That inconspicuous place...

... I call home

For those who do not have a province to go home to, as well as those who have but: 1) can't go home yet or 2) no longer have any reason to go home (either because of bad memories or because there are no more loved ones there to go home to), let me give you a peek of that little known but very lovely place I call home: Nueva Vizcaya.

Both photos show parts of Abinganan, Bambang, Nueva Vizcaya (my father's home barrio). It is here where my grandparents lived; and where my brothers, cousins and I spent our summers together — swimming in fish ponds and rivers, chasing butterflies and spiders, climbing trees, and doing other things only true-blue barrio-raised kids can relate to.

Thoughts on parenting (by a nonparent)

With the birth of his son whom he named after himself (kaloka!), my youngest brother is now a father. Here are three things I want to tell him about kids and parenting:

1. Kids don’t come with a manual. A handbook or anything that would tell the parents the features of a kid model, including how it is better than, similar to, or different from the other models would certainly be a great help. But kids are not — and will never be — like the craze gadgets we splurge our budgets on. With them, we grope around trial-and-error; and where they are concerned, we falter even in the company of the tried and tested.

2. When it comes to parenting, the saying “the heat that hardens the egg melts the butter” becomes so true. Yup! Not only do kids refuse to carry with them that thing parents need the most — handbook on the proper way to “operate” them — but they also make their parents’ work extra-difficult by bringing with them their built-in idiosyncrasies which are the parents’ task to discover and to learn to deal with. Thus, parenting will never be a fit-all commodity; what worked for one kid may not work for another.

3. Good luck! You can do it. Hehehe


//P.S. Born on the fourth of July this year, Lucky Ryan Benosa, Jr. (or II), is the newest addition to our growing family. This guy is quite powerful; he has made every member of the family travel to Mallig, Isabela and back home many times just to have a peek on him. Hay! (We now have lots of pics of him, but they are for private viewing only. The kid is not yet one year old; he can't yet tell me if he'd allow me to post his pic here. Maybe next year. Hehe)

I don't know what you'd call it, but he also made my brother and Sheryll, as well as Tatang (sige na nga, pati ako) very inggit! Hahaha!

The blog writer

Blog writer. That’s the title I’ve ascribed to myself since I realized late last year that it takes me far less time to write something for my blog than to write my articles for H&L or my written requirements for school. (Writing a short story or a poem likewise doesn’t take long; but I have to be in a special, indescribable kind of mood to be able to write either, so neither counts in this discussion.)

I’ve always wondered why that is so, and the reason I’ve thought of so far is that writing a blog is like talking to oneself or to a friend; whereas, writing a journalistic piece or an academic paper is like talking to a stranger; or worse, addressing an unfriendly congregation.

When you talk to a friend, there is no inhibition and your mood is quite relaxed. You say whatever you like in any manner that suits you, as long as it doesn’t offend your friend (friends don’t easily take offense, so no problem here). You are yourself; you have no problem letting down your guard, for with friends, there’s no need for pretense.

That’s how I feel whenever I write an entry for my blog. As you may have noticed, the writing style I’ve adapted here — the choice of words and turn of sentences — is quite informal (except, of course, those pieces I posted which were originally written for other purposes/media). Unlike in a journalistic/academic piece, there is no pressure for me to write elegant sentences nor to use standard grammar (international English usage, or standard Philippine English) in my blog. That means I need not think of the English equivalent of some non-English forms because I can use whichever form that readily comes to mind (Iluko or Filipino). What’s more, in my blog, I can invent words and even deliberately misuse (bastardize) a word to suit my purpose (or rather, whims). And the tone! Haha! I can be serious one moment, absurd the next, then turn funny, then be serious again. Ain’t that great?

Another thing I like about writing a blog is that I need not pretend I know a lot of things. I can say I don’t know this or that without worrying that my readers might think I am stupid (I don’t really care because I know I’m not, he he). Whereas, when I write for the magazine, I need to always be sure that I got my facts straight, that my sources are credible, and that I had not misquoted anyone, in addition to being cautious with my writing style — I cannot be too “lifestylish” when I’m writing a health/medical article, nor too structured when I am writing a lifestyle piece.

Writing an academic paper also has its own pressure. For instance, I need to sound like I know my subject and/or that I’ve evaluated the opposing views on the subject at hand and then be able to convince my readers that the stand I’ve taken is the logical one, in addition to being very careful with the words I use, as well as with my syntax.

