Family picture

Manuel Jr., Sherwin (or Sherman; also Ogie), Dad, Lucky Ryan & Kate, Mom, Me, & Ms. Sheryll Ignacio (soon-to-be hmmm...)

The “other love” on center stage

With their demanding career and inclination to science, doctors cannot possibly have time for “trivial” things or be creative — or so we think. Two renowned physicians prove us wrong, on both counts.
Sherma E. Benosa


They are on call 24/7. They rush to the ER upon summon. Their best weapons are the scalpel and the stethoscope. Saving lives is their ultimate goal. Failing a patient is their greatest woe.

We think of them as men and women clad in all-white outfits, stetho- scope hanging loosely around their necks. We visualize them barking orders to their assistants during surgery, or patiently listening to their patients and carefully giving out prescriptions during consultations.

They are the ones we turn to when we feel physical pain. We count on them to deliver us or a loved one from death’s door. We hang on to their every word — a word of assurance fills our hearts with hope; a “sorry” coupled with a shake of their head makes our hearts burst in despair.

But beyond their role as human “gods,” we don’t really know them as individuals. And with their busy medical practice, it’s easy for us to think of them as nerdy, all-work geeks who have no (other) life to live. And thinking that their vocabulary consists mainly of unpronounceable diseases and tongue-twister drug names, it may really come as a surprise that they can express themselves — loud and clear — through a language we all understand — the arts.


Stroke of a pen

He has made a name for himself in the field of medicine. While doing so, gastroenterologist Atenodoro Ruiz, Jr., is also making a name in medical and creative writing. Writing about medical updates, health education and other pressing medical issues, he has been published in numerous national and international medical journals, as well as in local dailies and magazines, including H&L.

“Writing is a very important medium of communication of ideas and insights, and sharing of knowledge and expertise,” says Dr. Ruiz. “Being in the medical field, I truly recognize the impact of dissemination of scientific breakthroughs and landmark trials in medical publications. …”

But his passion for writing transcends his love for medicine, to his other passion — music. A music magazine may seem an unlikely venue, but yes, his byline also appears in one. Reviewing new songs and artists, listing the winners and losers in the music scene and writing pop quizzes, who would associate him with the person who writes technical, rigid articles? “I have a diverse interest in the spectrum of music. I usually listen to top 40 radio stations, surf the internet and regularly visit the billboard website. I also watch concerts. I think I know a lot about the trends and achievements in music, and I just want to share it with readers,” he says.

But isn’t it hard to switch from scientific to non-technical writing? “Writing nonscientific articles requires more effort and research on my part [than writing technical papers]. I need to be not busy with my medical responsibilities to switch to a different style of writing. But it (writing light-read articles) can be more fun and it allows me to show a different facet of my personality,” says the physician-writer.


Lasting imprints

Besides medicine, Dr. Alberto Daysog, Jr., renowned nephrologist, respected medical educator, and multi-awarded medical researcher, has one great love: ceramic painting.

His love for the art started in 1961, but it was in the ‘90s that he finally “gave in” to his creative inclination, hence, the beginning of his “love affair” with ceramic painting. “Ceramic painting satisfies my artistic needs. It keeps me busy. It is a form of therapy and relaxation and it adds to living,” he says.

But for Dr. Daysog, his art is not just a means of creative expression. It is his life’s statement. He uses it to achieve higher ends — to help indigent patients and the homeless.

Once a year, he holds a one-man exhibit of eighty to ninety paintings in hospital lobbies (UST Hospital, Ospital ng Maynila, San Juan de Dios Hospital and Makati Medical Center, among others) and donates the proceeds to charity. “Ceramic painting is the venue through which I am able to do charitable work,” says the philanthropic doctor.

At present, Dr. Daysog is still finding ways to improve his craft. “Since I have a grasp of the art and the resources to manipulate it, I’m finding ways to make it easier, faster and economical. I still keep improving and discovering new facets of ceramic painting. It is the researcher in me — researching on what you have and what is affordable. I hope to someday write a book on ceramic painting, the easy, rapid and economical way.”

It is said that ceramic paintings can outlast a millennium. But more lasting than the impressions Dr. Daysog has glazed upon his pieces are the imprints he has left in the hearts of those he has helped.


Health and Lifestyle
May 2005 Issue

Question # 1

Why is it that when you are too damn busy you need all your energy and attention focused on your task at hand, it would be then that your mind would choose to drift?

So it happened that while I was working on something that was rather rush, I got flagged down with so many thoughts — all leading to different directions, none pleasant.

'Kakaloka…

Bullshit personified

Warning: This is a shitty entry. If you’d rather have a feel-good article, read no further.


Dr. O didn’t list it as a requirement in the class syllabus she gave us at the start of the semester. Neither did she mention that it was important when she encouraged us to write and publish an opinion piece on the new bill on bilingual education. Not even during the long months we met every week did she say something that would have given us a hint that it was necessary. But after our group had fulfilled all the class requirements and we were ready to party, it was then that she announced in class that the only way for us to have a grade of one is to get published, and that only one among us has made it — Pao.

Damn! Magpapa-publish lang pala, uno na?

Why then did we have to conduct an in-service training? Why the hell did we have to do interviews, surveys and class observations and find out the needs of the teachers of a public school the existence of which we did not even know about until three months ago? Why the hell did we have to spend a lot of money, waste much of our time, exhaust our energy, and go through weekly meetings, brainstorming sessions and planning when all we needed to do lang pala was flip through files of studies, sit a couple of hours writing a one-page opinion piece, email our output to a broadsheet, and presto! — UNO na?

