punishment for greeting you home is a scolding.  And though I seldom pet these rascals as of late, I'd still rather they greet me home than they cower in fear at the sight of me.


Besides, how can I conceive of punishing them when they look this adorable?

Chess

Growing up, my father taught me how to play chess. Nothing formal though; I still can't distinguish Kasparov from Tchaikovsky; but the basics were given clear.  Every piece has its unique move, every character, its strengths and limitations.

I may not know the various openings named after the masters but I do know well enough that the game is that of strategy.  To ensure your win, you must always be five steps ahead of your opponent.  You must anticipate every move and be ready for your counter move.  You should be able to weigh the value of every piece and move it about on the board.

And you should be willing to sacrifice a royal if it means getting ahead in the exchange.

It was one of the few activities that my brother, dad and I have bonded with.  One of my many frustrations was I could never beat them in three out of five games.  And I have this suspicion that they sometimes let me win on purpose.

We loved the game so much, we were able to run through a number of chessboards that seem to mysteriously vanish after a while.  Our fondest set was a Simpsons-inspired set, with Bart as pawn; Lisa as bishop; Maggie, the knight (she has a toy horse as steed, the cutie); and Homer, Marge and Grandpa as king, queen and rook respectively.  My brother and I pooled our allowances just to get that set; we took care not to scratch the pieces; we even preserved the box it came with.  But out efforts came to naught when our little sister used the pieces (they were made of rubber) as chew toys, and threw the rest every which way.  I really miss that game board.  


Once, during my free period, when I was a freshman in high school, I came to watch our chess varsity play in one of their practices.  One of them invited me to play and I accepted.  I opted for an aggressive match and soon, I had him on the defensive.  It was only through my carelessness (and a little help from his mates) that I lost the game.  I enjoyed the game, but the invitation for me to join the varsity was at best, only lip service, so I stopped hanging out at their place.  It did teach me the value of a great defensive strategy.

Nowadays, it's very rare that I encounter someone who plays the sport.  It's as if everyone has contracted attention deficit disorder, that the time it takes to play the game is a few minutes too long for them to endure.  Which is a pity, because as board games go, chess is still the most fulfilling of the lot.


I no longer have anyone to play with, but I don't think I stopped playing.  Anticipate the opponent, and always be a few steps ahead of the game, that is what the game has taught me; and while on the offensive, always have a piece or two protecting your attackers.  I have been accused of being distant and calculating, and it's probably correct - I'm playing chess, it seems.  Even now, I'm still playing, and my earlier defeats have made me stand on the defensive, waiting for the other's attack before I make my move.


And faced with an equally defensive opponent, this game is getting longer and longer to resolve.  I have been tracing back the moves made by each side, and I believe I see a pattern.  We are down to our last few moves, I believe, and it promises to boil down to one outcome:  Stalemate.

Lappy

Lappy is gonna be gone for a while, in aid of a friend.


This means Shattershards would be in a bit of hiatus, which isn't so surprising.  Considering the amount of posts I've churned out this year, I may as well be in hiatus!


Hopefully, I miss my lappy enough to trigger me into writing once more.

Clean Room

I used to be overly critical about my room.  Not two weeks will go by that I will not have the urge to pick up broom and mop and clean my room from walls to floor.  I became so obsessed with my room that I would not let anyone else even attempt to clean it; even when it seems disorganized, I know where everything was, and a different pair of hands touching my stuff would mean loosing track of where my things are.


Then my workload suddenly multiplied exponentially and I was left with little time under my domain.  It didn't help as well that I kept changing rooms, or rather, Matriarch kept moving me from room to room.  There even came a point that I transfered rooms thrice in the same year.  I lost track of some of my stuff because of that, and my drive to clean wavered.  After all, why should I exert too much effort in cleaning room when I am not even assured of my permanence in that place.


