PUZZLES

PUZZLE 1

It is a six-letter English word, the first three letters of which is the present tense of the next three letters.
Clue: The whole word can be used as a noun, as a verb, or as an adjective.


PUZZLE 2

It is an 11-letter English word.

The first two letters refer to a preposition indicating inclusion, location, or position within limits.

Letters 3 to 5 refer to a three-letter preposition/conjunction.

Letters 6 to 8 refer to a piece of material placed at a door for wiping soiled shoe soles.

Letters 9 to 11 refer to a charged subatomic particle.


PUZZLE 3

It's an 11-letter compound English word.

The meaning of the first word (first five letters) is almost the opposite of that of the second word (letters 6-11). [I used the word ALMOST because the first word in the compound is a verb whereas the second is a noun].

The whole word refers to the person who does the action referred to by the first word without regard for the concept referred to by the second word.

Note: Puzzles are first posted by the author in VF's blog in iluko.com. Puzzle 1 was answered correctly by Mng. Fred Ilac; Mng. Edmund Salvador gave the correct answer for puzzle 2. No one was able to answer puzzle 3.

Iluko "works"

II.

Narimat
Nalawag
Ti isip
Kas karimat
Ken kalawag
Ni Apo init
Narimat
Nalawag
Kas karimat
Ken kalawag
Ti isip.

Ti isip
kas
ti init
kas
ti isip.

Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew:

The economics of marriage
and the society's influence on happiness


The shrew…

She was a woman who knew her mind and enjoyed speaking it out. Meek and submissive, she was neither. Her tongue was good at stringing spiteful words; and her mind, as her tongue, was sharp and not easily matched nor bent.

The 21st century would love her and believe in her. Inspired by her, it would teach its sons to respect and admire her, and its daughters to emulate her. Independent and tough, she would be called, and both words would carry a ring of veneration and amazement to them.

But unfortunate, Katherine likewise was, for she was made to live 400 years much too early — at a time not a bit tolerant of her nature, in a story that is sympathetic of her yet intolerant of her ways.

She was an outcast of the society she despised. Everyone likeneed her to an animal to be tamed; and people referred to her as a shrew, and was invariably described as “too rough” (I.i.55) and “stark mad” (I.i.69).

Yet, in retrospect, she might simply be misunderstood by everyone around her — her father who seemed to love her sister more, and the less-witted men that surrounded her.


… and the tamer…

Had he lived today, when the two sexes are viewed as different but equal, he would be deemed egotistical and portentous. A man to be revered, he was not — now, or 400 years ago — with his crass behavior and overbearing attitude, and his not-quite-honorable intentions: first, to marry a wealthy woman to augment his inheritance:

Signor Hortensio, ‘twixt such friends as we
Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know
One rich enough to be Petruccio’s wife—
As wealth is burden of my wooing dance—
Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love,
As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd
As Socrates’ Xanthippe or a worse,
She moves me not—or not removes at least
Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough
As are the swelling Adriatic seas.
I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;
If wealthily, then happily in Padua.
(I.ii.62–73)


then, somehow challenged by reports of the rich man’s daughter’s (Katherine’s) shrewish behavior, to tame her and turn her to a suitable wife.

Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Petruccio: My remedy is then to pluck it out.

Quick-witted he was though, and that proved to be enough to make Katherine submit to his will.


… together…

Their first meeting was hostile, as was the norm with Katherine; and soon they engaged in verbal duel:

Petruccio: Come, come, you wasp, i’faith you are too angry.
Katherine: If I be waspish, best beware my sting.
Petruccio: My remedy is then to pluck it out.
Katherine: Ay, if the fool could find where it lies.
Petruccio: Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail.
Katherine: In his tongue.
Petruccio: Whose tongue?
Katherine: Yours, if you talk of tales, and so farewell.
Petruccio: What, with my tongue in your tail?
(II.i.207–214)

with Katherine throwing insult after insult, and Petruccio turning each of her slurs into sexual innuendo which frustrated her and, at the same time, somehow won her over; or at least, silenced her.


…in a story that made me roar with laughter…

Using a frame within a frame* that consisted of a plot (Katherine and Petruccio) and a subplot (Bianca and Lucentio), the story examines marriage, emphasizing on its economic aspects (how economic factors influences who marries whom); and on the tremendous influence the society has over one’s happiness (how happiness is dependent on everyone playing his or her prescribed role).

Performed on stage**, Petruccio’s way of taming Katherine — showing up late and horribly dressed for their wedding; turning everything against Katherine’s will, ironically, under pretense of concern for her wellbeing; making Katherine agree with everything he said even if she believed otherwise (e.g., making Katherine say that the sun was really the moon); and showing her beautiful dresses but denying her the chance to own them, telling her they weren’t good enough for her — are hilarious. So are the wooing scenes between Bianca and Lutencio.