Oh! Before you go thinking that I’m merely sour-graping, let me tell you this: that isn’t my way. I know when I deserve something and when I don’t. And right now, I am not saying that I deserve a grade of one. But I dare say that if no one in my group deserves it, then Pao deserves it much less.

I don’t have any problem if she’d choose to give Pao a bonus grade for having his work published. Maybe, he deserves it. But uno? No way!

Yes, Pao may be the brightest student in class. He can easily outshine anyone. He is smart, intelligent and articulate. And he is a fulltime student. It helps too, that he has a knack for befriending teachers (a skill I lack, and never bothered to acquire).

Still, I maintain that he doesn’t deserve a one. Why should he? As the leader of his group, he has failed big time. Their in-service training was not quite good — our bitch of a teacher said so herself (They made a big mistake of hiring a professional as a speaker in their training when it should have been one or two among them who did the talk. Now, who should the teacher grade, the speaker whom they hired?) Even before they concluded their in-service training, their group was already divided into two — with him on one side, and the rest of the group on the other. And to top it all, their documentation/written output was still not ready when the original submission date arrived.

So where did Pao’s grade of one come from? It could not have been from the in-service training, which, we were made to believe all throughout the semester, was the main requirement in class.

(Oh, I forgot! He got his opinion piece published nga pala! Patawa naman o! Kukunin ‘yung grade niya sa extra work na pinagawa ng teacher? Extra, kasi hindi naman bilingual education ang description ng class! And ha! Ha! What’s the fuss nga pala about his opinion piece having been published? Was it a major article? Was it a literary piece? Neither. So what’s the big deal? It’s not as if it’s so difficult to have something published. I should know, because I happen to be in the publishing industry.)

And, as if the racket of a news about Pao already assured of his top marks — long before his group drafted and submitted their written output — still wasn’t enough, the piece of vermin sitting on the teacher’s desk further elicited my group’s annoyance when, as we were submitting our output on the day of submission, she suddenly realized that there are specific things she wanted to see in our documentation (Oh… let’s just say she simply forgot to tell us beforehand, OK? I’m sure it was an honest mistake on her part).

So needless to say, she extended the deadline to another two weeks. However, one week to go before deadline 2, she again realized she wanted us pala to follow a certain format. (Now, of course it would be too bad of us to think she’s stalling things so that her favorite student’s group could catch up, so let’s just think she’s really forgetful, shall we?)

But damn… damn… damn!

I’ve been trying to justify her actions since her announcement; I’ve been trying to see things from her perspective to understand the whys of things; but until now I still think that we (my groupmates and I, including Pao’s group members) were unjustly treated.

To this date, I still feel I've been cheated.

Maybe if it were just the grade we are talking about, I would not have cared one bit. I’ve grown matured enough to know that grade isn’t everything; that in fact, it doesn’t mean anything in most of our endeavors. But the issue isn’t just about grade. Neither is it about Pao. It’s about a teacher who thought she could subject her students to her whims and get away with it. It’s about favoritism and power play.

Oh! I may never be a genius like Pao. But dammit, I know bullshit when I see one.

Life is a performing art

An unseen hand turned an unusually bright spotlight upon a darkened stage. Out of nowhere, a figure stepped onto the platform, with no idea how he got there or where he came from. Neither did he know what to do. But in his mind, he seemed to be hearing a voice fainter than a whisper, giving him a vague instruction to act and to say something.

Half-bewildered, half-suspecting someone was pulling his leg, the figure looked to his left and right, and realized that he wasn’t alone; that he shared the stage with several other beings — puppets, marionettes, dolls, and stick figures — who, like him, had no idea why they were there.

It was as he turned to his right that the figure noticed something peculiar: the arena where he and the other beings were to perform had no seats for spectators.


AFTER HOURS OF walking to and fro the stage — many times crossing paths, a few times colliding, and sometimes walking alongside the others — the figure just knew, though he couldn’t explain how, that he was being called off the stage. So he delivered his last lines, bowed to the other beings, and started to make his exit. As he retreated to the backstage, he heard some kind of noise erupt. Whether it was a collective applause or booing, he wasn’t sure; he didn’t turn to see.

Reaching the backstage, the figure saw a silhouette making weird gestures as though he was conducting an orchestra. Thinking that the silhouette was another actor about to step onto the platform, he gave him a sympathetic look and exclaimed, “Whew! That was some kind of a play. A scriptless one! Would you believe that? And undirected, too. Weird, isn’t it?”

Receiving no response, the figure persisted, “By the way, are you an actor, too?”

The silhouette shook his head, not taking his gaze off the invisible orchestra. “No, I’m the director.”

Stunned, the figure exclaimed, “The director? You are the director? Why then aren’t you directing? I would have been spared of all those collisions. I would not have gotten lost. I would have been able to put in a better performance; I would not have a-fretted and a-strutted upon that weird platform like some kind of a drunk!”

The silhouette momentarily turned his attention to the figure. “I was. You just weren’t listening.” [seb/july2005]

Subic sunset

March 18, 2006

The Birthday Gift

My Dad's turning 55 today, March 20, 2006. So I'm posting this story as my way of paying tribute to the only man who could love me much more than I deserve...


