2 cups of coffee

I drink 2 cups of coffee in the morning.
Within 3 hours I take 6 trips to the restroom.
I pee what seems to be an equivalent of 4 cups.

How the hell is that possible?

Spring

It’s a beautiful day today. The sun shines as wisps of clouds linger by. The wind blows with a breeze that’s not terribly warm, not painfully humid. This is what I love about springtime in the US. The plants and trees are bright green. Varied hues but all fresh and vibrant. The flowers speak and sing with colors so alive. The highways are adorned with wildflowers – with bluebonnets the most celebrated of them all. The grass is lush and carpet-like.

Everything seems all right with the world.

In reality, the world is never all right.

Rain, thunder and lightning will ruin a parade, dampen a party. Weeds will creep up fast and mar the perfect landscape. Either a cold front or a heat wave will shift the temperature to an extreme. And as you want to go out and enjoy the outdoors, sickness or finances will hover and keep you strapped indoors.

Maybe spring represents the upside of life. It represents the ideal, the picturesque and the pleasant. But it certainly doesn’t reflect perfection. Because there’s really no such thing. Sometimes I think that spring is life’s big tease. Just when you think things are well, that your path is straight and clear, that things are going as planned, that the sun and success are aglow, that the flowers are ever in bloom, that the plants and trees are evergreen – life throws a curve ball at you. You find yourself disappointed, disoriented, disillusioned. The timing is sometimes fascinating as well. Just when you thought you have so much to be thankful for, you suddenly find yourself with so much to be angry at.

The fact is springtime is just like any other season, like any other day. It can be full of wonder and excitement or it can turn out to be frustrating, depressing and downright morose. Is life really a balance between times you are having the best of luck and times you’ve been a magnet for bad luck? Is there a magical, mythical or theological force that does course correction and makes sure your existence has a good dose of blessings together with a good dose of crap? Is there an established and guiding curriculum out there that says the learning can’t be complete without benchmark exams and periodical tests? Is there an unspoken fairness rule that says if you’ve been dealt a bad hand that you deserve a winner at some point?

Is there a point to all these questions? Maybe not. It’s in my nature to be reflective, though. I look at the sky and wonder. I listen to the rhythm of the rain and I ponder in silence. I watch a pool or a pond of water and I search for purpose. I stare at the ocean and beg answers to life’s questions.

It’s a beautiful day today. I should be outside. Instead I’m sulking and writing this blog as I mindlessly watch time pass by.

Early Morning Storm

My eyes flutter as they open, slowly they open.

I shift to my left trying to take stock of time.

I hazily see the clock and I let out a sleepy grunt.

I want to curse upon seeing it’s only two in the morning.

Then I realized what woke me up.

The bright lights slip through the blinds.

The loud crack and boom follow.

The house shakes with a low vibrating rumble.

The thunder’s so near I feel it within the walls, I feel it on the bed.

It’s not strong; just enough voltage to send a quick chill up the spine.

The rain pounds outside. I force myself up.

Looking outside the window, I see that water is draining well.

It’s not flooding.

Lighting strikes close. It illuminates the darkness outside.

I can see the heavy clouds and the buckets of water cascading.

Lying down on the bed, I grabbed my phone.

I checked the weather and saw 5 alerts.

A couple of flash flood warnings.

One tornado warning and a couple thunderstorm warnings.

I stare at the doppler radar and see the storm represented as a deep red color.

Deep red apparently means heavy rain.

The deep red swirls around the screen and we are right in the middle of it.

I force myself up. I go to the other room and look outside the windows.

It’s not flooding. What a relief. I don’t want to deal with the mess.

Lying down on the bed again, I smile.

I’m actually enjoying this, I think.

It’s exhilarating, the force of nature that’s just outside.

The power of the earth teasing, disturbing this quiet suburban life of ours.

I feel a tingle of excitement at the possibility and occurrence of flood, thunderstorm and tornadoes.

Well, probably not tornadoes. But still, there’s something about a natural onslaught that fascinates me.

This is somewhat similar to the excitement I felt in anticipation of Hurricane Ike.

