and then… i met Him.

i tried to hold out for someone whom i thought was worthy of me. so at an age when most of my friends had boyfriends, i stood my ground and fended off anybody i deemed unworthy by my standards.

then i met him. i knew he wasn’t the best out there, he couldn’t be. i was only fourteen. but his charm disarmed. before i knew it, i was compromising my values, whatever i had to begin with. college pressures came with the tides of change. to cut the story short, boy leaves girl for college. girl gets heartbroken. girl breaks up with boy.

then i met him. i knew he wasn’t the best out there, he couldn’t be. i was only 16. but he comforted me and kept me company when i was lonely. before i knew it, i was compromising my values, whatever i had left. the tides of change came and so did our feelings for each other. to cut the story short, boy seeks out another. girl gets mad. girl breaks up with boy.

then i met him. i knew he wasn’t the best out there, he couldn’t be. i was only 18. but his mystique intrigued me and he was sweet even when he was mad. before i knew it, i had very little left to compromise. his leaving came with the tides of change. to cut the story short, boy leaves for his homeland. girl gets insecure with the distance. girl breaks up with boy.

then i met him. i knew he wasn’t the best out there, he couldn’t be. i was only 19. but his intelligence swayed me, and he smiled like a saint. before i knew it, i had no values left to compromise. i was knee-deep in sin. the tides of change came and so did our situations. to cut the story short, boy turns out to be a sailor. girl gets scarred. girl breaks up with boy.

then i met him. i knew he wasn’t the best out there, he couldn’t be. i was only 22. but his kindness and acceptance warmed me. before i knew it, i had begun questioning where all my values had gone. the tides of change came and so did my affection for him. to cut the story short, boy professes his love too soon. girl gets freaked out. girl leaves him in the cold.

at this point, i had decided to reassess the mess otherwise known as my life. my past had left me broken countless times; it had taken away too many pieces of me that i could no longer tell who i was with what was left. who was i? where was i headed? was i really prepared to let another “him” in my life? then it hit me. i wasn’t. i never had been. all my life, i settled for less. until less i had become. i was on my knees, and i decided it was time to heed the call and get back to my roots.

i opened my heart truly, for the first time…

and then, i met Him. He was the best. He wouldn’t have it any other way. His beauty and charm radiated from within. He kept me company and comforted me even when i wasn’t lonely, even when i pushed Him away. He kept no secrets from me, and longed to listen to my heart’s every desire. He was the sweetest; He forgave me for all my trespasses without reservation, without even me asking. He was wise beyond compare, and saintlier than a saint. His kindness, His sacrifice saved me. He put all my broken pieces back together. He made me whole again.

in Him, i am certain. For i know that He will never leave me, never break my heart; He will never seek out another in my place, never make me purposelessly mad; His presence is beyond the physical, never will the distance leave me insecure; He will never deceive me, never cause a scar just to hurt me; His love for me is whole and pure, never will He let me stray from Him.

i tried to hold out for someone who was worthy of me. instead, He held out for me, in spite of my unworthiness.

so for now, i am content in basking in the glory of my First True Love. when He deems me ready, then He will lead His best into my life. until then, i am perfectly satisfied being His and His alone. :)

Paper Aeroplane

It was just a tiny inconsequential brown paper airplane that fell out of my bag as I stepped out of the car from the church’s parking lot that Tuesday afternoon.

But the events leading up to that serendipitous moment would have me believing otherwise…

March 17, 2010.

A few of my D-group friends and I gather to surprise Lia at her house with the going-away gift we together just a couple of hours earlier. Lia puts on a CD with some really catchy non-mainstream songs. The second song, Paper Aeroplane by Angus and Julia Stone, strikes a chord with me. It has a dancing and chilling at beach kind of vibe, and wasn’t lyrically predictable. Anyway, I end up downloading it as soon as I get home.

March 18, 2010.

Willy sends me a link to David Crowder Band’s “O Praise Him” video on YouTube. It takes more than an hour to buffer (darn flaky connection), but when I finally get to watch, I get goosebumps and decide it was worth the wait. I immediately scour the net for a downloadable pirated mp3 version.

March 21, 2010.