I LOOKED UP FROM the manuscript I was reading to rest my eyes for a while. My gaze landed on the wall clock hanging beside the picture of myself, my daughter Yanni, and my husband Anthony. At other times my heart would have warmed at the sight of the family picture; I always thought we all looked cute in that one. But the time the clock displayed had already registered to my consciousness before the feeling of familial love was evoked in me.

5:30. Oh my God! Anthony would already be here in an hour or so and Yanni would awake soon; but still, I was stuck with the book I commissioned to edit. I should be preparing dinner by now! But before that, I should have already gone to the market. There was nothing in the refrigerator; that I was very sure of. Anthony cooked the last stock of food for dinner last night.

Abruptly, I stood and tried to reach for the paper clip lying beside the pen holder resting on one edge of the table, about to fall off, but nausea had me groping for support; I knocked the flower base sitting on the desk instead. I closed my eyes. I let the nausea subside before opening them, only to be greeted by the mess I made: a broken flower base and artificial flowers lay scattered on the floor. “Damn, just what you need when you’re in a hurry!” I swore to myself.

I hurriedly swept the mess then started for the grocery, making mental note of the things we’d run out of. By 6:30 I was already working busily in the kitchen, when I remembered Yanni. She was still asleep when I went to the grocery so I thought I’d go, do a quick purchase, and head back home before she wakes up. I wished Mrs. Castillo, our neighbor, were around. I could have asked her to listen for Yanni’s cries when she awoke. But Mrs. Castillo was away; I heard she went to Davao for a conference. Or maybe Cebu; I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have much time tracking the whereabouts of my neighbors.

Then a thought hit me. How could I have let my daughter sleep that late? She should have woken up by four o’clock. But to do that, she should have slept at about 2 o’clock. I played the events of the afternoon in my mind. I’d let Yanni play in the study room while I worked on the manuscript. The first time I looked up from the pile of paper in front of me to check on her, she was busy making believe she was Princess Sara, enacting a scene where Sara was bidding good-bye with her father. I went back to my reading. The next time I checked on her, she was already asleep on the sofa with her books and stuff toys lying next to her. I carried my daughter to her room. It was 4:15. Tsk.

I lowered the fire then dashed to Yanni’s room. I was expecting her to be asleep still; I didn’t hear her cry when I arrived. But my heartbeat doubled when I didn’t see her familiar figure on her bed or anywhere else in the room. Panic enveloped me. Where was she?

“Yanni!” I cried. No answer. My weariness increased. Where could my daughter be? Could she have woken while I was away, ran out of the house and… I didn’t like the path of my thought. “Yanni!” I cried louder. Still no answer. I dashed to the bathroom. She wasn’t there either.

Tears started to well up. Where was she? “Yanni!” I already sounded desperate. And afraid. What if somebody broke into the house while I was away? What if my daughter really went out of the house and met an accident? What if…. “Yanni! Where are you?”

I opened the door to the study room, my last hope of seeing my daughter in the house. And there she was, playing with my things.

Relief flooded me. I thanked God. I started to dash toward my daughter, meaning to hug her, but then I saw the manuscript I was working on which I didn’t bother to put away before leaving for the market, all scattered on the floor; some pages torn, others crumpled.

Then it hit me. My God, the manuscript! The manuscript I worked on for most of last night and the whole of today, scattered and torn! I walked toward my daughter, meaning to snatch from her the paper she was holding. But as I advanced toward her, she looked up; a tentative smile flashed across her face, but was instantly replaced by foreboding and … fear? Was it fear I saw on my daughter’s eyes?

I stopped dead halfway across the room, not able to take my eyes off my daughter’s face. I couldn’t help staring at her. I looked at her for so long that I started seeing myself in her face. I remembered that look; I’d seen one like that before. I shook my head to snap to my memory. Then I remembered. I didn’t really see that look on anyone; I actually had that look on my face, years ago. I was about two years older than my daughter was. No, make that four years. I was seven then, now I remembered.




IT WAS DAD'S 32nd birthday. It was his first birthday since Mom died. I had handed him a gift I personally bought from my savings. Looking back, I can still clearly see the parcel I handed him. It was wrapped with an ordinary red Christmas wrapper I kept from the gifts I received last December, a piece of tape sticking out. It was March and, of course, it wasn’t Christmas, but I didn’t have any money left to buy new wrapper. Luckily, I had several in my room. Mom thought me how to skillfully open gifts; never, or at least, minimally damaging the wrapper. I never threw the wrappers away; I loved the look of them—the patterns, the shapes, the colors and the spirit and emotion they collectively convey. The box wasn’t skillfully wrapped, but that was the best I could do. In fact, I remembered now with amusement, it took me a good thirty minutes to wrap that gift (Mom always wrapped my gifts when she was alive). Anyway, the parcel I handed Dad looked like a gift. To me, at least.

I thought Dad was mad at me. I thought he blamed me for Mom’s death. He was very sad. He hardly spoke to anyone. Since Mom’s burial, he never hugged me again. So I thought I’d buy him a gift. In a month’s time, he’d be 32. I started saving. I’d saved 50 cents a day from my allowance. But when I checked out the item I wanted to buy dad, I realized my savings weren’t enough; Dad didn’t give me much money for school. I went back home, headed straight to Dad's room, making sure Lolo wouldn’t see me; brought out the coin purse where Dad had saved his one-peso coins, took about 15 pieces, put the purse with the remaining coins back into the closet, then walked back to the market; the clinging of the coins in my pocket matching the sound of my cadence.