The rain subsides. The world outside quiets down. The lightning recedes.

My eyes flutter as they close, slowly they close.

I shift to my right trying to forget the time.

I let my weather perversions go as I succumb to sleep’s embrace.

 

Oracle

1. source of wisdom: somebody or something considered to be a source of knowledge, wisdom, or prophecy

I’m guessing most of us have our own personal oracles – gods, prophets, people, events, works or things – that we reach out to during times of doubt and distress. I have several that I go back to from time to time to regain perspective and inspiration. Two of my Filipino oracles are Gary Granada and Conrado De Quiros. They’ve had a big influence on me probably because I encountered their work during my receptive days. I was immediately moved not just by the profound and honest truth of their words but the clincher was how they invoked and brought the emotion to the surface. The lyricism, the play of phrases, the wonderful stringing together of thought and words, of words and thought pulled me right in.

My brother introduced me to Granada many years ago and I remember watching him on Ryan, Ryan Musikahan which was Ryan Cayabyab’s weekly TV show. It was writer’s night and he sang his best songs with some narrative and back story to boot. I liked that episode so much that I asked my brother-in-law, who was working for ABS-CBN that time, to make me a copy. I had that Betamax tape for years before it finally succumbed to the elements.

As for De Quiros, I can’t remember if I read his columns or if I got a hold of his two books first. Flowers from the Rubble and Dance of the Dunces blew my mind away. I have a copy of the second book but to this day I’m still looking for a copy of first. Because publication of these books have stopped, I strongly feel that Filipinos, especially the youth, have been missing these resources on history and society and have been robbed of the chance to immerse in the artistry of the essays. It’s unfortunate that the books have long been out of print. It’s also unfortunate that he hasn’t done another compilation of this There’s the Rub articles.

One thing that has persistently bothered me about writing and journalism is its seeming futility. I worked for a media organization once and the experience gave me a natural high. Under a spell of magical realism, it felt like I was writing for my family, my friends and my country. But under the pangs of doubt and disillusion, it felt like I was doing it only for myself, for my personal indulgence, to satisfy my own myth. Back then, we developed and worked on a story for 1 or 2 weeks. The story airs for 12 to 15 minutes. At times it felt like such noble undertaking. But then the story quickly becomes old and is forgotten. The world moves on – unmindful and uncaring. I’m not exactly sure if it’s like the Olympics where athletes train for years to perform on the world stage and then it’s done in an instant. We’ll all probably forget most of it. Is it all futile, then?

I often wonder why people stop writing after a while. Sure, some remain prolific throughout their lives but countless just let go of the passion. The flame dissipates until it completely dies out. Song writers, essayists, poets, book writers and even bloggers cease writing after some time. Is it because all their essence have been poured out and nothing worth sharing remains inside? Is it because every topic seem to have been written about already that there’s little room for originality and creativity? It is because every form of love and despair have been assembled into a song that there’s nothing else to hum about anymore? Is it because these writers have succumbed to the feelings of futility and have decided to do something more pragmatic?

In the last line of Madaling Araw, one of Granada’s early songs which interestingly enough he wrote with De Quiros in mind, he says “..ngunit ang wika, nagbabagong kahulugan. Sa dalas ng bigkas, unti-unting nawawalang kabuluhan. (loosely: language changes meaning. In its repeated utterance, its significance gradually diminishes.)” This is one of the reasons I don’t read De Quiros all the time. I’m afraid that the repetition would weaken its hold on me, that an article would impress me less because I saw something similar a decade or more ago. I’m not saying that articles are rehashed. On the contrary, the few that I read here and there are fascinatingly fresh. It’s just that I get these feelings of futility reading about another political or social issue. Its like the names have changed but the events described are part of a rerun. It’s like reading from De Quiros’ two books except it has been 20 years hence and some minor details have changed. Quoting from Granada’s Balon, he says “..May bago nga ba sa mundong ibabaw kung ang nandon ay dati nang nandon. Lulubog at lilitaw ang araw at di mo maipangaw ang duyan ng taon. Inog lang ng inog lang ng inog, habang panahon. (loosely: Is there really anything new in the world if what’s here now has always been here. The sun rises and sets and you can’t restrain the rocking motion of time. It just spins and spins and spins until the end of time)”