Given all the pressures that come with the other types of writing that I do, how could I not enjoy writing my blog entries?

But if you have thought that the things I’ve written so far are the reasons that I enjoy writing entries for my blog more than I enjoy other forms of writing, then let me tell you this: you are wrong. I have not been completely honest. To tell you the truth, it’s not the pressures that come with academic and journalistic writing as opposed to the ease of blog writing that makes me prefer the latter to the former. It is really the freedom I enjoy — the freedom to paint the caricature selves of the people I care about through words — that is fueling my zeal to write entry after entry.

So you see, it all boils down to my top pastime — bullying. Why not? I’m suppose to be wicked here, remember? I’m just being my bully self. That’s what I do around friends, di ba?

A tour to remember (Part 1)

It wasn’t in our plans. In fact, it was for something else — a book launching cum poetry reading — that we were at La Salle Taft last Saturday. But we arrived very late for the event so we decided to go elsewhere after lunch and tête á tête with the author (para naman hindi sayang ang lakad at porma namin, hehe).

So, despite the indicisive weather, Salve, Tayns and I retraced some periods of Philippine history with only my digi-cam and Tayns’ phone-cam — in our high-heeled shoes (semi for Tayns) — and went home fatigued and with calloused feet, but in high spirits.

The destination? Luneta and its neighboring areas. Yup, that very same place young people (including myself when I was much younger) regard as the place to-be for the jologs; and conversely, the must-avoid place for the cool, young ones.

(Good thing I eventually realized that Luneta (and its neighboring areas) is not at all jologs; that in fact, it is a historical place whose significance had not been diminished through the years.)

Here are some of the places we visited (plus some historical trivia, personal commentary, side-comments and what-evs).


The National Museum
Entrance Fee: P100 (free on Sundays)
Cameras not allowed inside

The National Museum houses artifacts recovered from ship wreckages; among them, the San Diego. The finds at the said shipwreck are said to have provided proofs that before the coming of the Spaniards, there had been an active trade between the Philippines and its neighboring countries.

Also at the national museum are artifacts that serve as proofs that the early Filipinos were seafarers. The theory (that our ancestors might have been seafarers) was made long before physical proofs to support or disprove it were unearthed, and basing mainly on the fact that the country is surrounded by significant bodies of water.

There are a lot more to see at the museum, such as artifacts that give us a glimpse of the life of the early Filipinos (suits, accessories, implements, and so on), and works of art, such as paintings and sculptures.


The Orchidarium
Located within Luneta Park
Entrance fee: P20

“Misnamed” was our first impression of this garden. It was so green, and it even had a falls and climbing wall; but it was colorful orchids we had expected to see. Unluckily, besides the bamboo orchid near the entrance, we did not see any.

Still, the place is worth seeing.


Japanese Garden/Chinese Garden
Located within Luneta park
Entrance fee: P5

The Japanese Garden and the one next to it — The Chinese Garden — have been sitting here for decades, but it seems no one knew of their existence (It was only when our magazine featured them last year that I got to know of them). These places are a perfect respite for tired and weary souls, for despite the fact that a busy road is nearby, thick canopy of old trees muffles the sound of the roaring vehicles.

Japanese symbol. This marker, according to Celestine and Salve, is a symbol that a Japanese temple is nearby (except here, of course). I can easily check out the veracity of their claim, but as they had been sent to Japan to study Japanese language and culture (Salve as exchange student; and Tayns as Japanese embassy scholar), I just have to trust that they are right about it.

A tour to remember (Part 2)

Rizal Monument and more
Kilometer Zero

Dr. Jose Rizal. Call me whatever you like, but it was only last Saturday that I learned why the Rizal shrine is well guarded. Silly me, but I had always thought it is to show respect to the great martyr; until Salve told Tayns and me that it is the three gold stars (which, according to her, stands for Luzon, Visayas and Mindanao) engraved on the monument that they are guarding.

La Madre Filipina. This piece of stone is personally significant to me because my Tatang and I spent quite a long time here last summer, trying to interpret it. And it was somewhere between this monument and the one next to it — Binhi ng Kalayaan monument — that I realized I was falling for him. Waaaaa!



The sentinel of freedom (or simply Lapu-lapu) monument. Inaugurated on February 5, 2004, this piece of stone is a recent addition at the park.


Calesa ride. Your tour around the historic city will not be complete if you don’t try the calesa ride. The three of us think that it’s one of the highlights of our impromptu tour.