I waited patiently for dad to arrive from work on the eve of his birthday. I can still remember how tired he looked when he pushed open the door; his shirt dirty and crumpled, his hair dull and untidy.

He was surprised to see me on the sofa, still awake. I went looking for my father’s slippers; I used to put them on his feet when Mom was still alive. But after she died, Dad had started to come home late, and always, I was already asleep when he’d arrive. Except that night. I didn’t wait for him to ask me to do anything for him or why I was still awake. Without a word, I went looking for his slippers. When I came back to the sala, his eyes were closed, his head resting on the headrest. Still, I put his slippers on his feet.

Dad opened his eyes, the look on his face blank. Meekly I handed him the parcel which I kept hidden behind me with my left hand. I couldn’t quite describe the look on his face when he saw it. He eyed it much too long before finally, slowly, almost reluctantly, he reached out his hand to get it.

I had thought Dad would be very happy. I had thought he would laugh a heartfelt laugh—the kind that I hadn’t seen him laugh in a thousand years. I had thought he would dance with joy and carry me, and proclaim me his precious princess.

But at the back of my mind, I was also afraid he’d be very mad at me. Maybe he would whip me to death. Maybe he had already discovered the other night that several pieces of his one-peso savings were gone.

But he neither hugged nor whipped me. He took time in opening the parcel I handed him, the look on his face unfathomable. I stood by in anticipation. Time was suspended. I almost forgot to breathe. My hands were clammy, and my knees trembled a little. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I needed to know how he’d react.

Then the cover came off, revealing a pair of bright orange short pants. Thinking about it now, I thought I should have chosen a darker color—black, brown, or navy blue. Those were the colors favored by older people, but of course I didn’t know that when I was that age. Anyway, I’d given him bright orange short pants. I knew Dad needed more of that. His short pants were all torn and very old. I thought he would look better in it; maybe he’d even find a new mom for me. I’d always yearned for a mother. Like Thea, my classmate. She always went to school wearing nice clothes, and her hair was always neatly combed, her ribbon the color of her dress. Mom used to dress me like that when she was alive. But of course I never said that to Dad; he might be cross with me.

Seeing what was inside the box, my father’s hands stopped moving, as though they were suspended in air. He hadn’t proceeded to take the cloth out of the box. He just held it as though he didn’t know what to do with it.

I stared at the box. Then I knew something was wrong. Dad’s hands visibly trembled. And when I returned my gaze to his face, I noticed he was looking at the gift unseeingly. Then I noticed something roll down his cheeks. I felt my eyes widen. Dad was crying! My tall, strong father was crying! I thought big guys didn’t cry?

My heart started to beat erratically. Had he discovered half of his one-peso savings gone? Had he known I took them to buy him his gift?

Then I felt tears fall down my cheeks. I had displeased Dad. I knew it. I knew Dad was angry with me. He had to be. Why was he crying? Why hadn’t he thanked me?

I agonizingly watched my father cry, wishing I had not done it. I wished I had not taken those one-peso coins. I wished I had not given him a gift. Dad was angry at my gift. He didn’t like it.

I hate you, Daddy!

I wanted to run to Lolo, tell him Dad was angry with me. Tell him Dad didn’t like my gift. Tell him…

“Jhing…”

I heard Dad say my name. I looked up. My father met my gaze. Now I can see Dad’s deepest emotions welling up his heart, flowing freely through his eyes. I saw anguish in my father’s soul, a wide void in his being.

I kept staring at Dad, though I knew I’d had more than I could take.

I heard a sound—that of a board falling on the floor. Then I realized it was the box Dad was holding, my gift still inside it. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I won’t do it again. I won’t take any of your coins again.” I said, seeing how sad my father was. I knew it was because of me. Because I was a bad girl. So I kept talking, confessing my sin.

Then I lowered my eyes. I could no longer look directly at Dad. I kept crying.

“Jhing,” I heard him call my name again. “Come here, anak..”

“Anak,” the endearment Dad and Mom used to call me when they wanted to hug me. Anak. It would have been enough to have me running into Dad’s arms. But not that time. I knew what I did was bad. I knew I displeased him. I was sure he would no longer want me. So I did not run to him. But I made a tentative step forward, still not meeting his gaze.

Seconds ticked by. Why was the time so slow? Why does time have a habit of slowing down when you need it to run fast?

I put my hand over my mouth; I always did that when I was afraid of something. I made another step. I noticed that my thin legs were trembling harder now. I was still not meeting Dad’s eyes, but in the periphery of my vision, I thought I saw him spread his arms. But still, I didn’t dare look up. I closed my eyes as a new feeling of dread swamped over me. Then I felt strong arms enveloping me. I knew then that I was in my father’s arms. I felt him carry me, holding me tightly.

“I’m sorry, Anak.” I heard him say. “I’m so sorry…”

The sound of my father’s cries stabbed me in the chest. I didn’t know what to say, so I just let my father unleash his long pent-up emotions. “I’m so sorry, Anak. Please let me make up.”

I didn’t know then what he was sorry for.





I FELT MY EYES warm, snapping me back from my reverie to where I was standing, halfway across the room, a good two meters away from my daughter who was looking right up to me with dread in her eyes. I felt a cold wind chill me. God, how terribly afraid my daughter must be feeling! I calmed myself down. Then I smiled at her.

“Come to Mommy, Sweetheart.”

My daughter’s face instantly brightened up, so bright that it lighted up the whole room. Her smile was so big it sent a glow to my heart.

