Today is a Wednesday. The weather outside is fair except for the occasional gushes of wind. The lady who cooks lunch across the street made the bean soup differently; the taste was more pronounced than I would've usually liked.
I sat across a different group of medical students. Whereas yesterday's topic was heart muscles and metacarpals, today they talked about cars and parking lots.
Red faces everywhere. They've been drinking since 1 AM last night until lunchtime today. I found I'm starting to hate the smell of beer.
When emptiness stares at you in the face, you find that you can either fight it with words or silence. I try to make it go away with words, but writing demands solitude so I find myself retreating into silence. In either circumstance I am helpless before the void. I have decided to stop fighting it. Emptiness doesn't have to be antithetical to presence. On the contrary, it invites it. The emptier I feel, the more I desire to be filled. The more I desire Him. This desire sometimes makes me cry when I pray.
I want to go home. I don't want to be here on Valentines. I would rather be with my parents because they are the happiest people in the world, and their love makes me hope that I will have my share of that someday. And I miss my dog.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Ilang Nanay
I've never been the person who gets to travel a lot. Although I would have loved to go places, the best I’ve been to was Baguio City, and I wasn’t even there to have fun riding horses and eating strawberries; I was there for a semi-mandatory convention. I have gone to Bohol as well, but I can’t say I enjoyed it so much because my mom just tagged us along on her seminar and my stepdad wasn’t really the enjoyable type of companion for sightseeing trips. I have been to several beaches and resorts too, but I’m not really much of a beach bum and I don’t like what seawater does to my hair. What I’m really saying is that my list of Memorable Places I’ve Been To is not much of a list yet and frankly, it doesn't really bother me. My best memories have been at home, and no matter how sparkly travel brochures get, there is really only one place I can call my favorite: my great grandmother’s (Nanay’s) house.
It stands at the center of our town, a two-storey home built sometime during the 1930s. It is made of brick and has a brownish color that almost looks red in the sunlight. The first floor is where my great grandmother’s store is located. She used to sell clothes and crayons and guitars, but when my cousins and I were still little kids, the store had been our playground and the items our playthings. Needless to say, most of what she could have sold were either missing some vital parts or completely broken. They eventually stopped selling things that we could break and brought in the nails, the paint, the hinges, and strangely enough, the toilet bowls.
There is a screen door that separates the store from the living room, which is spacious enough for more than twenty people to laugh with each other during family dinners, or for the same number of people to shout at each other during family fights. I remember a time when there was a drought and the whole town lost its supply of water. Everybody was shouting, all twenty of my uncles and aunts, including my grandparents and great grandparents, probably because somebody used up all of the water in the house. There were fingers pointing, voices rising, doors slamming—I had never seen anything so chaotic in my life. But then, when they were not shouting, they usually laughed, talked about business and politics, and teased us children about our crushes. When nobody fought or laughed, everybody cried. That living room had seen four caskets and heard numerous prayers; its walls had echoed the sound of our tears. That living room is where we are a family.
Straight ahead is the kitchen, which has a high ceiling and always smells of paksiw and rice. There is a big and long table at the middle where the adults talk while drinking. Sometimes it is where we children sit, helping ourselves with a hearty meal and a hearty conversation with one another. We even cook there sometimes, although we don’t always come up with something edible. Then there is also that old broken piano inconspicuously sitting at the corner. None of us ever had the luxury of playing it because none of us ever learned how. Nanay and Tatay just bought it because their neighbor had a piano and they just had to have one for themselves.
The stairs that lead to the second floor has a shiny brown banister. As children, we always had fun sliding down on it when the steps looked too many to take. We would hurt our groins but we would just laugh it away. The second floor has a big window at the center of the first corner wall. It is always open, and its view overlooks the whole town plaza. We used to just squeeze ourselves together against its frames, look below, and make fun of the people who passed by. During New Year's Eve, it is where we watch fireworks. Most nights we would just play cards or Marco Polo until we tire each other out. When it got late and none of us wanted to leave, our parents let us stay, although only after some considerable whining. My grandparents would then take out all the banig, and my cousins and I would huddle together under the covers talking until every one of us fell asleep. In the morning, we would go down and have corned beef and hotdogs for breakfast. On rare occasions, there would be pancakes. It didn’t really matter though what our grandmother made us eat; we enjoyed it all just the same.
Of course, there is the good old backyard where we used to play hide and seek. Our grandfather would scare us from playing by telling us stories of the agta and the duwende. It scared us to bits that until now, none of us dare to stay there for more than five minutes. But then I remember pretty decent memories in that backyard, like when I used to help my grandfather fix his car or feed my uncle’s fighting cocks. Sometimes I got to brush their feathers.
Outside, the house looks exactly like my old great grandmother Nanay Toning who passed away in 2007: worn-out, wrinkly, and tired. Inside, also just like her, Nanay’s house is bursting with energetic laughter and memories. I don’t think I need to be in Paris or Tokyo or any other place to be able to write something wonderful and spectacular. I have a lot of wonderful memories and spectacular moments in that house. I know I will never tire of its familiarity and closeness. In fact, those are what make it so special to me. “Mangadto ta ilang Nanay” will forever be a phrase I will always delight in hearing.