Intramuros

The walled city. Intramuros served as the political, educational, religious and cultural center of the Spanish government. Today, the historical buildings in the area have been turned into government offices.

Palacio de Governador. The oldest palace in the country.

A tour to remember (Part 3)

Fort Santiago

Named in honor of Spain’s patron saint James, Slayer of Moors (Santiago Matamoros), Fort Santiago served as the military headquarters of our conquerors (Spanish, British, American and Japanese). Hundreds of men and women were jailed, tortured and executed here. It was also at Fort Santiago that Dr. Jose Rizal was imprisoned from November 3 1896 until his execution on December 30 of that year.

Me and Tatang. I mean, me talking to “Tatang” on the phone. Salve aimed the camera at me, and I said to Tatang, “Salve’s gonna take a photo of us. Pose ka ha? Say “cheese!” Hehehe

Losing it (my poise, that is). My sandals got so irritated with me walking on them, they rebelled against me; so I carried them for a change, while Salve and Celestine traced Rizal’s footsteps.

Jose Rizal’s cell. It was here where the national hero stayed until the morning of December 30, 1896 when he was brought out, and made to march to Bagumbayan (Luneta) … towards death. The brass shoeprints trace the path Rizal took when he walked to his execution site.

------
P.S. Hey folks! Learn from our mistake. If you intend to visit the areas we’ve toured, I suggest you go to Fort Santiago first. From there, go to Luneta, and watch a light show of Jose Rizal’s execution. We did our tour backwards. Kaloka!

The arrogance of “old age”

When my “Tatang” (not my Dad) saw a picture of me and my team, he said he would no longer read our mag because “the team is so young.” He ranted that young people don’t know much about life; hence, they don’t have much to write about. He demanded in Iluko, “Why would I read what you guys write? Reading your magazine is a waste of my time! Tell me, what do you know about life?”

Anyone who knows me would have expected me to come up with a witty comeback, and maybe, even tell my “Tatang” to get lost. But either I wasn’t myself then, or I was simply in a jovial mood, that I merely laughed at my “Tatang’s” comment; the thought of defending my team did not even cross my mind.

But then, after he had hung up and the laughter had died down, I thought I should have risen up to the challenge. Anyway, with him, I can say anything and he will just laugh it off. In fact, come to think of it, he might have even expected (or hoped?) to hear a piece of my mind about the “issue” at hand; as it was so obvious then that he was trying to “provoke” me.

It’s not yet late though. What I failed to say over the phone, I can always write in my blog, as he visits it regularly, anyway.

And what is it that I wish I should have told him?

That I think his comment reflects the arrogance of old age; that some “oldies” simply tend to underestimate what the youth are capable of, forgetting the fact that they themselves were young once; and it was in fact when they were much younger that they were most productive, and when their thinking was the sharpest.

I still have a lot of things to say on the issue, but I prefer to “resolve” them on the phone. Lagot siya kapag…

“Kring… Kring…”

Ooooooppppsss! Excuse me, folks! Hehehehehe


Caption: Me and my team: Ellen, SEB, Manong Ricco and Chie. Not in photo, Ryan

Your footsteps, my guide

Your footsteps, I had them to guide me through,
Upon them, through them, Father, I saw
The road you took, hard and long; your progress, slow
Grueling was your journey; that I now know.

Up to the crossroads, your footsteps took me, Father
And I noticed, such a long time thy footsteps spent there
They found it hard to decide which way to proceed
Would it be left or right; or how about straight ahead?

They took the left path, their steps tentative; then up ahead
A screech I heard; as a sharp break then a U-turn they made
Then to the crossroad, slowly they made their way back
contemplating, hoping, that better would be the right path.

So the right trail, after much thought, they decided to try
There was so much to see there, so much to find
But soon they realized, the path was leading them
Nowhere near where they stored their dream.

To go back and try the other way was the right thing to do,
they thought; but it was already too late to do so, they knew
So instead they moved forward, trying to find the good thing
upon them, the journey that they pursued, could bring.

I know, thy footsteps faltered several times; I did hear their cries
Stumbling, I heard them groan; and those sounds are their sighs.
But proud I am to see they continued with their trek, still
Inch by inch they moved; now to the finish line, they’re near.

Right there are your footsteps now; Oh, I see them clearly
Still moving onward, though now, rather more slowly
Seeing that plateau they’ve reached; please let me tell thee
The road they’ve taken was tough, but tougher are they, Daddy.