Just last night though as I was poking around the web, I saw that De Quiros released a new book. Tongues on Fire is a compilation of speeches which I assume are all his. During the book launch almost a year ago now, he made another speech titled Worlds and Words. And my oracle has enlightened me once again with his poetic wisdom. Reading the piece felt like opening the bible and finding the perfect verse. I was bothered by the seeming futility of writing, of reporting, of journalism. Apparently, throughout the years he had been asked: “Don’t you sometimes get tired of writing columns given that things don’t seem to change at all?” In the piece, he describes the struggle and mentions the despair. Although I strongly urge you to read the speech which can be found in the Inquirer archives, I’d like to highlight one point made there:”..victory and defeat are not just determined at the end of things. They are determined in the middle of things. Or they are not just found in the nether regions of posterity, they are found in the hard-edged space of the moment…The human worth is not found at the end of a life, it is found in the course of it. Victory and defeat are not found at the end of struggle, they are found in the course of the struggle itself. “

It’s never been futile then because at the barest minimum, if no one else paid attention, the writer himself is made better by the exercise. I remember back when we used to console ourselves with the idea that if we are able to change one person, move him or make him think, by what we wrote, said or did, then it has been worth it. In the course of life, the value it adds to the human worth might just be immeasurable.

Conversations and Coffee

Time sprints. The world moves forward – unmindful and uncaring. We all try to stall, to pause, to look at the sky and the stars, to sit down and chat a while. As we run the race and keep our heads above water, we welcome the opportunity to engage in simple and sincere conversations that are even better over coffee and cake.

There’s this song from the Pinoy Ako CD that I really like. I’m not sure if it’s a filler or if it ever became a hit back home. The song is Cinderella by Stagecrew. The song is pervasive in its simple truth: Paminsan-minsan lang tayong magkasama, di pa pwedeng magtagal. Habol ang oras nagmamadali, parang si Cinderella hinahabol ang hating-gabi. I am not sure why they chose the Disney princess as the second object in the simile but I guess it does paint the image of fun ending fast as the clock races to midnight.

The unfortunate truth of reunions, of sporadic get-togethers, of chance meetings, of gatherings of old friends is that it is fleeting and short-lived. It’s like the countdown immediately starts and hovers as Death hovers over the dying. The song describes a familiar friendship, possibly familiar to us all. What’s interesting is that at the onset of the get-together, the song writer questions the friend, if not the friendship, wondering if he’s still the person he once knew. Again, this doubt is very familiar. It besets someone who hasn’t been in touch or hasn’t been around for a while. This awkwardness permeates as the parties try and feel each other out, try to see if much has changed, to see if old memories can break the ice.

The chance to re-connect is always fun, always a welcome opportunity. It brings a sense of past, brings to life a page in the memoir. The discussions on shared memories, current endeavors and future ventures are always a treasure trove.

The world does not pause though. It does not care for reminiscence among old friends. The meal ends, the cake is reduced to crumbs, the coffee is down to the last sip. What’s important though is that the conversation occured and the connection, however brief, has been re-established.

Pagod

pagod na ang isip ko

pagod na ang mata ko

pagod na and katawan ko.

subalit ang oras ayaw maghintay

ang takbo ng panahon ay walang sablay

ang ikot ng mundo’y walang humpay.

may saysay ba ang lahat ng ito

may kwenta ba talaga ang mundo

may patutunguhan ba ang pagod ko.

nabago ko na ba ang sarili ko

naantig ko na ba ang kapwa ko

nagalaw ko na ba ang kapaligiran ko.

tumingala ako sa langit, alapaap lang ang nakita ko

tumungo ako sa lupa, alikabok lang ang napansin ko

humarap ako sa salamin, di ko na ata kilala ang kaharap ko.

saan ba may kasagutan

sino ba may eksplanasyon

meron nga bang solusyon.

palingon-lingon

paora-orasyon

patanong-tanong.

muntik ko na namang itulog ito

muntik na namang ibaon ang iniisip ko

muntik nang ipagpabukas ang mga katanungan ko.

nang mapansin ko kayong tatlo

natutulog sa kama ko

kayo ang mahalaga at ang halaga ng buhay ko.

nawala ang atubuli pati na ang pagod ko.