Pinky attends a hella-expensive two-day ALS (Advance Life Support) training at a nearby school. She uses mom’s newly-acquired bag, and conveniently forgets to empty it of her trash.

March 22, 2010.

I get a text from Dre that the retreat committee meeting is on tomorrow. I silently wonder how I got on that committee, and agree to go.

March 23, 2010.

Tito Miko drops off boxes of mangosteen- yay!:)- straight from the farm.

I get a text from Pinky that her friend Katy (who took the DLSU graduate entrance exam with me) says the results are out. I fidget, pray and start rationalizing, que sera, sera in God terms. My heart sinks deeper as I scroll down the twelfth (out of 14) page in search of my tracking number in the list of accepted applicants.

Did it have to be on the thirteenth page, God? Talk about building anticipation. I rejoice and cry tears of joy like I’ve never cried before. I listen to the only Christian song I have on my iTunes. Yep, “O Praise Him”. Perfect.

I sigh with contentment and think, “Finally. A direction.”

I dry my eyes and get ready for the meeting. I drive Pinky’s car, and as I step out of the driver’s side to get the laptop and plastic bag of mangosteen for the committee members. I drop my bag, and as destiny would have it, the paper airplane falls out. And I can’t help smiling, as the thought of me about to take flight crosses my mind…

Perils of The Season

Pneumonia. That’s what I got myself for Christmas. Post-Christmas, technically. But I still feel so robbed of my holiday celebrations, having missed most of the reunions I intended to boycott in the first place. I guess it’s different when you don’t have a choice in the matter, you start to feel like you actually want to go.

I had intended this holiday season to be low-key, what with the tenor of everything I’d been through the entire year. But early on, I saw how that was not to be the case. Christmas parties and dinners left and right you just couldn’t say no to, friends coming home you just had to meet up with. Sisters’ break-ups, frenzied last-minute shopping trips to malls packed with frenzied last-minute shoppers… Plus, there was the planning of our annual clan party, which I had decided to turn into a Hollywood-themed gala (originally because I wanted to show off the Nicole Richie headpiece I crafted out of odds and ends). More work. Whoop-dee-doo.

So there was I was, lying in bed, sick for one and a half weeks. My plans for a New Year bash in the island with endless booze while freeloading off a resort’s grand fireworks display replaced with an endless supply of Ventolin, Ciprobay, Sinupret, Fluimucil and round-the-clock Tempra. What a far, far cry from how I greeted 2009- 1 tequila, 2 tequila, 3 tequila, four, 5 tequila, 6 tequila 7 tequila floor (ended up being literally hosed down by my cousin after falling flat on my ass in the mud)! Then again, I had every intention to NOT celebrate this New Year’s that way. Or any other ever again. Haha. But the temptation must’ve still been there. That’s probably why I ended up sick, to avoid the misadventures I would’ve most likely had had I been in better shape.

What is it with the need to end and start the year with a bang anyway? So cliché.

Still, I feel blessed to have been able to spend my December the way I did. Sure, I could’ve lived without the drugged-up stupor. But if that’s what it takes to steer clear from the perils of the season, I’ll take it gladly. And for once, I remembered to celebrate the reason for the season, and being able to share that moment with my family and friends was just… priceless.

The Allure Of The Younger Man

He was sixteen and several years younger than me. But even then, I swore that if he ever showed interest, I would jump the gun. Screw statutory rape, I would corrupt this minor. And to think I claimed to like older men. That’s how attractive he was.

Five years later, I’d forgotten all about the pledge I made to myself about him. And then, it happened. “It” being the event that awakened the memory of that promise. It started out as a casual “hey musta na?” chat on Facebook, all innocent. We hadn’t seen each other in a while, and running in similar circles, we kind of used to. Then I started getting that vibe, you know, the one you get when someone’s about to come on to you. It felt… bizarre, so out of place. Because even though he was so hot (there’s just no other word for it), his older brother calls me “ate”! Besides, he was obviously just looking for a good time (he wanted to “kill boredom”; sure, but at midnight??), and I am just not that type of person.