…while being so confused…

The language of the story is such a challenge to understand, but far challenging to comprehend are some crucial points. What happened to the Christopher Sly frame? Why did Katherine, intelligent and rapier-tongued, uncharacteristically fall silent when Petruccio arrogantly forced her to give her consent to marry him? Was it because he proved he was her equal in wit and in verbal skills? Or was it for something deeper, such as, she had recognized he was her only chance of ever being married?

But if that was so, why then, after the marriage, did she allow herself be treated brutally, giving only the slightest of objections? And finally, how could she have been transformed so easily? Or had she been really?


… then, somehow a little enlightened, laughed no more.

As the story came to an end — with Katherine suddenly becoming well tamed and proper, while her sister turned into a shrew; and, more importantly, with the understanding of just how much influence the society had over one’s life and happiness coming down to mind — the laughter just died down, especially when Katherine gave her sister a piece of her mind:

Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sovereign, one that cares for thee,
And for thy maintenance commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe,
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks, and true obedience,
Too little payment for so great a debt.
My mind hath been as big as one of yours,
My heart as great, my reason haply more,
To bandy word for word and frown for frown;
But now I see our lances are but straws,
Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,
That seeming to be most which we indeed least are.
Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,
And place your hands below your husband’s foot,
In token of which duty, if he please,
My hand is ready, may it do him ease.

Hearing her speech, I was so stunned, that soon I found myself thinking: “Poor Katherine, she did not at all have a choice." She knew she had to be transformed somehow if she wanted to gain acceptance to the society she despised.

But if indeed she was transformed, then she was a broken woman, because the very essence of who she was — intelligent, independent, and not easily swayed — was destroyed. But if she was just playing along with her husband, having realized that it was the only way she could get what she wanted, she was broken still, for she had locked away her true self, never to resurrect it again.



* Main frame is the Christopher Sly frame. Sly was a tinker who became a subject of a nobleman’s cruel joke. The second frame is the main story, which consists of a plot (Katherine and Petruccio) and a subplot (Bianca and Lucentio).

** The production of The Taming of the Shrew that I saw was that of the Repertory Philippines in 2005 at Greenbelt One.

Lost in the game...

I dreamt I joined a game the rule of which I did not know — a game which, I later found out, was designed to get me — and idiot as I was, I was participating in it willingly… gingerly.

I thought everything was so unfair. But I told myself it was ok; some people could really be so mean. But what I found to be unacceptable was that I was given a partner who vowed to protect me — and he did so by telling me to take care — but deciding against telling me what exactly to watch out for... until it was too late.

Then I woke up, and found the sun was already up. I peeped out of my window. Ah, the storm has passed...

Intro to "Our Responses"

Trials and challenges are what define life, and our responses to them are what define who and what we are. We can fight, and in so doing, we may get scathed, but eventually come out triumphant. Or we may lose, and go home licking our wounds; head bowed and shoulders stooped, wondering how the world could have fallen upon us.

But failure may also be a blessing in disguise. With determination strong enough to try to beat the odds one more time, and a heart in the right place, why, we may be able to stage a comeback in the end. And when that happens, the taste of success might even be sweeter than if we had not first tasted the bitterness of defeat.

For defeat never tasted sweet nor smelled good. It is so bitter that it can send a lot of people wallowing in despair. But still, its bad taste can wane with time; even the darkness of the night surrenders to the light of the sun — when it’s time.

Sooner or later, acceptance will come to our hearts — acceptance of the things that are beyond us, of the things that we cannot change. Then we will begin to see light again. We will dare hope again. And who knows, we may again be able to meet our share of trials and challenges head on, and come home scathed, but with a glitter of triumph in our eyes and a trace of smile upon our lips.


/My introduction to my reading program which I entitled, “Our Responses,” a book-type collection of poems, narratives, short stories, and plays consisting of four chapters. Each chapter consists of 2 poems, 2 narratives, 2 short stories, and 2 plays falling under a certain theme. At the end of every selection in the first chapter is a lesson plan, which includes grammar lessons, teaching strategies and comprehension and discussion questions, among others. The selections were taken from various sources: magazines, local and foreign books and the internet. I’ve read more than 200 articles in the past three months, and chose only 28 for inclusion in the project. The other four materials are mine, all unpublished.

The selection of the materials I included in my reading program is based on how I think we respond to the adversities that come our way. I am of the opinion that there are two ways we respond to trials and challenges: either fight or give in. If we fight, we may either win or lose. But if we choose to give in, we will definitely lose. And having lost, we may wallow in misery forever, or we may eventually come to accept what had been dealt us, and ultimately feel strong enough to give it a try one more time.

Chapter one of the project talks of triumph; chapter two talks of succumbing; chapter three talks of acceptance, and chapter four talks of bouncing back from our loss.

The project is one of the requirements in one of my subjects. I am now in the final stages of the project. I think I'd be able to finish it this week — I should, because I'm on the verge of going crazy. I mean, crazier that usual...