Just look at the humps they’ve had to pass through along the way
Not tripping over those monsters, good at dodging they must be, I say
The good maneuvers they’ve done; the curves they’ve straightened
Oh, for those who might follow thee, the road they’ve smoothened.

That journey of yours, I know it’s not easy, Daddy
But look where your small steps brought you and me
The tears you shed, the beads of sweat you let drop
Please know, Father, that they won’t be for naught.

And now, at that very same crossroad you once crossed, I stand
Trying to decide which way to take; please do understand
The path you chose I might not take; that you know, don’t you Daddy?
Still, I ask thee to bless me; that fruitful may my journey be.

Worry not now, your footsteps brought me this far
Upon them, through them, much I did gather
The road might be hard and long; and my progress, slow
This journey could be grueling; all these, I know.


For my father, my guide, my hero Manuel D. Benosa, Sr.
[Sherma E. Benosa, in my chamber; July 12, 2006; 11:40pm]

GUMIL MM meeting and more

I was invited to a meeting of GUMIL MM last Sunday, ironically, by still-would-be member of the organization, Jake Ilac, who was — and I suppose, still is — a member of GUMIL Lasam. (Thanks, Jake!)

Though the invitation was short notice (Jake “texted” me the day before, but it was only on Sunday am that I got to reply to him, and find out about the meeting), I still managed to haul myself to that place called “Bagong Silang” where the meeting took place. (Kaloka, Ang layo pala! But mind you, I even got there ahead of some folks! Hah!)

It was when I was already with the group that I realized it had been more than a year since the last time I attended a GUMIL meeting. But still, the welcome was very warm. It seemed like it was only a session, not many, that I missed. The Manongs are so fun to be with that I always enjoy being with them; never mind that it usually takes us at least 4 hours to discuss what normally could be tackled in a little more than an hour. I simply find “hanging out” with them a relaxing diversion to my otherwise hectic life.

And my day, which I envisioned to be a lazy one before I received Jake’s SMS, turned out to be quite fruitful. Not only was I able to talk to Manong Cles about the research I’m planning to do for my socio-linguistics class, but I also learned a few things from the meeting. And more than that, there was an issue discussed which I am particularly interested in — literary workshop, the very thing I need. You see, I have yet to attend such a workshop. And knowing that most, if not all, of the good writers went through that phase, I also want to subject myself and my writings to such exercise so that I may improve as a “writer.”

At the moment, I don’t consider myself a full-fledge writer because I have yet to write that piece I’d be very proud to call my creation. And I know attending workshops would be a great help. As one of my writer-friends lately realized: there are writing styles that are good, and there are styles that are simply captivating. I suppose my pieces could pass as good; but “good” will never be good enough for me nor for anyone who wants to be serious with his craft; in my humble opinion.

So I am looking forward to attending a workshop in the future. And when that happens, I would not pass up the chance to learn a thing or two from each of the icons of Iluko literature who so unselfishly offer their talents.

No sirs, Her Royal Wickedness, the great unknown and still-to-be-honed Ms. Sherma Espino Benosa — the author of this rubbish you are reading (nyehehe) and the force to reckon with on this web page you’ve mistakenly stumbled into and would not want to visit again, ever — would never say no to being “workshopped” by the likes of Johnny Hidalgo, Cles Rambaud, Noli Dumlao, Ariel Tabag, Prodie Gar Padios, Herman Tabin, and Linda Lingbaoan, among others. Wicked Angel she may be, but she knows better than ignore such a good offer from the powers that be in Philippine (Iluko) literature.

Wanna join, folks?

Photo captions (Top-bottom): Members and officers of GUMIL MM (not in photo, Ariel Tabag and SEB who were taking photos); Again, officers and members of GUMIL MM (sans Manong Cles who took the photo.

Me, a fashion model? Nah!

Funny, but after the perfunctory questions during introductions have been asked and answered, there is another question — a rather odd one, I must add — that is often thrown my way: “Are you a fashion model?” to which I often reply: “I wish.”

I find the question somewhat odd because, other than the cheeckbone, the jaw and the at-times-naughty, at-other-times-playful hazel eyes, there is nothing else that’s atypical in my facial features. In fact, I am aware that the word beautiful is seldom used (if ever) to describe me physically. Proofs: (1) I don’t get much of a second glance from the opposite sex (okay, just enough), which means I don’t quite pass most guys’ beauty-meter; and (2) my very own mother WOULD NOT say I am goodlooking even at gun point. Ouch!