Not that type of person. Rewind back to five years ago. I was, wasn’t I? Or at least, I thought I had been. But when faced with the possibility of acting on it, something else got the better of me. I was able to rise above it. Yay! J

Was there some cosmic energy testing me, to see how I would play my role in the scheme of things? Did I pass? But, would I have agreed to go and kill boredom at midnight had he been older?  Surely, the age gap was enough to make me stop and think twice. But would I have been that quick to decline if it were an older man? Was I really principled, or was it all just circumstancial? Was it his mistake, having been born years too late?

Then I remembered going out with someone a few weeks earlier. And I declined the possibility of taking that to another level too. Hmm… Principle? Or was I just being a tease?

Suddenly, the bizarreness started making sense to me. Could it be possible that God, having known of my declaration five years earlier, was testing my faith? 

Perhaps. And what a situation to have tempted me with! What the heaven. If His purpose was to test me and strengthen my resolve to go against this tide everybody seems to be surfing on, then… it worked. I am definitely not backing down now, not when I’ve passed up THAT opportunity.

Hahaha. Seriously.

Bored In The City

Ten Things To Do To Keep Your Sanity In Check:

10. Drive around the city like a tourist. Yeah, I know, gas is finite and expensive. But it’ll be worth it when you discover something out of the ordinary- like realizing that the new public park you’ve sneered at in its lack of privacy actually has its own charm, or “The Worst Restaurant” located near old China Town. I’d eat there, but it really does look bad, I’d have to find someone adventurous enough to go with me.

9. Volunteer for a cause. There are very few emotions more positive than the one you get when you’re being selfless. (Thought bubble: does seeking for that personal high still make it noble then? hehe) I recently volunteered to teach at Sunday school, and while I often get a headache while I’m there, the hugs and the look of understanding that flash in their eyes when they’ve processed what knowledge you attempted to impart are just priceless.

8. Get out of the house and reconnect with a neighbour. No, reminding them to keep the music down past 9 pm or to use their own front drive as a parking lot certainly does not count. It may be a childhood friend or an old man with a terminal illness. Share a laugh, a meal and an old story or two. They’re probably just as bored, if not more. A visit might be just the thing you need to add some color to both your days. :)

7. Watch old reruns of sitcomedies. Like The Nanny, Friends, Everybody Loves Raymond, etc. Watch out for bad hair and funny outfits and when you finish laughing, think of how in ten years, the next generation will probably be snickering at those faded acid-wash skinny jeans you think are so hip now. Marvel at the fashion industry’s ability to make us go round and round this merry-go-round of style.

6. Drink plenty of water and eat pretentious fruit (tomato). Ponder on why it pretends to be a vegetable while you’re at it. Before you know it, you’ll be saying “hello, glowing skin!”.

5. Google topics that interest you which you would otherwise never have time to. Like how to DIY studding shoes, the life of Anne Sullivan and how to grow a lemon tree. Who knows, you might get inspired to start something significant.

4. Read the Bible or (insert appropriate name of holy scripture). Okay, technically, it’s not recommended only when you’re bored, but to say that it’s an interesting book is quite the understatement. What you’ll learn is surprisingly applicable to everyday life. Funny how I used to refer to Cosmo as my Bible (slander! Blasphemy!) Well, it’s definitely no Cosmo, but it’s filled with age-old wisdom that would’ve saved your hiney from trouble thousands of times, if only you’d bothered. It’s not only about good vs. evil. It’s about life and everything in between. So the next time you want to read your “bible”, why not pick THE bible? :)

3. Download -eep no, that’s piracy-, I mean, LISTEN to music of obscure artists. Mainstream music gets old faster than the speed of sound (there’s an irony), it’s a pain downloading them on iTunes cuz they’ll be overplayed by the time you create your “what’s hot” playlist. I downloaded (pirate) music by The Postal Service and The String Quartet ages ago, and they still soothe me the way only soul music can.

2. Watch cartoons of your childhood. Lately, I’ve been tripping on The Smurfs, Winnie the Pooh and Rainbow Brite. They bring back memories (both wonderful and otherwise) of what it feels once again to be that carefree kid on a bicycle, clad in essential bike gear: shorts, sando and flip-flops; what it’s like to have your plans of grand adventure squashed by parental restriction brought about by missing precious nap time; and of course, thoughts of “Homework? What homework? I’ll just glue a bunch of popsicle sticks together and call it abstract art”. Indulge in your favourite childhood movie and let the worries melt away, even for a little while.