I closed my eyes as I hugged my daughter tightly. God! How could I have let this happen? How could I have neglected my husband and my daughter for work? How could I have forgotten how it felt to be alone and neglected, like I felt when Mother died? How could I have let my daughter get a taste of it?

I opened my eyes. My gaze landed on the picture of Dad hanging beside the wall clock, opposite our family portrait. He was smiling warmly and his eyes seemed to have winked at me. I knew it was foolish, but I smiled back at my father’s picture, making a mental note to myself to pay him a visit soon.

I examined the manuscripts. I decided they could still be repaired. I asked Yanni to help me pick up the pieces of torn paper. Then companionably, we walked down to the kitchen where the aroma of nicely cooking stew filled the air. [seb/2003]


Copyright 2005 Sherma Espino Benosa
Philippine Graphic/October 25, 2004

Voice from within

Part I: The Summon

A voice I thought I’d never again hear
starts nagging at me again
in a voice much too loud to be comfortable;
telling me the things I swear I’d known before
whose meanings many times I chose to ignore.

If I still had the excuse of youth
and all the shortcomings that go with it;
If I still had the time which now has become a luxury;
If I still had the future that had looked so bright,
promising me the moon and the stars,
which has quickly become the present
that has mockingly shown me
that “the sunbeam” was just a reflection
of the glittering image of the hope from within;
If only the world were still within my grasp;
I would again choose to ignore it
like I did many times before…

But time has shown me lessons
I will never afford to forget—
Lessons for which I lost my youth
and all the things that I had valued
before this metamorphosis.

And so this time I have no choice
But listen attentively to that voice
that is now becoming louder,
thundering and echoing shouts resounding
in the deepest recesses of my being.

Yes, I know this time I have to listen
to the voice from within
and find out what it’s got to say.
For or in spite of the things I’ve lost
and of the person I’ve become,
this time I will have to heed.


Part II: The Conversation

The Voice talked to me in a voice
that resembled that of an engine running out of fuel—
harsh words coming from her, penetrating my being;
telling me the things I wouldn’t want to hear.

I advanced to shut her up
but the closer I got to her,
my will became the weaker
and the more the Voice’s sound became louder
now closely resembling that of warring soldier’s guns and bombs.

And her words… her words I couldn’t take.
I knew I had to shut her up,
strangle her to death if I had to,
but as I advanced again toward her, she laughed—
mocking me, daring me, killing me
like she has killed me many times before.

And again, I died but not truly died,
but much worse.


Part III: The Unloading

And I cried as a stab of pain penetrated my being.
Engulfed in darkness, I had no idea where I was,
yet memories of seeing Death kept flagging me
and the Voice’s voice kept following me, still.

And I wept.
I wept for everything I’ve lost,
for the opportunities I’ve let pass,
for the chances I’ve missed,
for the love I couldn’t have,
and for everything given me which I didn’t take.

I kept weeping.
I wept as I watched everything seep through me.
I wept until my tears turned into blood.
I wept until there was no blood left in my anemic veins.
I wept until I could weep no more.

Then I smiled
as I sagged down to die yet another Death.


Part IV: The Rebirth

I succumbed, and death it came.
Uplifting it was, but not painless
And, though most unworthy,
I was cleansed of the filth.
What a beautiful release!

Then I heard the Voice whispering,
beckoning me to look up.
I did, who was I not to oblige?
And there she was, looking like me
but was not really me,
smiling, mouthing comforting words.
I thought I smiled back faintly,
but I may not have; am not sure
for liquid crystals started rolling down my cheeks.

Again I wept
not comprehending what this all meant
but somehow, I was changed.

[seb/2004]

Underneath the Sheaths

I didn’t see him enter the room, didn’t even hear his footsteps as he crossed the short distance from the door to my bed where I was lying, trying to get a much needed sleep. My eyes were shut, but somehow I felt that someone was staring at me. I opened my eyes, and there he was, standing right beside me, his gaze intent upon my face.

I was shocked. I knew he’d be here. But still, his presence surprised me. I didn’t know how to react. And I couldn’t; I was already imprisoned in his gaze. Our eyes locked. He didn’t say anything. He simply stared at me, his gaze penetrating my being. I felt as though he was trying to read through me; to dive into the pool of secrets I kept inside. He held my gaze, willing me to obey his unspoken command. His eyes so powerful, I lost the will to look away.

Then he moved his gaze to gently touch my cheeks, lingering there for a while, then moved down to caress my body, sending tremors to every nerve fiber of my being. I watched him undress me with his eyes. I saw him clear up the protective layers I had carefully, meticulously wrapped around myself. One by one, he yanked the sheaths, examining them carefully, searching for whatever it was he needed to see. I saw layers upon layers of sheaths pile up before me. First went the bedcover of anguish and sorrow. Next came my nightdress of hatred and bitterness followed by my underwear of loneliness and pain. One by one, he tore them into pieces, making sure there was nothing left for me to put around myself after he had finished. He didn’t stop until everything was gone, until I was lying there, unclothed, exposed to his penetrating gaze. I was worse than a slut stripped off her dress; I was a soul devoid of everything. Bared. Naked. Defenseless.

He knelt down to examine me further. His gaze transcended the thin layer of skin that was my last protective covering. His eyes followed the direction of the blood pulsing through my veins and saw my determination and guts—the only outstanding traits I have left — blinking like neon lights against the darkness of the night; like ants walking in file, each carrying life support system for my whole being.