So why does the question keep popping? In fact, I’ve been called FM (no, not Ferdie Marcos, silly!) in almost all of the companies I joined.

Cheryl, a former officemate, says it’s the body structure. She says mine is much like those of the girls we often see a-strutting on the catwalk. I would have rejoiced upon hearing her comment, if only a ridiculous word didn’t immediately pop into my mind: A-n-o-r-e-x-i-c; and if I didn’t readily realize the implication of her statement: that I am not well endowed — a harsh predicament for a woman to be in at this time and age. Tsk!

Other friends say it’s the way I dress and move. They say my cadence is rhythmic and somewhat measured; and my facial stance and body movement, elegant. Again, their remarks would have warmed my heart, if only they didn’t soon subject me to mimic-Sherma’s-body-movement-and-walk game, where my walk was depicted as somewhat resembling that of a duck parading downtown.

I suppose my height may also be a factor. At five-four, I am quite tall for a Filipina, but then that’s not tall enough to be a fashion model.

So what could it be?

Oh, what the heck! Why do I care about the reasons I get to be asked that silly question when my standard reply isn’t that difficult naman to utter. And it’s not as if the question irritates me.

But really, why kaya? Hehehe

"Yaya" sisterhood

Salve and I played surrogate mothers to three kids last weekend (two of which are her pamangkins while the third is our inaanak) and guess what we had to go through: kids wanting to pee just as Superman was being assaulted (read: climax). Not only that, we went home kinda broke!

But what the heck. We enjoyed every second of that experience. Am sure Celestine was very inggit, her purported pantal and all. Hah!

Caption: Superman and the super(kulit) kids

What part-time?

Whew! Life’s been so hectic these past days because of the adjustments in school that I needed to make. I had thought that with my “semi-employment,” I’d have a lot more time for myself. But then I realized, while my load is technically normal for a part-time student, I have to put in 3 units more than the load of a fulltime student (and that’s twice the normal load of a part timer), if I want to complete my INCs — and I have to, because this semester’s my last chance to do that.

Whew! My sched’s in limbo again!

And that means I may not be able to write nonsensical stuff for a while, because I need to concentrate on my academic research works. To think that writing good-for-nothing articles is what I'm really good at. Kaloka!

Pen, un-resting

Slumber shamelessly enticed and beckoned
and my pen, tired from scuffle, succumbed.
In the abyss of dreamlessness she lodged
frozen, lying there totally unperturbed.

Precious solitude, my pen found in the chamber;
Wailing, none was heard; not a single whimper.
But in there too, was a whole army of rust
Nourishing my pen with its scrumptious crust.

The quietude of the chamber, my pen found
it safe; its silence, she deemed profound.
The quandary of wakefulness, she now abhorred
This new life she’d found, she so adored.

But alas, the sun just won’t let it be
“Rest,” he told my pen, “is dangerous to thee.”
Slumber moved aside, its anch’rage now gone;
The treacherous moon had sold my pen to the sun

whose bright rays hugged my pen, his goddaughter.
“Please darling, no more crumpled paper,” he coaxed her.
“No more broken lines, nor reverence for gloom
For my sunrise and sunset are now yours to write on.”

My pen nodded; smile slowly brightening her face
as she pirouetted round and round the blank page
whereupon dots of sorrow vanished and waves of spasm
painted themselves bright; Ah, gone is the chasm.



For my Dungngo, my Sun.

© Sherma Espino Benosa
[June 25, 2006 3:36 am; in my “chamber”]

Mother Nature’s pathetic joke

Either Mother Nature was in a sour mood or that her being a pathetic joker took over her better judgment on the day she chose and mixed the ingredients of her experimental specialty that was me, that she made such a terrible, irreversible mistake for which I will never forgive her: She poured her concoction into the mold she used for my father! So I came out not only looking like my dad, but also exhibiting one of the characteristics that so define him: inability to differentiate the lower from the upper “DO.”

Needless to say, Mother Nature’s product was such a letdown that, when I saw it and I have thoroughly read the manual that came with it, I was so annoyed with her I challenged her to resign from her post, and threatened to sue her. And I would have, had she didn’t have the decency to apologize and to offer to make up for her despicable, tasteless joke. Her making me somewhat like a female version of my Dad, I considered a tremendous slight upon my person, and so I demanded something grand as payment — paper for a playground, pen for a toy, and words for playmates.