1. Facebook. Duh. Search for long-lost relatives across the seas, reconnect with old friends who’ve moved away, build ties with acquaintances you haven’t said more than “hi” and “hello” to, and befriend that shy high school seatmate you’ve never bothered to get to know. Thankfully, one of the plus sides of living in this techno-age is that we have so many tools for interaction, we couldn’t look for excuses to be hermits even if we tried to. Not all the time anyway. :)

Love Affair

As a child, I remember watching “The Elves & The Shoemaker” over and over again, each time more mesmerized than the last. Not by the story, but by the shoes- the beautiful, intricately crafted shoes. Through my 5-year-old eyes, they were magic. Thus began my love affair with footwear.

Growing up, my grandmother used to scold me because I’d often stare down while walking. She thought it a product of low self-esteem. In truth, I was only staring at people’s shoes, scrutinizing the ones I’d wear myself. While everybody else was busy people-watching, I kept my head down and “shoe-watched”. Occasionally, a pair would stand out, and I’d look up to check out the person in them. I especially looked forward to the Communion lines that would form at Church. I’d sit by the stairs and amuse myself by watching the parade of footwear. I still do sometimes. So, yes, that freak staring at your feet last Sunday was probably me.

This habit carried on as I became a teenager and started showing interest in the opposite sex. My initial basis for eligibility wouldn’t be the smile or the clothes. It’d be (what else) the shoes. Only when this criterion was met would I look up and nurse my interest in that particular boy.

I don’t precisely know why, maybe because it puts me at ease to be able to get a read on someone’s personality by his/her choice of footwear. One of my friends for instance, went through a phase of wearing aqua shoes everywhere he went. One doesn’t need a psychology degree to deduce that he’s not one to follow societal norms. Despite my constant ribbing, he refused to give in, claiming comfort over fashion. And I say phase because he wore them to the ground, and he hasn’t been (hopefully never will be) able to find a suitable replacement. Oh well, I guess they suit his quirky, practical personality. I kind of miss them actually.

I used to go out with this guy who wore Chuck Taylors all the time. I liked that, he was pretty laid back, kind of happy-go-lucky. Then I noticed he wore them everywhere, for months. Was that because he only had a one track mind? (Hahaha) Well, he eventually started wearing other pairs, along with revealing his true colors. Another guy used to flaunt his Banana Republic and Ralph Lauren loafers. He once influenced me to wear Italian snakeskin wedges (that would probably cripple me later in life) and my mom’s Louis bag for a date at the mall. I was fifteen. I should’ve known better.

I on the other hand, prefer to exhibit my multi-faceted personality (known in lesser terms as my scatterbrained-ness) by wearing all kinds of shoes. There is no particular style that defines me. I’m an espadrille-wearing, sneaker-sporting, stiletto-pumping, cowboy boot-lover in mismatched flip flops. Either that, or I just don’t want to be pigeonholed as a certain type. I’m not exactly sure yet. I just like to experiment. When I’m feeling creative, I’ll resurrect my sister’s 4-year old flats and embellish them back to life. Sometimes I’ll wear 5-inch killer heels that’ll definitely maim not only me but innocent bystanders as well. Oh well, like everything else, it’s a learning process. Sometimes slow, sometimes painful.

After all this meandering thought, I’ve come to this conclusion: Shoes, like relationships come and go. But this love affair is not the shop-til-you-drop, Imeldific thousand-pumps-in-my-closet kind. I seek for the heart-stopping stand-outs that can only be found once in a while as a by-product of scrupulous expeditions. Tedious as this process may be, still, my never-ending, unfaltering adoration for these beautiful things will do just that: never end, never falter. :)

Ignoramus

How on earth can one approve comments? I only recently discovered I had a couple, and my obvious lack of technological skill once again proved detrimental to the potential advancement of my blog.

Being the lazy bug that I am, I can’t even bring myself to walk ten steps to the living room where the bag that contains my cellphone is, so I can call tech-savvy friends. Instead, I chose to log on to Facebook, in the hopes of finding my buddy-cum-idiots’ guide for technophobes and pester him for help. But rats, he’s not there. Ho hum.