It stands at the center of our town, a two-storey home built sometime during the 1930s. It is made of brick and has a brownish color that almost looks red in the sunlight. The first floor is where my great grandmother’s store is located. She used to sell clothes and crayons and guitars, but when my cousins and I were still little kids, the store had been our playground and the items our playthings. Needless to say, most of what she could have sold were either missing some vital parts or completely broken. They eventually stopped selling things that we could break and brought in the nails, the paint, the hinges, and strangely enough, the toilet bowls.
There is a screen door that separates the store from the living room, which is spacious enough for more than twenty people to laugh with each other during family dinners, or for the same number of people to shout at each other during family fights. I remember a time when there was a drought and the whole town lost its supply of water. Everybody was shouting, all twenty of my uncles and aunts, including my grandparents and great grandparents, probably because somebody used up all of the water in the house. There were fingers pointing, voices rising, doors slamming—I had never seen anything so chaotic in my life. But then, when they were not shouting, they usually laughed, talked about business and politics, and teased us children about our crushes. When nobody fought or laughed, everybody cried. That living room had seen four caskets and heard numerous prayers; its walls had echoed the sound of our tears. That living room is where we are a family.
Straight ahead is the kitchen, which has a high ceiling and always smells of paksiw and rice. There is a big and long table at the middle where the adults talk while drinking. Sometimes it is where we children sit, helping ourselves with a hearty meal and a hearty conversation with one another. We even cook there sometimes, although we don’t always come up with something edible. Then there is also that old broken piano inconspicuously sitting at the corner. None of us ever had the luxury of playing it because none of us ever learned how. Nanay and Tatay just bought it because their neighbor had a piano and they just had to have one for themselves.
The stairs that lead to the second floor has a shiny brown banister. As children, we always had fun sliding down on it when the steps looked too many to take. We would hurt our groins but we would just laugh it away. The second floor has a big window at the center of the first corner wall. It is always open, and its view overlooks the whole town plaza. We used to just squeeze ourselves together against its frames, look below, and make fun of the people who passed by. During New Year's Eve, it is where we watch fireworks. Most nights we would just play cards or Marco Polo until we tire each other out. When it got late and none of us wanted to leave, our parents let us stay, although only after some considerable whining. My grandparents would then take out all the banig, and my cousins and I would huddle together under the covers talking until every one of us fell asleep. In the morning, we would go down and have corned beef and hotdogs for breakfast. On rare occasions, there would be pancakes. It didn’t really matter though what our grandmother made us eat; we enjoyed it all just the same.
Of course, there is the good old backyard where we used to play hide and seek. Our grandfather would scare us from playing by telling us stories of the agta and the duwende. It scared us to bits that until now, none of us dare to stay there for more than five minutes. But then I remember pretty decent memories in that backyard, like when I used to help my grandfather fix his car or feed my uncle’s fighting cocks. Sometimes I got to brush their feathers.
Outside, the house looks exactly like my old great grandmother Nanay Toning who passed away in 2007: worn-out, wrinkly, and tired. Inside, also just like her, Nanay’s house is bursting with energetic laughter and memories. I don’t think I need to be in Paris or Tokyo or any other place to be able to write something wonderful and spectacular. I have a lot of wonderful memories and spectacular moments in that house. I know I will never tire of its familiarity and closeness. In fact, those are what make it so special to me. “Mangadto ta ilang Nanay” will forever be a phrase I will always delight in hearing.
Saturday, February 08, 2014
Ocean
It takes an ocean not to break.
But where is it going?
Is it going to end?
Not soon.
Eventually.
But where is it going?
Is it going to end?
Not soon.
Eventually.
Friday, February 07, 2014
Why I Write
I write because I can.
I remember thinking about what I really wanted to do during my teenager-trying-to-find-who-I-am phase. I also remember thinking about the things I was good at, things that people praised me for, things that made me feel good. It wasn't long before I found that small yellowish notebook barely alive with pages. I recognized the scribbles and the doodles; the fat, violent scratches of pencil against fragile paper. I remember that dirty, size-confused penmanship that sometimes stretched to the right, to the left, this time up, then down the next. It was my notebook in kindergarten.
As I flipped through the frail pages of that notebook, I found Cinderella, re-told by my then five-year-old self. I remember not being able to suppress a smile. The grammar was horrible and the spelling was even worse, but it sort of sounded right when I read it. I had been a good writer back then. I'd like to think that I'm still a good writer now. I'd like to think that people aren't just saying I'm good just for the heck of it. I'd like to think that I can write.
I write because I want to.
Very few people are lucky to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that one thing they’d love to do for the rest of their lives. Even fewer people are lucky to be allowed to do it. I want to be conceited and say that I am one of those people, lucky enough to know that I want to write and luckier still to be able to.
When I read books, I always want to be able to write like the people who write them. I always think about what adjectives (and how many of them) to put here or which is the right kind of verb. Sometimes I get frustrated about where the period should be, or if it should even be a period at all. Sometimes I think that I can’t write. Worse, sometimes I think that I don’t want to write.