So that is how it came to be that, like my father, I also play hide-and-seek with words; and, more important, that I am Daddy’s girl.

Oh well, what can I do? I am his unica hija; his wicked princess. The better looking version of himself. Ha ha!

(This is dedicated to my best friend — my ever understanding, loving and supportive father, Mr. Manuel Domingo Benosa. I love him so much, that’s why I have bestowed upon him the highest honor he could ever hope for in this life. Yes, friends, I named him the recipient of my bullying in its worst form. Hehehe!)

Teaser for my photoessay

If a picture could paint a thousand words, what would you get if you put together ten pictures and a captivating prose?

That's right. An enchanting story.

That's the project I am working on as a gift for my "dungngo" who very badly needs sunset. Right now, I am still in the process of collecting my materials and am also waiting for the words to whisper their names to my pen. It might take me years to finish it, but I am patient. After all, the irksome word "rush" never appears alongside "art" in a sentence, unless a negator is also present.

Dr. O's verdict

1.25 for me.

Damn!

I know, I know! A grade of 1.25 should not be so awful. But when you know that a non-deserving soul got 1.0, it is.

Hah... biatch!

The music of Conroy's pen

Last weekend, I almost learned to love poetry.

And it was by reading a narrative: Pat Conroy’s “The Prince of Tides.”

The book had been sitting idly in my bookshelf for more than a year before I decided to scan it for lack of interesting thing to do. Its title failed to suggest a captivating read so that if I had other options besides the classics I have lined up for myself, I would not have spared it a single glance, much less touch it. But as it was, the only books in my possession that remain unread are “oldies” so I decided to make do with it. Better that than have Mr. Boredom for company for a whole weekend.

Or so I thought.

The first sentence of the novel was so powerful it made me read on and on and, before I knew it, I was already hooked. Pat Conroy is a master storyteller; his sentences, a fusion of prose and poetry. Never in my rather bookworm life had I read a novel so melodious that, in more than one occasion, I’ve caught myself wondering if it was indeed prose, not poetry, that I was reading.

And the plot — intricate yet craftily woven. A story of a grotesque past, the novel presents how times of yore shape the future. And more important, how it is possible that sometimes, the only way to move forward is to re-trace one’s footsteps; and how healing could be had by coming to terms with the things we’d rather commit to non-remembrance.

For these reasons, I think I’d soon add works bearing the music of Conroy’s pen to my list of must-reads.

Parting shots

I read a story early this year about a man who staged a mock funeral for himself by gathering his family and friends and asking them to say their eulogies for him because he wanted to hear what they would say in his actual funeral.

That is a bit morbid a scenario, but that’s what actually inspired me to write how I would remember my officemates — past and present — when the time for us to part ways (to pursue different directions) comes.

Here we go:

Elaine. Despite all the nice things that Elaine is, I will always remember her as the girl who pretended to be sweet and tahimik during her first 6 weeks in the company. So unsociable she was then that Kiko, Patsy and I often wondered about whether or not her being quiet was for real. And taking into consideration what she turned out to be when she finally decided to peel off her layers — a big bully — I could not help but be glad and sorry at the same time. Glad that I won the wager (I betted that she was just pretending) and sorry because I was one of those whom she chose to (try to) bully.

Patsy. The reigning editorial mascot when I arrived at FAME, Patsy’s “coveted” title may now go either to Chie or Lorien (in my humble opinion). These two imps could sometimes be such a pain in the ass while being so awfully funny that I often find myself wondering what to do — throw at them whatever was in my hand in annoyance or laugh out loud in amusement. But really, there is only one pervert, illogical and sablay person in the world, and that’s Patsy.

Chie Chie. The girl who has yet to learn that punctuation marks serve a purpose, she is both a menace and an angel. I know I will forever be haunted by her soon-to-be-more-famous lines: “Ano’ng oras ang 3pm?” “Ayan, lumamig na tuloy ang ice cream ko,” “Nine AM ng umaga?” and “Miss, meron ba kayong coke na nagyeyelo, yung tipong nag-a-ice?”

Why soon-to-be-more-famous? Well, Chie, boys and girls, is now a commercial model. Her beautiful face is soon to dominate (and add color to) your primetime TV viewing. Hehe

Jing. It comes as a surprise for those who are not in the know, but yes, Jing is Chie Chie’s sister. But while Chie Chie is taranta personified, Jing is the personification of calmness. Everybody would already be panicking, but she would just be sitting there, working calmly and unaffected by the chaos around her, most probably courtesy of — who else? — her dear sister.