Cycle

The problem with Christmas is the day after. The anticipation is over, the frenzy has waned, the rush has slowed down, the gifts are all open, the well wishers have died down, the phone has stopped ringing and the fatigue is felt in full.

The realization then comes in, sometimes crawling and creeping, sometimes right smack. It’s the throbbing realization that it takes another full year until it is Christmas again. Next week you’ll go back to the grind, to the chores, to the suffocation of everyday life.

You’ll try to get through the day, the week, the month. You’ll try to get out of the mundane, try to get the most out of it. You’ll try to overcome depression, stress, frustration, gossip, deadlines, melancholy and debt. You’ll absently go through birthdays, weddings, funerals, baptisms, meetings, reunions and other parties. You’ll watch movies, buy CDs and DVDs, go to bars and the beach, buy another phone, hang-out wherever and eat out anywhere.

And then it’s Christmas again. The problem with Christmas though is the day after…

two unfinished, unedited, untitled pieces

December 16 is mommy’s birthday. I scribbled these two pieces years ago. I found them in my journal recently. 

I.

Mom lived her life for love of friends and family

Neither asking for nor wanting a return

Her days became a sunlit homily

With other’s joy her main concern

When we were ill, she also became sick

When we were cut, she, too, began to bleed

Of our oil lamp she was the wick

Drawing her bright flame from our need

They say that such behavior is out of date

But mom, with much choice, then chose her fate

Finding greater truth in an embrace

She lives in the sparkle of our eyes

Laughing, quiet, gentle, loving, wise

II.

If I could give my mom the world

Or anything she wanted

I’d give her my own heart and soul

And leave my own heart haunted

I’d take upon myself her life

With all its strife and pain

And let her ease into some space

Where she could live again

The pain for me would not be pain

At least not for a while

For I’d be doing it for her

And I would see her smile

I wish I could take her heart

And cleanse it with my tears

And make her sorrow go away

And answer all her fears

I wish, I wish but then I can’t

As I watch helplessly

And take her in my arms and say

I wish that it were me

But loving is a hard, hard way

With all the pain it brings

And yet there is no other way

To touch the heart of things

Breather

It’s rare that I try to write a poem. I don’t think I can do meter and rhyme. It’s so rare that I was only able to muster one poem, if it can even be called that.  I wrote this back in college. Poets surrounded me that time. Ophelia Dimalanta’s work awed me. I wanted to try it. I wanted to give it a shot. I didnt’ know where to start, though. Poems are tough to do. so I decided to sit down and write about something I was terribly good at. 

Breather
by Samir

Air seeping in and out.
breathing becomes heavier, breath warmer
I can’t help but let go of a low moan,
the subtle sounds of my kept fury.
Passion becomes wilder, desire hotter.
I open my eyes.
Seeing you so close heightens my pleasure.
I close my eyes, ready to explore.
Positioning slightly sideways for a better angle,
I extend my probing tool.

Entering.
I can feel your wetness. Can you feel mine?
Sensation unmatched as you reciprocate.
Such a glorious feeling this stolen intimacy of ours.
Kissing is indeed the most intimate human activity.
There is control and there is submission.
I am now sure that the tongue has a far more nobler purpose.

ii
Remembrance. Reminiscence.
To you whom I last kissed.
I want you to know that,
the sweetness of your mouth is still on mine,
the contours of your lips are still imprinted.
but memory is such a cruel refuge.
Wanted or not it creeps in,
good and bad mix forming unfathomable blends,
One glimpse as evanescent as the next,
alas, it is as fleeting as it is enduring.

ii
Back to the moment.
Bi-directional winds push our bodies together.
Our lips brush.
By some force of nature the openings part,
giving warm breath a chance to escape.
Our mouths form a wonderful fit.
Such a silky sensation as our lips gracefully glide.
And like a good kiss, ours have rhythm.
It travels on slopes, rides on beats.
It’s agile one moment and leisurely the next,
relishing then caressing.