I’m thinking of just maneuvering through the site myself, but I stopped at the thought, and discarded it as wishful thinking. I don’t stand a chance.

So I’ll just do what I think is best. Scream for Heeeeeeeelp!!!

Love Is My Hostage

What am I still doing here? It’s been days and I’ve been aching to go back home. I’m bored out of my skull. I can’t even write a decent blog. I’ve been cooking half-baked posts in my mind for the past two days. Earlier, I had an inspiration as I was browsing through lookbook.nu. I swear, some of those people are so freaking creative. What was my inspiration again? Wait, let me go get it from the back of my mind… umm… need for tan short boots, no… want red and yellow ankle boots, no… death by boredom, close but no… here it is: love as my hostage.

And… that’s all I got.

My mind is drier than a two week-old, half-sliced lemon left in the chiller for “preservation”. Hah. Really dry. Uga. 

How can love be my hostage? Seriously, what was running through my mind when I conjured that up? Looking at all those pictures must have left me yearning to wax poetic. I think the combination of those artsy photographs and the conversation I had with my college classmate on ym some how got wired into my brain. Aw hell. But how can I write about something that’s so surreal? What does that even mean? Webster defines the word hostage as “a prisoner who is held by one party to insure that another party will meet specified terms”. But who are the parties and what terms need to be met?? Aaaah.. let’s just go back to the conversation. I’m in no mood to talk in circles right now.

He said he’s been seeing me around, all by myself. And that he thought it a waste, that I was alone. Brave guy, but what the hey, it was only online. So, I felt the need to expound on my single wagon status yet again. Sigh. I am not lonely. Alone yes, but lonely, hells no. I told him that I “changed frequencies” where love (or the search for it) is concerned. I no longer desire plain old beautiful. Yep, standards have reached an all-time low here. That’s how some would view it anyway. So shouldn’t it be easier then?

Anyway, I just put it in terms he could grasp. And I quote: “I’m not interested in good-looking anymore. I’m not settling for anything less than a beautiful heart and soul.” Of course that was still a little too much to swallow, so he handled it by informing me that those guys (himself included) are all taken and that I’d have to wait for them to become widowers to get my chance. Oh joy. 

No, I’m not a puritan or a radical by any measure. I just choose to be with myself, for once in my life. Why play when you’re tired of the pretentious games? And no, there is no anger there, or anywhere in me for that matter. Nowadays, I find myself laughing more, playing more. I love love. Got plenty of it around me, and plenty in me to go around. But I’m keeping some of it in, to be “preserved” in my chiller. Haha.  For now, I’m choosing to tread along the road less traveled. Ü

…until the specified terms are met. Aack!

Well, there you go… I guess love is kind of my hostage. But it is definitely not my prisoner.Ü

Shhh… I’m Sleeping And You’re Not Welcome Here.

As if I haven’t had enough. This time, the dream had a sense of finality. By some twist of fate, we were destined for each other. Hahaha. How many decibels could my subconscious have been screaming for you to have dreamt of that?

Twice a week is too much, too painful. Don’t visit me that often. You’ll only make me want to live in dreamland forever. So please, just stop.

Risotto Vs. Udong

I heard my Dad call me a princess behind my back. Any normal papa’s girl would’ve been elated. Not me. For by this, he meant that I was sitting on my ass the whole day, being waited on hand and foot by slaves, leaving him in charge of preparing the food (and serving me, but what’s wrong with that picture, eh?Ü ) 

Okay, so I haven’t exactly been Martha Stewart. I admit, I’m not the chef-y kind who slices and dices with precision and efficiency. I can follow a recipe, but I take forever to peel off onion skin; ergo, the need for a kitchen assistant to do the nitty gritty bit.

I decided I would prove him wrong with the princess status, so I woke up the next day and whipped up brunch from my inner creative cook (and the recipe book I brought from home). I even did all the slicing and dicing myself. My blood, sweat and tears yielded fried rice, basil pesto omelettes and mushroom risotto with tuna. It sounded like a good idea at the time. Plus it tasted fabulous! Even if I do say so myself… which I did.