Manong Ricco. I’m actually a few months older than him, but I call him Manong. He can be makulit or masungit sometimes, especially when puyat, but he’s such a darling. Whenever I have to stay late (most often until 1:30am; sometimes 4am) in the office, I only need to ask him to please stay late too, and he would be canceling his appointments, including his date with … uh-oh, can’t say (Sowi!). What’s more, he’s one of the very few people who think I look funny when I am mad. In fact, I suspect he enjoys it when I am “sinusumpong” because it is during these times that he laughs most often. Nakakainis!

Ryan. We’re not really related. Neither is he too young (nor I too old), but yup, he calls me “Tita.” He lives in the shadows of his more famous brother (for now) — GMA’s Jiggy Manicad — but Ryan is destined to surpass Jiggy’s fame. And no, not because he is soon to be given big breaks, but because of some “bomba” about him that I would leak to the press.

Just what it might be? Hmmm… I won’t tell. Hehehe

(Disclaimer: Hey, I am just joking about this racket about Ryan. Despite all the kakulitan that he does in the office, he is one sweet guy. Let me borrow Arno’s words when he talked about Ryan and Jiggy: Maganda ang pagpapalaki sa kanila ng kanilang mga magulang. And that, I think, is the highest compliment any person could ever hope to receive.)

Of beaches and bitching

It’s a bit hard for some of my friends to comprehend why someone — and that means me — could not easily be charmed by the sight of a beach to strip down to her swimsuit and jump in for a good swim. Beaches, they say, equate swimming and basking under the sun.

Not for me, though. I love beaches because of their romantic appeal. I find them especially appealing when they are calm, either at sun up or sun down. The soft sound of the waves paying homage to the shores simply reaches the depth of my being, soothing and relaxing my spirit.

During turbulent weathers, beaches are not much of a sight, for they spell terror and destruction. But I like them just the same, for beaches at the height of a fit are reflective of my explosive tendency when provoked — daunting and terrifying.

Yup, I also know (now) how to bitch. And I've been told I do an extremely good job of it. Ha ha!

/Photo: Puerto Galera, April 12, 2006/

One bright night...

... I looked up, and saw the moon smiling upon me. I smiled back, wondering what she thinks of me, now that I’d bared myself to her.

Deciding she’d surely understand, I closed my eyes, feeling her gaze still fixed upon me, now with a tinge of concern.

No, I’m not going to cry.


[seb/August 25, 2004]

Love paradox

7 reasons people are so crazy about (and go crazier because of) love.

1. Love means both holding on and letting go.
2. Love can bring forth heaven as well as hell.
3. Love can either make your heart whole or cut it into pieces.
4. Love promises total bliss while, at the same time, spelling out misery.
5. Love can hurt as well as heal.
6. Love is both a problem and a solution.
7. Love brings out so many questions and offers nothing but itself as the answer.

[seb/2001]

The healing process

My good officemate, Manong Ricco, mumbled something the other day about a certain dilemma of his about which I cannot talk here but to which I can completely relate. His dilemma has nothing to do with mine, but our dilemmas are somewhat parallel so that when he mumbled, “Hindi kaya naglalaro ang tadhana?” I just looked at him — dumbstruck — so that for a change, I was unable to say anything witty that would tell him I thought he was being corny, or worse, idiot.

He'd told me enough to know it wasn't his fault that he's at his current situation, and I sure did not do anything that would lead me to where I am now. All I can remember is, there I was, welcoming each day — sometimes cheerily, at other times, rather relunctantly (as any other normal person does, I must say) — and woke up one day with my life suddenly not as orderly as it was the last time I checked.

What has happened? I don't know. But suddenly, I am at a point where whatever I would decide to do would bring forth immense happiness to one soul, and death to another.

So maybe, Manong Ricco is right. No matter how careful you are in your steps, sometimes you just find yourself in situations you'd rather not be in.

Believe me, I never asked for this. I did not go out looking for this. But this is where I am now, and so I will have to deal with it.

I know I won't get out of it unscathed. For whichever way I turn, I would hurt someone. Not a consoling thought, especially because I am sure I would likewise get hurt in the process.

Oh, such a dreadful task it is, this thing that is being required of me to do. But I know I will have to do it. And I believe I am strong enough to weather it. I am both a fighter and a survivor, am I not? There's no reason I should fail. Things, after all, know how to right themselves.