Over time the zealous urge to clean was lost, and my room became a seeming jungle of books and knick-knacks piled to one place or another with no logic or organization.  The old twice a week purging was lost until it became a chore to be done only on the bluest of moons.


And today was one of those rare celestial occurrences. 


The day started out lazily, but thankfully, I was able to pick up enough steam and start my erstwhile favorite activity.  More than just moving dirt around, cleaning my room also involves moving the furnitures around.  The purging isn't complete when I am not able to move stuff about.  And therein lies the heart of my problem:  my stuff are too bulky, or too large to move around.  For a long time, I've been trying out in my head different permutations of how to rearrange the furnitures, but I was stuck with the old one I used to have.  It did serve its purpose, but it left me with too little floor space to move about that you have no other choice but lie in the bed once inside the room.  For month after month, I have been lethargic while within my domain because its arrangement left nothing else to do inside.


Finally, after months of merely thinking about it, I decided to clean, and to move my things about.  And there were some...things... that gave me quite a stir.  I do love our pets; they even sleep with me on the bed sometimes, but those rascals have turned the space under my bed into their personal cesspool, taking care to do their business on the farthest side, out of reach and out of sight of my previous cursory cleanings.  No wonder my room smells like dog!  Further cleaning also revealed a bunch of papers remnants from my old job.  I confess, it gave me a certain amount of vindictive glee throwing those papers out.


Finally, I have a clean room, or at least clean enough to be comfortable with.  I still have some more things to do, which will be done over the next weekends to come, but at least I have made considerable headstart today.


photo credit

Online!!!

My lappy is in trouble.  

For the past weeks, I've been unable to log on to the web because my lappy wont allow me.  I have four web browsers on my lappy, but neither of which could connect to the net.  They all tell me that I have no internet connection.

I would have left it as such;  the bill may have been forgotten, so the service provider might have cut our line to remind us to pay them.  Such has happened before, and, though it caused me enough distress before, I refuse to wallow over it some more.

I might have imputed it to the wi-fi router's malfunction as well.  Gremlyn's hubby might have tinkered with the router and may have forgotter to inform the rest of the household of the changes to our access.

I might have accepted that we just didn't have internet access.

Except for that blue icon on my taskbar that tells me that I am connected to the internet.  And the fact that I can use Yahoo messenger on my lappy without any hitch. Which leads me to conclude that my lappy, despite my having two antivirus programs installed, has contracted a virus.

Having accepted that possibility, I asked help from friends on what to do to cure lappy with its sickness.  A friend came to the rescue in the form of an antivirus software and an additional spyware detecctor which I hastily tried to install on my lappy.

I say tried because my lappy wouldn't let me install it.

These new softwares, they always need to connect online before they let you allow to installl their goods onto your computer.  But my problem is just that:  I CAN'T connect to the internet.  So no matter how good those antivirus programs might have been, i simply just can't use it.

How now do I cure my virulent preciousssss and elevate it from its current state as a glorified paperweight?  I can't always steal Matriarch's or Garfield's lappy for my nightly browsing as I feel restricted with my use of it, owing to my paranoia.

I'm open to suggestions.

Beaching Around Zambales

Over breakfast the other day, I was informed that we are going on a trip to Pundaquit for the weekend.  It was not a suggestion, and like it or not, I am coming with them for this outing. 


This will be the first time in at least five years that I will be going on a trip along with the whole family.  For the longest time, I have been able to beg off of any family activity due to carefully tweaked scheduling overlaps or due to unavoidable need for overtime work.  I have no such excuses this time.


I must admit that I am very wary of the possible outcome of this trip, as I cannot recall any recent activity involving the whole cast that didn't end up in heated arguments.  But, as one friend on mine said:  There is no limiting family contact; it's but an illusion.  So maybe, I'll just have to tough this one out and try to enjoy it while it lasts.  After all, I can always bury myself in a book if shit hits the fan.