Learning to splash! (almost too late)

I think I may now add a new hobby to my rather short list — swimming.

You figured it right. I used not to swim; or rather, I used not to know how to swim. And that explains why I am (was) not easily tempted by the sight of pools and beaches to strip down to my swim suit. (Come to think of it, I don’t even own a single piece of swimsuit! That may change soon. Haha!)

I had not really thought of learning how to swim. But our brief excursion to Laguna last weekend (Chie, Manong Ricco, Ellen, Jing, Ryan and myself) included swimming in the itinerary. And Chie, a very good swimmer (she swims so well and loves the waters so much that we call her Sirena), was annoyingly persuasive that she got Ellen, also a non-swimmer, and me into the pool. And still not happy with our gliding nor impressed with my try-hard "ballet"-on-water performance, she persuaded us to learn how to swim properly (not like Manong Ricco and Ryan who can swim but can’t really swim, if you know what I mean). She was so persuasive, and deep within me I had also wished I could swim, so I relented. So did Ellen.

I had had several close calls during beach outings in my much-younger days, that’s why I was not so keen to learn to swim. Plus, I’ve always feared I’d simply frustrate my trainer, because I had thought I had low aptitude in the kinesthetic department. But apparently, I had underestimated myself too much. Two one-hour sessions (first was in Laguna, and second was at the Hyatt Casino and Hotel last night) and I learned! I can’t help being pleased with myself. How can I not? I’m twenty-eight years old and I just learned how to swim. Kaloka, di ba? Now, I sort of feel I’ve missed out on some things. Like swimming.

I was so excited last night that getting an apartment with a pool had crossed my mind, but finances are low, so that’s already out of the question. But then, I sometimes get invitations from hotels to try out their facilities and, according to Chie, we can use our boss’ membership in one or two of the hotels nearby, so may be I’ll be able to have more practice. Of course, another option is our (the gang) plan to have outings at least once a month, preferably after every mag issue. This we had thought of doing, when we realized during our excursion that a one-day outing can de-stress us effectively.

So there are a lot of avenues for practice there. But first, I'll have to see if I can show off my “swimming prowess” in Palawan (I’ll be there on the 13th through 18th). I’m sure Celestine will be shocked at what she’ll see.

Hah!

Metamorphosis

Butterfly becomes me...



/Photo taken at the Hill Spa, Laguna.

Unquotables 1

Ripped off my blog in Iluko.com
“MuZings and WhatEvs”
I’ve had some fun in iluko.com, mainly because I have a very willing prey there: VF (Virtual Friend). I’m transplanting some of my postings there just to see if I can also bully him here. [Kidding aside, I think it's about time that I index some of my good (meaning, "wicked") postings.]


"If Mother Nature thought that giving me VF to prey upon is an act of correcting her mistakes, then it only reinforces what I’ve known about her all along: that her sense of humor appeals to no one but herself.

Still, she may try [to humor herself further], but such action I will classify as unpardonable; and its consequences, I dare say, shall be terrible.

For it is not up to Mother Nature to decide whom I should bully; for my reasons (there are many, and they vary from one prey to another) for doing so are beyond her realm. VF is mine to bully; and it is by choice (mine!), not as a consequence of Mother Nature’s inefficiency."

Sherma E. Benosa 6/18/2006 10:55:42 PM
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Answer to VF’s posting which read: “It's Nature who led you to make that decision."

"That’s where you are gravely wrong VF, accusing Mother Nature of an act she didn’t commit and, worse, failing to acknowledge that I am no executor of Mother Nature’s designs.

I am the architect of my actions. The blueprints, I myself drew; the edifices, I alone built. That, my friend, is how I earned the right to live in them."

Sherma E. Benosa 6/19/2006 6:40:44 AM
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Among the weaklings, Mother Nature is supreme. But with me, she is helpless. And because of me, she is in stark sadness. Her wrath? Ow, never mind!

Even Mother Nature has a waterloo. And that is what I am to her. Upon me, she cannot apply the laws with which she enthralls mankind. Sorry VF. But where I am concerned, that thing Mother Nature contrived — E=mc² — is meaningless.

Find help elsewhere.

Sherma E. Benosa 6/19/2006 7:48:35 AM
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Your posts are like steroids injected into my veins. The moment they enter my system, adrenaline starts kicking in and wicked thoughts start floating in my mind, sending my hands to whack the computer keys and my lips to curl up in a wicked smile.

Then as I click the submit button I laugh out loud, imagining you reading them; your face contorted, and your lips smirking (your smirk being a combination of suppressed laughter and shock). Then I would see you busy your hands with your keyboard as you squeeze your mind for a witty comeback….

… but type words that spell defeat — YOUR defeat — instead. Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

Sherma E. Benosa 6/21/2006 3:31:16 AM

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.