In the whirlwind of our fancy,
as we explore the carnal and the divine,
it is somehow lucid
that we have become solitary.
Something more than my fluid flows through you.

but alas we have to depart from each other.
Time must move forth and this stolen interlude
of ours now expires.
We smile as we disentangle.

Here’s hoping we are just taking a breather.

———————————————-

Footnote: I remember I wanted to show this to Dean Dimalanta then. I didn’t want to embarass myself with its mediocrity, so I just folded it and kept it.

Poetic

 

My daughter, my second child, was born 2:05PM on June 30. I was there, in the birthing room, from start to finish, from contractions to crowning. To call that occasion magnificent is an understatement. To call it miraculous is probably an overstatement. It’s definitely somewhere in between. My first child’s birth, being first, was teeming with apprehension. This one was pure anticipation. It’s a wonderful feeling to have a boy and a girl now. Possibly picture perfect.

 

There was something about the day that seemed wrong, though. It bothered me at first. Of all the days in the year, why does this have to happen this particular day? Faye’s estimated due date was July 3^rd.  Kareena could have waited until then. On the morning of June 30, while we were on the way to the hospital, I had this uneasiness. After two false alarms, I felt that this was going to be it.  Again, I was a bit bothered. What will my family feel? How would I feel? How can I celebrate my daughter’s birthday on the day my beloved mommy was murdered?

 

June 30, 1998. That was seven years ago. I still try to deny it.  I still try to erase and shake off the events leading to that and the events after that. I cringe, uncontrollably, at the mere thought of it all. I still haven’t forgiven life for being so cruelly unfair.  It was an effed up world and I just couldn’t believe the world, and life for that matter, can eff me up like that.

 

That day at the funeral, I told my mom that in my heart I had forgiven the bastards that did this to her and I was sincere about that. I felt that’s what I had to do so that she can be free from this world. I had to tell her that her bunso would be OK. I had to tell her not to worry about me, that I would be well. There shouldn’t be anything that would keep her from her destination, her home.

 

And so I continued on, living life day to day.  I concentrated on my work, my wife and my son. I was doing well, I think, and I know she was proud. I have thought about her, about my youth, about our family and every time I do so I feel my chest tighten. And so I try to shake it off. She did not die, I tell myself. She’s just there. I just haven’t seen her yet, that’s all. When I look at Rakesh, knowing how he can gain so much from her love as I have, I feel my chest tighten. And so I try to shake it off. She’s not dead, I tell myself. I’m just in another country. I just haven’t seen her in a while, that’s all.

 

Darn, this is not an easy piece to write.

 

On the way to the hospital on that morning of June 30, as I had both feelings of excitement and apprehension, I had an epiphany of sorts. It was like the miasma suddenly cleared. It was like my mom talking to me. It was her asking me to move on, asking me to celebrate the day. It was her telling me that she’ll love me another way and I could very well reciprocate by loving her granddaughter.

 

And so Kareena was born healthy. I even cut her cord. It was wonderful. I had my wife, my daughter and my mom in that room. Kareena was born at around 2PM. Mommy left this world at around 2PM, seven years ago.  I waited so long for mommy to communicate to me. I’m glad she finally did.

 

Life, even death, can be amazingly poetic sometimes.

———————————————————————

 

 

 

Hush now, don’t you cry
Wipe away the teardrop from your eye
You’re lying safe in bed
It was all a bad dream
Spinning in your head
Your mind tricked you to feel the pain
Of someone close to you
Leaving the game…of life
So here it is, another chance
Wide awake you face the day
Your dream is over…or has it just begun…

There’s a place I like to hide
A doorway that I run through in the night
Relax child, you were there
But only didn’t realize and you were scared
It’s a place where you will learn
To face your fears, retrace the years
And ride the whims of your mind
Commanding in another world
Suddenly…you hear and see
This magic new dimension

I…will be watching over you
I…am gonna help you see it through
I…will protect you in the night
I’m smiling next to you…in silent lucidity…

1990 Queensryche. Silent Lucidity