Clarity

It took me the entire day to clean my room, and even then, it wasn't as thorough as I would have wished. I have too much stuff; I have too much trash. Fortunately, there are some treasures mixed in with the trash. I finally found my glasses; they weren't broken, as I originally thought.

I have become myopic during college ever since I acquired the urge to read and collect books. Doing an all-nighter with Stephen King at the helm could certainly wreak havoc on your eyes. But reading was such a pleasure then that I can go to class with less than three hours of sleep, and come nightfall, resume my nightly vigil with the novel of the week. Blurriness was just a minor inconvenience; the writings on the board after all, come to focus when I squint. And it does help that I am given a seat front and center, thanks to the alphabetical seating arrangement.

I only surrendered to the fact that I needed glasses during the review. Seats have been reserved, and I wasn't able to situate myself at the front. I have no plans of squinting for four straight hours every day just to see what the proctors are writing. Finally, I lowered my ego and decided to purchase my first glasses with 50:50 lenses. That one served me a good four years, until my habit of sleeping with glasses on finally broke it. It cost me an arm to purchase those glasses; and I replaced it with a pair one-fourth its value. It really is amazing, the things you can buy as a student, you can barely afford when you become gainfully employed.

I stopped wearing my glasses a couple of years ago, after I suffered from a torrent of daily headaches. My initial suspicion of course, was that the glasses were causing the headaches to erupt. I borrowed glasses with a higher grade, but still the headaches prevailed. In hindsight, I should have suspected work to have been the culprit, and not the glasses. But the damage was done, and my specs were buried with the rest of my trash, to collect dust with all the stuff that I didn't have the heart to throw.

And throw stuff, I did, with impunity. It's amazing how much nonchalance I felt over throwing stuff that just a year ago caused me pain to part with, if even just to hide. I have admitted, time and again, that I collect garbage: movie tickets, restaurant receipts, bus and plane tickets, credit card statements - they all pile up in my room to await verdict as to its seeming importance, or its utter worthlessness. Problem is, sometimes, I can't decide the matter, or would choose not to decide on it, claiming sentimentality over such trivial things, like the date, or the person, or the event, that was evidenced by that receipt, that ticket or that incurred debt.

Out of all that garbage and evidence of mundane existence, I found my glasses. And for the first time in years, I was able to enjoy the new year's fireworks as they should be: with clarity and in detail. It was like a revelation - the things in the past did not happen like a blur, as I felt it did; it was a blur because I chose to see it as such. I was hiding under my own myopic vision, confronting only those that are already in my limited point of view; afraid of those beyond my reach. I knew my road would diverge from the path I was currently traversing, I just didn't want to acknowledge it, afraid of the changes it would entail. It was a foolish, childish thing to do, but I didn't want the risk it involved. I know now that I have to face it, and I was merely delaying my decision.

The new year offers new beginings. This one resonates more truthfully for me now, more than ever. Change is the world's constant, and it will occur whether you want it to or not, all we can to do is prepare for it. My path is still not clear, but I know that I can face it.

Odie

"Patay na raw si Odie. Tumawag sa akin yung vet. :-(" So states the first message I read today.


Odie is our pet daschund whom Garfield bought four years ago. A few months after purchasing Odie, Garfiled moved out of the house, leaving him to our care. Such is the irony in life that a few months after Garfield moved back in, Odie then dies.

Of all the pets we've had over the years, I've been most aloof with Odie. Lacking the time and the motivation, I've never allowed myself to establish a good rapport with him. Having lost my favorite pet a few years back, I didn't want the emotional attachment to establish with this new dog. But Odie is such an endearing pet; always eager to please, always eager for company. He would always try to find an opportunity to lick your face if you're unaware, even if you don't want him to.

Odie is overwieght. For a dog his size, he weighs almost double than normal, thanks to my mom's knack for pampering pets too much. But when Odie developed an inability to finish a walk along the street and refused to go on any further, prompting anyone walking him around to just carry him back home, my mom relented and imposed a diet for Odie, involving only two meals during the day, instead of the three full meals he once enjoyed.