He kept searching until, at last, he found my shattered heart, beating rather erratically under his intense stare. I saw his brows furrow upon seeing the scars covering it, the stains marking every drop of blood that oozed out of it, and the wounds that were barely healing.

His face darkened. I moved closer to him so I could fathom his emotion. I saw glittering crystals forming in his eyes. I momentarily stopped breathing, confused. Tears! But…were they for me?

I followed the direction of his gaze. Then my heart seemed to have missed a thousand beats. There, etched in furious red at the very core of my battered heart was his name. Flashing. Dancing.

Quickly I returned my gaze back to his face just in time to see a smile flicker across his countenance. How beautiful his smile was! But it lingered only for a fleeting moment. Because just when he was about to succumb to the compelling force that suddenly overwhelmed him, just before he could acknowledge the heart-warming feeling that lifted his spirit, just as he had realized how much it meant to him to see his name where he wished it would be, a thought suddenly snapped him back to reality.

Wrong.

He smartened up. I saw him lift his hand to caress the newly opened wound where before his name flashed brightly; his fingers trembling. I felt his hand touch my heart softly as if to heal it magically.

Then I saw tears roll down his cheeks, down to his hand, through the gaps between his fingers, then down to my exposed heart, soothing it. Reluctantly, I dragged my gaze from his hand around my heart back to his face.

I saw his eyes deaden. I noticed his muscles twitch. I saw him fight himself. I watched him struggle against whatever outside force was shackling him. He almost won. Just almost. Eventually, his struggle faltered, until he was consumed.

Never had I seen him sadder before. His eyes searched mine. Again, our gazes met. I didn’t see him open his mouth, maybe it was his eyes talking to me, but I heard him whisper: Ann, let go.

I closed my eyes, not minding the tears that started to roll down my cheeks. He cupped my face with both his hands, his thumbs drying up my tears. He willed me to open my eyes. I did, how could I not follow his bid?

I looked up directly into his now hurt-filled eyes talking to me softly, begging me to understand.

"I can’t," my heart protested but I ignored it. I nodded, imitating a smile but managed to produce only a caricature version of it.

He smiled his gratitude.

Then, from his insides, he produced a thin, crystal-like, satin-soft sheath of love with which to cover me, replacing all the negative layers that had, for sometime, enveloped me. His gazed still fixed upon me, he gently wrapped the sheath all over my naked body.

Then he started to leave without turning his back on me. His feet moved backward; slowly, reluctantly, his eyes never leaving mine.

I started to panic, but I knew there was nothing I could do. I thought I saw him smile just before he completely faded. I grasped the sheath now securely covering me and clutched it closer to my body.

He was gone.

And I woke up. Then I started to cry, because now I know he knew that which I never told him. I loved him. Deeply.

I reached for his framed picture lying on top of the bedside table. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared at his smiling face. I ran my trembling fingers across his cheeks. His brows. His eyes. His nose. His lips. Then I whispered: "Rest in peace, Eric."


[seb/29Apr2004]

Ogie’s theory of creation

Firstborns can never be perfect, for they are merely products of their parents’ initial attempts (practice) at lovemaking. (I know he’s trying to say something here. Hmmm… maybe that I am an exemption? Hehe)

“Secondborns” are definitely better than firstborns, for the parents have learned a lot of lovemaking skills at the time they were being created. However, they are still far from being perfect.

“Thirdborns” are the parents’ masterpieces; for, at the time they were being created, the parents have already mastered everything there is to learn about lovemaking.

“Fourthborns” are the parents’ masterpieces-that-never-will-be. This is because while the environment in which they were created were perfect (the parents having mastered all the tricks of lovemaking at third birth), the parents tend to be complacent in taking care of them, thinking that they would turn out as perfect as the “thirdborns” just the same.


Oh! If you think this entry is crap, don’t shoot me. Everything is Ogie’s idea, not mine. And if it would be any consolation, Mans and I walked out on him — in jest, of course — when he blurted out this theory of his. You see, Mans is the “secondborn”; Ogie is the third. That explains everything.

Four siblings on taking risks

My brothers and I are risk takers, there’s no doubt about that. But just how much risk we are willing to take and the manner we take them differ greatly.

In any endeavor:

I always calculate the benefits against the risks. Only when I see that the chances of success is greater than that of failure, and that I can afford the loss I’d incur should I fail, do I take a leap.

Mans always calculates the benefits against the risks and makes sure he wouldn’t lose anything (at least break even) before he takes a leap.

Ogie always employs Mans and I to calculate the benefits against the risks and waits for our recommendations before he takes a leap.

Ryan takes a leap first. Only when he had landed roughly does he realize that there had been risk. Ouch!

Wedding bells in the family

Finally, Dad is about to experience two of the things he envied four of his brothers for — marching an offspring to the altar and welcoming a grandchild.

Oh please! Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the only child he has… Look at my tummy. It’s flat!

Sure, I’m the eldest child, but it’s not always the case that the eldest gets to settle down first, is it? In our family, it would have to be the youngest.

Now, I think I’m gonna cry.

Only 22, just graduated in October last year and got his first job in February, my brother Lucky Ryan is getting married in April, and will have his first child in May.

Oh God. What did he think marriage was? What will he do if… How is he going to… What happens if… Will the baby be…

Tsk… tsk… I’m so sad that he has to face such a huge responsibility this early. But he brought this upon himself; he should be able to stand on his own. He needs to. He owes that to Kate and to the baby.