And besides, there is such a thing as healing process. The thought of it should be enough to bring comfort to my soul and for me to do that which is right.

P.S.

I just find it beyond reason that I will have to hurt someone — myself included — in order for me to be happy. It simply doesn't make sense! But then, a lot of things that happen in life don't make sense immediately — at least to the human reasoning. They often do years thence. So I guess I just have to stay positive and keep believing that things will be alright. That I will be alright. That everyone will be alright.

OFW Wannabes

In Philippine Educational Theater Association’s (PETA) latest offering, Pinoy Wannabes, five one-act plays revolving around the issue of OFW migration explore how the promise of a better life could ironically gnaw away ties and shatter dreams.

Using an ever-present red luggage as a unifying element — at least visually — the five sketches portray present-day Filipino realities.


Yung Plano is a tale of the disintegration of an OFW family, with its first scene being that of three kids trying to take care of themselves in a home with absentee parents, and its last being that of the parents as idealistic ‘70s activists. The backward telling of the story gives it a more powerful impact than it would have had if it were told the usual way. The irony of the parents’ strong convictions and ideals when they were young losing out to the promise of a better life — in the land of the “enemy,” no less — is not at all missed among the audience.

Ang Kamera ni Mang Leon, on the other hand, hits home quite easily, in the light of the ongoing mass exodus of health workers abroad. The issue of physicians working in the country as underpaid and overworked doctors versus being well-paid albeit of much lower status care givers abroad, is still a much talked about topic.

And when life in the country becomes too burdensome to bear, running off to other countries “to set things right” is all the more an easy decision to make. In Kalat, an abused wife decides to leave the country to clean up other peoples’ mess, and hopefully and eventually, her own.

Panaginip talks of young lovers oceans apart, with only a dream of one day being together to hold on to. Exhilarating and loaded with witty punches, and yeah — that same-sex kissing that made the viewers rowdy for no less than a minute — this mini-play might have been the last to leave the viewers’ minds, if ever it would.

And finally, who doesn’t want to have a pasaporte? Virtually every Filipino dreams of owning — and using — one. In Pasaporte, the Juan and Juana de la Cruzes of the country were given the center stage as they give their arms and legs for that elusive US visa. And fail.


While the five mini plays may not have wholly captured the lives of the millions of Filipinos working abroad — for surely their actual experiences are much more colorful, their dilemmas more heartrending, and their stories more moving — the sketches are simply poignant. With its emotional and social appeal (which is expected of all PETA productions), Pinoy Wannabes has managed to set the audience roaring with laughter. And hopefully, take home a message or two.

A quote for Tayns

I won't gush about the musical adaptation of Carlo Vergara's Zsa Zsa Zaturnnah anymore because almost every theater fanatic I know is done raving about it. In fact, Celestine and Salve even hailed it in their respective blogs.

So let me just post a quote from the play the meaning of which I wish Tayns would fully grasp: "Ang pag-ibig kapag dumating, salubungin mo na parang isang kaibigan na matagal mong hindi nakita." —Aling Britney to Ada

Tayns, getz mo? Hehehe

Salve speaks...

Finally, Salve has spoken. Hehehe Let me copy&paste her testimonial here so you'd have something to read kasi di pa ako nakakasulat. I'm sure she had quite a laugh penning this...


The perpetually poised woman, yeah, Sherma. Kahit late na sa usapan, kailangang may count ang bawat step, nakataas-noo, may angle ang face, naka-emote ang eyes at... ay, natisod!`Yan, `di kasi tumitingin sa dinadaanan.

When I first heard her name, my impression was, Baka may foreign blood `to, or baka Persian siya. But I was wrong, of course. She’s a hundred percent Pinay. And I had quite a laugh when I learned the etymology of SherMa.

Sherma is a very talented writer, smart, a fighter. If she believes and knows she’s right, she’ll fight for it. She had never surrendered in any battle. Other people might think she’s a snob, but if you know her alam mo na may kabaitan naman `to kahit paano. Puwede mong ilagay sa emergency key ng phone mo ang number niya. `Pag nag-SOS ka, she’ll make a way to be there for you.

She’s also a perfectionist. Hindi sa kanya puwede ang 'puwede na' — something that might irritate or make other people raise a brow at her. But when you spend a lot of time with her, you’ll get the hang of it.


Hayyyy! There... you've got a picture of me — from the horse's mouth, no less. Hehe