The last time I saw Odie over the weekend, he looked thin but healthy. I didn't realize that he was suffering from any sickness. His absence during the past few days didn't even register on me. I didn't know he was sick, until I recieved Garfield's message earlier.

Goodbye, Odie.

The Search for Narnia

The main allure of reading is its ability to transport the reader to different worlds. The better the author's words flow, the deeper the reader delves into dimensions at once foreign and familiar. That is why when my stress buttons are pressed, coming home to a well-written fantasy is such a boon. Such is the reason for the alarming proliferation of fiction in my room. I need more shelving.

I have a tendency to impose my tastes on others, and anyone clueless enough to ask my opinion on books would no doubt be bombarded by Anne Rice, Stephen King, Neil Gaiman and Jostein Gaarder. I lend my books (if you ask me nicely) on the condition that its conditions be preserved. I tend to become obsessive when it comes to my tomes.

My problem is, I tend to forget who borrowed which.

Among the titles missing in my collection is The Chronicles of Narnia. I found my copy at Booksale years ago, before the first movie was shown, for 150 bucks. Some months afterward, I found that same copy selling at Powerbooks for upwards of 500. I've lost track of who borrowed this book from me. I was secretly hoping that it only got lodged among the things I didn't bother unpacking from my moving from one room to the next (I'm on my third room this year), but alas, the book wasn't anywhere.

Some friends advised me to create a card catalog for my books, as they have already grown too big to commit to just memory. What they didn't comment on was my abyssmal memory to start with. Seeing as Narnia is not the only title I'm missing, I just might consider that advise, only, I wouldn't go about calling my collection a library, at least, not yet.

I'm gonna need all my OC powers for this endeavor.

-----

Magic: The Gathering

I was a fan of this card game way back in high school, although I had more fun collecting the cards rather than playing them. It was such a geeky game, much like Dungeons & Dragons, and I love it.

Back then, one of the prized cards to find was the Sengir Vampire, which is a "cheap" creature to cast considering its abilites. By cheap, it means that the manna used casting the creature was well worth its cost. Imagine my surprise when I saw this online:

You've got to love Gloria, she really stives for universal appeal. I mean, Filipinos from all walks of life hate her now, from geeks to jocks, and all the cliques in between.

photocredits

Home

Makalipas ang tatlong taong pagsasarili, muling nagbalik sa aming tahanan ang aking nakatatandang kapatid. Marapat nang hindi ungkatin ang siyang dahilan ng kaniyang paglisan sapagkat ito'y akmang ibaon na lamang sa limot.

Pinaghandaan ng aming ina ang napipintong pagbabalik na ito: ipinagawa niya ang ilang silid sa aming bahay, kasama ang aking lumang silid. Sa pagbabalik ng aking kapatid, kaakibat nito ang aking pagbalik sa lumang silid na ito.

Hindi ko ipagkakaila, marami akong gamit. Mapalad ako at may kakayanan akong bumili ng ilang luho, ngunit ang mga luhong ito ang siyang nagpapahirap sa akin sa aking paglisan sa silid na akin na ring nakasanayan. Salamat na lamang at nakakuha ang aming ina ng ilang tauhan upang tumulong sa aming paglilipat, kasama na rin ang paglilinis at pagbubuhat ng ilang kagamitan.

Nakapapagod ang paglilipat, lalong lalo na ang pag-imis ng mga gamit. Maselan ako sa aking gamit at sa ayos nito. Hindi ko ipagkakatiwala sa ibang tao ang pag-aayos nito, siyang dahilan ng aking matagal na pagkawala sa sapot ng blogosperyo (hindi lamang ito ang sanhi ng aking pagkawala, ngunit sa ibang talata na lamang ang pagkukuwento tungkol dito). Hanggang ngayon ay hindi pa rin tapos ang aking pag-aayos sa aking silid. Marami pa rin akong mga gamit na hindi nahahanapan ng akmang lugar sa aking bagong silid.