My dad was a different story. Not a peep from him at breakfast. I think I heard him go “hmm” with a curious look on his face, but that was it. He ate the risotto (out of courtesy?), but he didn’t say much. And from the amount of leftovers, it wasn’t exactly a hit with his palate.

Unfortunately, I was so preoccupied preparing my sumptuous feast that I completely discounted what a simpleton my Dad was when it came to food. So, eager to redeem myself, I gave it another try at dinner. This time, I decided to play it safe and kept an ear out for what he wanted to eat. Udong. Grrreat. Don’t get me wrong, I like that stuff but next to my risotto and omelettes?? Come on! Where’s the challenge?! So after I called our trusty cook from the city, on it went with the slicing and dicing again. And voila, udong!

This time, our farmhands joined us for the meal. I didn’t want to waste my risotto, so I reheated it and set it beside the udong. The udong didn’t last fifteen minutes. They devoured it! It even garnered “Ito ang masarap! Na-master mo na lagi ito!”, from my picky-eater of a father. What?! THAT, you praise?!?! As for the risotto, it seemed I was its only fan. When I asked them why they didn’t want to try it, the answer I got from the caretaker’s husband was, “Aw, abi nako pagkaun na sa iro!” WHAAAAT?!?! I was livid! I was beside myself, my inner creative cook thrashing like a caged wild animal in my head. I could not reconcile how, an entire plate that cost less than P20 (in my guesstimation), could possibly be more favorable than one I got from a ridiculously expensive fancy, hardbound Italian cookbook from Powerbooks.

How?

Dangit. I give up. Risotto- 0, Udong- 1.

You

She had another dream about you. It’s almost never the same dream, but always with the same tenor. You coming close, teetering along the borderline of her subconscious making her think you’re real this time, and drifting away, like an echo fading in the distance… always making her ache for more… time to dream, time with you.

You did it again. How do you manage to torment her after all this time, even in her sleep? Why do you get her hopes up like that, and let them deliberately falter to a thousand pieces?

She was stupid to think she didn’t want you. She always has. She knows she can’t have you now. But she’s always been stubborn, always wanting what she couldn’t have. And a part of her still believes, or hopes that, as the old cliché goes, it’s never too late.

But her pride won’t let her. Or rather, the instinct for self-preservation. She’s rejected many, and of karma she’s afraid… afraid to have the tables turned once again, once too many.

So what else is there left for her to do? Nothing. Nothing but wait… patiently, and pray for God’s best…

And hope that it’s you.

Domesticated

As I do my chores on this golden Saturday afternoon, I contemplate on interesting things to write about on my blog, and take a break as I ingeniously decide to chronicle my tales of rousing the domestic diva within.

It’s been a little over a month since I started my new “job”. I don’t really know what to call it, but I guess others would describe it as an extended vacation, or a hiatus from the real world. I quit my job last July and decided to take a few months off before re-entering the school/work force to accompany my dad at the farm in the island. To do what exactly? Think. Contemplate. Introspect. Ponder. (Hahaha)

So here I am, enjoying what my mind can only seem to process as summer vacation. Ten hour sleeps, flip-flops, long summer dresses and floppy hats, yoga and tea by the sunset, and finally being able to read the stack of books I bought last year and promised to “get around to someday”. Except that, since I am technically the lady of the house, I have a few -ugh- domestic responsibilities.

This weekend alone, I harvested (yes, I used that word) basil leaves and made my own pesto sauce. I painted the bed frames of our room gold (oh my perfectly-manicured nails…) and swept (with a broom!) the house clean in the absence of our caretaker, whom I babysat for while she got admitted to the hospital for being hardheaded and insisting to use freaking “albularyo medicine” on that knee infection. With single-handed effort, I attempted to squeeze three extra mattresses under the bed- pushing and pulling, at one point desperately yelling, “Sadie, help me!” as my dog sauntered in the room (Yeah right, like my 4-pound miniature dachshund could do much damage. What was I thinking?). And finally, lying down on the floor in spite of my white peasant dress to give it the solid hard kick that ended the struggle in success. I also just barely escaped having to take out some poor fish’s innards because of the paint I got on my nails. And to my horror, I found myself volunteering to Papa that I would do it next time. Ack! Where’d that voice come from?? Hmm… Have I really changed that much?