I love my brother so much I'd move mountains for him. But I guess it's time we stand back. As Mans keeps saying, Ryan needs to learn to clean up his own mess. We shouldn’t always be there doing the cleaning up for him. Otherwise, he’ll never learn. I think so, too.

But like before, should he need us, he knows where to find us. He knows we would never be able to turn our back on him. No matter that he broke our hearts one too many a time. All he needs to do is knock…

And he better be sensible enough NOT to ask me to be Kate’s bridesmaid. Not only will I kick him real hard in the butt; but also refuse to speak with him indefinitely and not help in the wedding preparations!

Cebu trip: A reckoning

GlaxoSmithKline (GSK), through BSMG Worldwide, invited Chie and me to the Asia Pacific Launching of their anti-rotavirus vaccine. The launch coincided with the 3rd Asia Pacific Convention on Infectious Diseases (March 7-9) at the Waterfront Hotel in Cebu. The GSK vaccine is the first anti-rotavirus vaccine made available in the Philippines, although several other vaccines had been launched in other countries late last year. The actual launch lasted only for two hours, but we stayed in Cebu for three days to see much of the place.

5 things I loved about the Cebu trip

1. I experienced three firsts in this trip: first time to fly; first time to set foot in Cebu; and first time to attend a press briefing with international as well as local (Visayan) press
2. Good accommodation (courtesy of Hilton Hotel) and superb pampering (courtesy of GSK’s PR agency, BSMG Worldwide through Ces, Edcel and Jay). These guys (BSMG group) were not only very efficient, they were likewise very friendly and down-to-earth. Everyone was happy with the way they organized our travel. Kudos to them.
3. Sumptuous food
   Whew! BSMG and GSK spared no expense, especially with our food. We got to taste the best that Cebu has to offer.
4. New friends
5. Spectacular view and historical places
   Mactan, Magellan’s cross, beach, Fernan Marcelo Bridge, and a lot more
   

5 Things I hated about the trip

1. I had to share a room (and the matrimonial bed in it) with Chie. I would not have minded it at all had we not been given a two-bedroom suite. I would have enjoyed my own room if only Chie wasn’t so pathetic she wouldn’t let me get out of her sight because she was afraid of ghosts.
2. I had to wait until Chie was done with the bathroom before I could use it. Again, I could have used the one in the other room but she wouldn’t let me. It would have been all right had she been sensitive enough to move fast because someone was waiting for her to finish up. But she wasn’t, I always had to order her out of the bathroom. Hah!
3. I had to play Chie’s timekeeper all the time because she apparently never heard of the phrase, “time management.” Take for example what happened on our second day. We got out of bed at the same time. Because I wanted to play nice, I let her use the bathroom first, but instead of going there straight, she decided to watch TV first, ignoring me when I told her that she should start moving because we had to get down in a little more than an hour to meet the rest of the group. Only when I switched off the TV did she start to move (I had to do it, sorry!). While she was having shower, I made up OUR bed (oh, that sounds so off!) and prepared everything we needed for the coverage. Only when she was done did I get to use the shower. And yet, ten minutes before we had to get down, she still wasn't ready, while I was already fully dressed. Kakainis!
4. I never got a glimpse of Cebu’s sunset and sunrise. Three days and two nights in Cebu but I didn’t get to see sunrise and sunset. Waaahhhh! I woke up early on our third day just to get a glimpse of sunrise, but as fate would have it, it rained. Oh, how depressed I was. I love watching sunrise and sunset very much!
5. I didn’t get to buy necklaces/earrings and other “anik-anik” as pasalubong for my EXTREMELY DEMANDING friends. On our last day (our schedule to buy souvenirs and see more of the place), we decided to delay going out (upon my suggestion) because it was raining, not knowing that where we were going was very far from the hotel. Our travel consumed our time for shopping that the BSMG group decided we had to do our shopping near where we were having lunch instead (while they order and wait for our food), otherwise we wouldn’t be able to catch our flight back to Manila. Problem was, in the mall we went to, there wasn’t anything that was distinctly Cebu-made. All the things I saw, I could buy in Manila. Twenty minutes at the mall and I still hadn’t seen anything worthy to give my friends, I started to get so annoyed with myself and at everything, I was frowning and very quiet, that Chie, who was talking to Ces endlessly, fell silent too. So did Ces. (Good thing Chie knows how to deal with my moods. She must have advised Ces to ignore me while I was having a fit.) Ten minutes past, and I was ok; I started talking again. Chie and Ces must have felt relieved. (Now you know danger looms when I’m quiet. Hehe!)

Disclaimer
Items 1 to 3 in my “hate” list might have made you think I had a really bad time with Chie. Of course, not. I just had to write something to complete my list. Since there’s nothing really bad that went on during our trip besides items 4 and 5, I had to exaggerate my “annoyance” with Chie, and bully her here. Hehehe! But hear this too: I would not have enjoyed my stay there had it not been for her.

I’m guessing too, that if Chie had a blog and she were to write five things she hated about the trip, I would have figured in her list as well. Chances are, she would be writing about how she had to keep my tickets and my hotel keys for me because she was sure I’d lose them; how she had to carry my things (wallet and some documents) because I was willing to carry only my cellphone and digi-cam; and how she had to stay late at night because I felt I had to work even while we were suppose to be on vacation (What can I do? I'm a type A person!).

But then, she doesn’t have a blog and she doesn’t write, so I’m safe. Or am I?