Masukal man ang aking lugar sa ngayon, ang mahalaga ay tapos na rin ang paglilipat, at mas lalong mahalaga ay nagbalik na ang aking kuya. Hindi na alintana na hiniram niya ang aking laptop kaya't hindi ako makapag-libot sa sapot ng ilang araw.

Madalas man kaming hindi magkasundo, at noon ay parating nag-aaway, ako ay masaya pa rin sa kaniyang pagbabalik.

Depression's Downpour

I just hate the rain

Especially in the morning.

The Bibliophile Cries Blood!

I am a bit obsessive-compulsive about stuff, and I can sense if my things have been touched by other hands, which is not to say that my room is sparkling clean and impeccable; quite the opposite, really; but I know my mess, and I know when some other people have messed around with my stuff.

I came home from work to my empty room. Nothing extraordinary about that. But only after a few minutes upon entering, I notice some things that are amiss. I saw that the drawer of my study table was askew, evidencing that it was recently opened but was not properly closed. I'm not too bothered, because there isn't anything to be coveted in there, mostly papers and other paraphernalia that are valuable only to me, and only through sentimentality. I have a nasty habit of collecting receipts, calling cards, bus tickets and movie tickets and they all go in that drawer to mingle with credit card bills and other sundry items.

Seeing my bookshelf was another matter altogether, though. Somebody had the temerity to go about my books and steal one of them! This culprit even had the gall to take one of the books that I haven't even read!

Still in its vacuum seal and as fresh as the day I bought it from Powerbooks' bargain bin (two Christmases ago), I placed this book on the shelf to remind myself to buy more plastic cover. I have made it a point to never read any of my books until I have covered it in plastic, but as much as I want to read them in the order in which I bought them, some books demand to be prioritized and moved up the list, to the detriment of others.

But who in this limited household is the red-handed book thief? Had it been some other stuff missing, I would automatically cast the blame on my younger sister, for she does have the history of rummaging through my things and never returning it. But this is a book we're talking about, and my sister is all but allergic to reading. I remember buying her a Sorcerer's Stone paperback only to find out two months later that she never even touched it. My elder sister was actually egging her to read the book, and it came to the point that my younger sister cried a tantrum so as not to be forced to read it further. I also bought her a copy of The Secret Garden for her school project, but I ended up the one enjoying the book. I doubt if she even so much as smelled it.

My mom, on the other hand, loves to read, but her current fare consists of self-help, inspirational and business books. I even gave her my two Robert Kiyosaki~s for I know she would enjoy it. Fiction is not really her thing; she even advised me to stop investing on fiction, but there is just no stopping me.

My elder sister, upon the other hand (yes, there are three hands, I am a mutant), share my taste in books. What she lacks is my passion for it, and my disregard for budgets when it comes to buying books. It isn't in my nature to borrow books, but I don't mind lending my collection, which suits her perfectly. She used to borrow some of my books and I can only cringe in horror when I see my books, my beloved children, opened wide and face down on her bed, with the spine accumulating lines and creases from the tension of it being folded upon itself. I remember employing the help of several large bull clips just to remedy the damage inflicted upon that book. Buying books second hand has given me the creativity to somehow salvage the books and return it into a more presentable condition. But my elder sister isn't the type to just barge in on my room and take whatever she fancies. And it has been years since she last borrowed any of my books.

Still, I'm bothered about the loss of my precious. I can't make out who in their proper minds would steal from me, and Lynne Truss, of all authors! Even though she has a massive following in the US and Europe, I am not in the opinion that she is that accessible here. This puzzle, combined with the theft, perplexes me so. I am mad at the crime performed against me, and I am intrigued as to the choice of the perpetrator.

Still, a crime is a crime, and someone has to pay.

I'm out for blood!

WAR!