Had my younger, wilder days really made me desire this transformation? (Next blog, maybe. hehe)

One thing is for sure, island life has improved my Bisaya greatly. Okay, that’s an overstatement, but at least I don’t sound that out of place here anymore. My tone is beginning to resemble those of my Cebuano cousins’, opting for “Ambot ra. Wa man siya sa ba’y ‘ron” when asked by the farmhelp where my Dad is, instead of what should have been my usual response “Wala man siya sa house”.

Of course it still needs work. Earlier, I asked the sota to place the fallen coconut leaves on one pile outside the gate. Seemed basic enough but somehow the conversation went like this:

“Maiko, kuwa’a nang mga… mga (gesturing to the leaves)”

“Kanang bukay?”

“Huh?” I stared, dumbfounded, really not knowing what on earth “bukay” was and no thanks to my delayed deductive skills, managed to reply with, “Uhh… Yeah, kanang ana sa coconut unya ibutang sa gawas sa gate.”

Some save, but points for the EFFORT!

What a far, far cry from my former city life. But I LOVE IT!

I just remembered this was supposed to be a short break and my fingers are getting a little carried away. Besides, the horse needs to be ridden and the dead bugs ain’t gonna sweep themselves.

P.S.

I’ve just been informed that it’s lukay, not bukay. Sheesh. Not only am I sort of illiterate, I’m sort of deaf too. I stand corrected.

Muddy Fox

9-14-09

There it lay on the corner of the tiny room.

Battered handles, weathered leather seats, decrepit pedals, tarnished sprockets, flat, aged tyres… An old rusting mountain bike to the naked eye.

An old rusting bike… A remnant of a forgotten past…

Of lazy summer days, of adventure after adventure in the neighbourhood, of chasing away enemies… A forgotten past of carefree fun, in spite of skinned knees and bruised palms.

An old rusting bike… Its value hidden beneath the grime.

Battered handles, weathered leather seats, decrepit pedals, tarnished sprockets, flat, aged tyres… signs of the years it spent wasting away in a garage… locked up somewhere in the vaults of someone’s memories.

An old rusting bike… Its acquisition a reminder.

Awakening the long-sleeping drive, to keep sight of the goal, push hard and keep on going until it smells sweet of victory from the freedom of the maiden voyage.

An old rusting bike…  Like gasoline, in a sense of purpose.

A story of triumph behind every journey, igniting the burning desire once more to learn, fall forward with grace, get on back up…

An old rusting bike… A key that holds the secret:

LIVE –as neither ghost of past nor future– NOW.  

There it lay on the corner of the tiny room. An old rusting mountain bike to the naked eye… A remnant of a forgotten past for some…

A symbol of significance for one.

Private Locker

I hear congratulations are in order. I am writing my first blog. Ever.

I have written many blog-ish entries. But there they lay, in the dusty corners of my mind. I decided to break the habit once and for all. Thanks to my friend- err… let’s call him Six, for his privacy’s sake. Mostly for mine though, since I am slowly coming to terms with the denial of my mind’s celebrity complex. Again that’s my mind’s. NOT MINE. Denial. Anyway, he started his and I declared that I, too, ought to. Just to give my mind the satisfaction of seeing some of its work on display for the whole world to see. Not that I intended to actually push through with it, definitely not a few hours later. Kind of pathetic in its urgency if you think about it. Though years back, I always knew I’d replace my antiquated journal with a blog, eventually. How was I to know eventually was today?

So I used a nom de plume. Celebrity complex to the hilt, eh? Typical. Always wanting it both ways. Fitting in and standing out, blunt openness and total discretion. What is it with me and privacy?? Probably some long-forgotten, deep-rooted psychological issues. But that’s a whole ‘nother blog. Too deep for a first-timer anyway. But I’m sure a select few will be able to tell. It’s me- hidden beneath pretentious masks, but still distinctly me. 

Sue me that I decided to join the bandwagon umpteen years later. I never did like trends.  I consider my mind as the title implies. A private locker. One that even I sometimes forget the combination of. Oh well. At least now, I can rant and rave all I want and not have to own up to anything or anyone. Like my dirty little secrets. Hidden in my very own private locker with a secret combination. My celebrity complex mind digs. Ü