But then I always find myself missing the magical birth of words in paper or in a Microsoft Word page. I miss how they sporadically come out and turn the emptiness of that paper, the blankness of that Word page into something full, something beautiful. I miss the happiness that comes from knowing that those words are mine.
I write because I have to.
Writing makes me aware that I occupy a space in the world. And it is with writing that I hope to make that space significant. I’ve heard one too many people calling me out for such an impractical passion, been asked one too many questions about where and how a currency sign might pop out, seen numerous eyebrows raised, countless foreheads creased, and a haunting number of mouths twisted into a contortion of ridicule and disdain.
I’d thought about it and at one point decided these people made some sense. If I really wanted to save lives, why didn’t I just become a doctor as everybody expected me to be instead of just sitting idly writing about it? But being a doctor isn't the only way to save lives. I’m saving a life when I listen to a friend or when I pray. I know that books and music and poetry save people because they save me every day. I know I save myself when I write. Writing keeps me sane and whole and from forgetting that no matter how bad things get, flowers still grow and there is still so much love to be had.
This is why I write.
I write because I can and I want to and I have to. I write because I know no other way to change the things I want to change. I write because my fingers are restless and because words are too precious to be left alone in an axis where they don’t mean anything and can’t touch lives. I write because I am in love, because I am sad, because I am angry, because I am happy. I write because people think I’m good at it and because I sometimes lead myself to believe I’m good at it. I write because I suck at everything else. I write because I am conceited and get jealous of other writers who are better than me. I write because it makes me feel good. I write because I want to tell the truth that I believe. I write because I’m a coward. I write because it gives me courage. I write because the world needs to wake up. I write because people need me to tell their stories and because I need people to hear my stories. I write because I have dreams. I write because I hope. I write because I’m alive. I write because I want to be alive.
I remember thinking about what I really wanted to do during my teenager-trying-to-find-who-I-am phase. I also remember thinking about the things I was good at, things that people praised me for, things that made me feel good. It wasn't long before I found that small yellowish notebook barely alive with pages. I recognized the scribbles and the doodles; the fat, violent scratches of pencil against fragile paper. I remember that dirty, size-confused penmanship that sometimes stretched to the right, to the left, this time up, then down the next. It was my notebook in kindergarten.
As I flipped through the frail pages of that notebook, I found Cinderella, re-told by my then five-year-old self. I remember not being able to suppress a smile. The grammar was horrible and the spelling was even worse, but it sort of sounded right when I read it. I had been a good writer back then. I'd like to think that I'm still a good writer now. I'd like to think that people aren't just saying I'm good just for the heck of it. I'd like to think that I can write.
I write because I want to.
Very few people are lucky to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that one thing they’d love to do for the rest of their lives. Even fewer people are lucky to be allowed to do it. I want to be conceited and say that I am one of those people, lucky enough to know that I want to write and luckier still to be able to.
When I read books, I always want to be able to write like the people who write them. I always think about what adjectives (and how many of them) to put here or which is the right kind of verb. Sometimes I get frustrated about where the period should be, or if it should even be a period at all. Sometimes I think that I can’t write. Worse, sometimes I think that I don’t want to write.
But then I always find myself missing the magical birth of words in paper or in a Microsoft Word page. I miss how they sporadically come out and turn the emptiness of that paper, the blankness of that Word page into something full, something beautiful. I miss the happiness that comes from knowing that those words are mine.
I write because I have to.
Writing makes me aware that I occupy a space in the world. And it is with writing that I hope to make that space significant. I’ve heard one too many people calling me out for such an impractical passion, been asked one too many questions about where and how a currency sign might pop out, seen numerous eyebrows raised, countless foreheads creased, and a haunting number of mouths twisted into a contortion of ridicule and disdain.
I’d thought about it and at one point decided these people made some sense. If I really wanted to save lives, why didn’t I just become a doctor as everybody expected me to be instead of just sitting idly writing about it? But being a doctor isn't the only way to save lives. I’m saving a life when I listen to a friend or when I pray. I know that books and music and poetry save people because they save me every day. I know I save myself when I write. Writing keeps me sane and whole and from forgetting that no matter how bad things get, flowers still grow and there is still so much love to be had.
This is why I write.
I write because I can and I want to and I have to. I write because I know no other way to change the things I want to change. I write because my fingers are restless and because words are too precious to be left alone in an axis where they don’t mean anything and can’t touch lives. I write because I am in love, because I am sad, because I am angry, because I am happy. I write because people think I’m good at it and because I sometimes lead myself to believe I’m good at it. I write because I suck at everything else. I write because I am conceited and get jealous of other writers who are better than me. I write because it makes me feel good. I write because I want to tell the truth that I believe. I write because I’m a coward. I write because it gives me courage. I write because the world needs to wake up. I write because people need me to tell their stories and because I need people to hear my stories. I write because I have dreams. I write because I hope. I write because I’m alive. I write because I want to be alive.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)