War is brewing in our neighborhood. You can feel the oppressing miasma all over the place, blanketing everything with its evil stench. Even nature is rendered powerless over this intangible force of other-worldly presence: the winds seem to stand still, or else refuse to blow in this direction; summer nights turn cold, then humid, with no regard to barometric readings. The sun's summer rays seem blunted and incapable of giving heat. And all the while, an unnerving uneasiness has laid claim to the populace.

Wartime is nigh, and all about, preparations for the slaughter to come are being made. War drums have been released from their hallowed place of rest as advanced guards make ready their war paints and feathered armors. Banners of the various warring clans are hung all over the place, signifying an areas colors and affiliation. And inside the various households are a myriad of preparations of secret weapons that would, inevitably, lead to mass destruction.

War is near, and its name is Fiesta.

The first blow has been struck: psychological warfare through videoke-terrorism. A neighboring baranggay closed off a section of a busy thoroughfare to make room for the platform where the town's most prized terrorists will perform their renditions of hits, past, present and future, and sometimes in medley.

I can only squirm in terror as they let a banshee let loose over The Cranberries' "Zombie" and Regine Velazques' "Shine," followed by another terrorists' rendition of The Calling's "Stigmatize." Anytime soon, I'm expecting them to deploy their coup de grace: an unending medley of April Boy Regino "hits." Such vile, twisted actions are more than enough to render anyone in a state of hopelessness and utter terror, prompting anyone to reach for an icepick to gouge their eyes and shatter their eardrums in order to end the misery.

Coming home late and tired from work, I haven't the emotional fortitude to weather such viscious attacks on my psyche. The walls of my room seem infantile and ill-built to protect me from this cachophonic assult, as the voices seem to penetrate, and permeate from the very walls. Soon, the last remaining drops of my self-control would vanish like evanescent mist on a desert afternoon and render me immobile, irrational and insane; a dead husk of mutable flesh. I do not know how much more of this inhumane assault on my eardrums I can take.

Easter Spring Cleaning

I opted to stay here in Manila for the duration of the Holy Week, instead of joining my family on their trip down south. Primary reason is still work, but I also wanted to be home alone, something I haven't experienced as of late, seeing that I'm almost never at home anyways.

My mom and my younger sister left Friday afternoon, and woke me up to give last-minute instructions for taking care of the house, which involved feeding our two dogs upstairs and the five cats downstairs. After they left, I celebrated my officially being alone by eating my late lunch accompanied by red wine. I was properly drunk on my third glass. Good wine, that, spicy and full-bodied.

Saturday was spent at the Primo Rivera Spa, where I got to enjoy an amazing sauna session with full amenities, including a web-ready computer, where I had the privelege of being intimate with my favorite invoices from my favorite suppliers. I'm deluding myself, of course, as I spent it at work, under sweltering conditions. The AC units don't operate on holidays.

I planned to get up early this Easter morning and spend it purging the house of the dirt that three day's neglect had accumulated. It has long been my plan to perform spring cleaning on this holiday, Easter, being symbolic of new life and new beginnings. What I hadn't counted on was dreaming on Easter morining, and about Rebel, of all things. I woke up feeling heavy and depressed, and, instead rising up to perform my intended functions for the day, I sulked the time away, not rising on my bed, and just watching the last 20 episodes of Shamman King on my laptop.

It was a good thing that I was near completion of that series before this happened, or else, I might not have risen at all today. As it stood, I started my cleaning rituals by 3pm, way behind my schedule. I didn't do a good job at cleaning, I know. I was lacking in time and the necessary drive to effectively perform said functions, thus my actions were woefully half-hearted and not up to par. I'm tired, and I haven't even started cleaning my room, the last on my list of things to do, and arguably the one that would use up the most time.

I have decided to delay the purging of my room for another day. I am now lacking the necessary physical strength and emotional fortitude to perform said function. Cleaning my room involves openning up lost and forgotten boxes filled with memories and lingering feelings. My current depressive state would not protect me from whatever repercussion openning those boxes might bring.

Magnanakaw!

Earlier today, I was riven from my morning slumber by urgent calls from below. "Magnanakaw! Magnanakaw! Magnanakaw!" screamed a woman from 3 floors down. Chismoso that I am, I looked down my window to see a woman i red desperately, and vainly, trying to catch up with a thug on a motorcycle.


Said thug, by the way, was very much complacent, running his bike on minor gear, assured that the woman wouldn’t catch up. He turned a corner and disappeared from view. A few minutes later, I hear the sonic boom of a revved up motorcycle. Probably Mr. Thug doubling back and returning from the cesspool from whence he came.


That was the second time I was torn from my morning routine by wildly screaming victims of petty theft. The first instance was a few months ago, February, I think. What irks me about these things is not that it happens on our street, but that it happens aside from the fact that our community pools a monthly collection for the benefit of baranggay patrol.


Oftentimes, I see the tambays tanods keeping post on the corner nearest our place. It is ironic though, that both snatchers crossed that corner where the patrols keep their post at night. Okay, provided it was 6am that the thieving occurred, and probably beyond their patrol hours, but why is it that, despite their nightly rounds, snatchers and petty thieves abound our place?! Is it because the thugs have no fear of God and Law, and certainly not baranggay tanods? Or is it that their nightly vigil is at most flippant and not entirely dissuasive of crime?


Or maybe the thugs already know their schedules, and can easily maneuver their hits around the watchers’ guard hours. I don’t know.


But do I really care, stoic that I am? Maybe. Having been victimized myself by petty thieves, I do feel for that lady, desperately catching up, trying to regain her belongings — pieces of her life — that was snatched from her. At least, they were only things, those belongings snatched from her. Those can be replaced, albeit stressful and cumbersome.


And Mr Thug, dude, Karma will get you. As some of my friends point out: "Digital na ang Karma", it wouldn’t wait for reincarnation for your comeuppance. And as the Chinese curse go, "May you live in Interesting Times".




published in friendster blog April 19th, 2008

Phoenix Songs and the Leaden Tears of Persephone

He was the domineering figure whose shadow we are under even though hundreds of kilometers separate us. His was the moral standard we were brought up with, instilled to us through our mother. His was the work attitude we were imbibed with; of never resting when there is work yet to be done.


He was the Fear. Summer days spent under his roof was arduous at best. We were ever mindful of the things we say and do, as it might displease him, and we are to blame.


He was the Law. Whatever he says must be done as he said it. When he tells you to get water from the nearby stream, you do. When he tells you to clear the pathways of grass and leaves, you do. When he tells you to wake up at daybreak for breakfast, you do.


He was the Myth. I have the strongest recollection of stories about his fights against the creatures of the night, of his conquests of unholy beings feeding upon the viscera of hapless humans, of witches and their deadly spells. I recall the mystic article he uses as belt, made from the tail of the stingray, said to be deadly and tortuous when lashed upon the evil entities he battles with.


He was the Chooser. He chooses his favorites and favors them lavishly in his own way. He backs them on every argument and he sides with them. They are his favorites. But not me, nor my brother, nor my sister. We were never favorites.


He was the Villain. He chose to side with his favorite daughters, and against my mother. The dawn of this new millennium greeted us with unspeakable turmoil, thus distancing us from him even more. I was not a witness to it, but I heard tell of his disowning us.


Last Sunday he died, my grandfather. I never really knew him. But somehow, there is in me a blankness, a void, that I don't know how to describe. Am I sad for his passing? I should be. Am I devastated? Honestly, no. What I do feel is a general grief over someone's passing, almost akin to the grief you would feel when a stranger, or at least a distant relative of a friend, dies. I know it shouldn't be enough, but that is all I've got.




published in friendster blog June 25, 2007 at 9:39 pm