Yummy(not!) ice cream

Me (center) and the rest of the gang... eating Elaine's weird-tasting ice cream (choco crumble? Ewww!) on Elaine's last day in the office as fulltime employee.

Patsy, Gary, Elaine, Jing, me (siempre), Jhen, Lorien, Chie and Ryan. Manong Ricco took the photo...

Reversible Suicide

“Rolling stone” is what my father calls me. Since I graduated from the university six [okay, seven!] years ago, I’ve changed employment several times that he had to keep reminding me: “rolling stones catch no moss” to which I always answered: “at least they have greater chances of landing exactly where they want to be.”

With that reasoning in mind, coupled with determination and a clear sense of where I wanted to go, I walked toward the edge of the cliff that was my secure but boring job, not daring to look below (lest I’d lose the courage to jump), and leaped, hoping that there’s an invisible net to catch me, or that the ground wouldn’t be too hard.

There was no net, I soon found out; and I hit the ground with a loud thud. But quickly I stood up and, walking limply, made my way up to the other cliff; with the mind to climb it.

Only to jump off a second time. And a third. And a fourth. And… who knows?


THE URGE TO JUMP started out as a seemingly innocent question — “Where would I be had I done differently?” — that slowly grew into a nagging voice until it became too loud for me to simply ignore. Then I started asking more and more pressing questions: Should I move forward or should I make a turnaround? Should I cling to the safety of my present job or should I leap on to the next?

Shifting careers is not an easy decision to make because it often means going back to square one and giving up the perks one already enjoys. It is also beset with many “what-ifs.” In fact, a lot of people regard it as a “suicide attempt.”

Knowing that, I still couldn’t let myself be stuck in a situation I couldn't live with. I didn’t think I could ever forgive myself if in the future I’d realize I could have made a difference, but didn’t; because I let my demons scare me off.

So I did some serious thinking, carefully evaluating my prospects and making sure I wouldn’t be affecting too many people in case I’d fail. I planned ahead and saved up; and made sure I’d have a fallback, just in case.

And then I jumped.

The first time I did it, I wasn’t too successful. But neither was my attempt a complete failure. Because I learned from the experience. It sure hurt me, but it hadn’t destroyed my spirit.

And the jump… the jump was, in itself, great. The adrenaline rush. The thrill. The knowledge that I was defying the odds and that I was doing something less courageous people would never dream of doing. Everything was just great.


AM I THERE yet? Heck, I don’t know. I’ve already jumped several times. Each experience was different from the previous. And success rate varied. But I keep learning; I’m becoming better and better.

And yes, changing careers does not assure of dreams fulfilled; that much is true. But it settles the many what-ifs in life. And no, hopping from one job to another is not at all being like a rolling stone. Rolling stones move not because they want to, but because of a stronger external force. They don’t have control of where they are going. We do. We choose how we move or whether we move at all. We decide when. If rolling stones have good chances of getting to where they want to be, how much more chances do we, humans, have?

And if, indeed, steering one’s career to a different direction is like committing suicide, then it is the kind of suicide where one can always turn back and undo everything. It is the kind of suicide I’d be willing to commit again and again, if only to get to a loftier plane.

[seb/april2005]



Postscript
Diary entry, February 2006

Here I am again, trying to decide what to do with my life. I had thought that when I’m already in the “right job,” I’d be very happy and would not want to jump again. I have to say I'm happy with the way things turned out. But what I didn’t count on was that, once you’ve achieved what you’ve set out to achieve, you’d want something else. And in wanting something else, you’d be faced with another dilemma: Would you leave what you’ve worked hard for to try another thing?

But then, maybe this time, there’s no longer any need for me to jump. After all, jumping isn’t the only course I can take. In fact, there are times that it doesn’t make any sense to jump. I mean, why would I jump when I can glide smoothly? Why should I take a plunge when I can dip one foot at a time? Test the waters is what they call it. That sounds like a good advice to me.

Empathizing with the pupils’ plight

A reflection on the in-service training my classmates and I conducted in a public school in Quezon City, in fulfillment of one of the requirements of our EDL 261 class. The training is a two-fold process: needs analysis (based on the outcomes of our class observations and survey and interview among several teachers and pupils) and seminar-workshop (based on the results of the needs analysis).


The in-service training our group conducted was both an eye-opening experience for us to the actual plight of our public schools and an affirmation of what we’ve known all along: that our public educational system is in dire need of overhaul.

During the course of our interview (I was the leader of the interview group) with several pupils and language teachers, I realized that while it was apparent that the level of competency among the teachers is low and that of learning among students is compromised; there is a desire, albeit of varying degrees, among members of both groups (at least, the ones we interviewed) to better themselves. Perfectly aware of their limitations, they are willing to join activities that promise learning enhancement.

But, as pointed out by one of the teachers, they can only do so much. They can give it all their best, and it still won’t be enough. For what is a teacher to do when the pupils couldn’t come to school because they are needed at home, either to do some household chores or to make a living?

Nothing, for the teachers’ economic status is, in most cases, only slightly better than that of their pupils. All they could do is hope that the absentee pupils would soon surface — bathed, fully clothed and with full stomach — so that they could provide them the kind of education they deserve. But even these two scenarios — the pupils’ showing up in what I’d call “optimally teachable” condition and the teachers’ giving them good education — are wishful thinking. For, with due respect to the teachers, they themselves need to do a lot of learning; not only in areas of teaching strategies, but, more important, in what they teach (content) the pupils. [During the observation phase of our in-service training, our observation group noted some factual errors made by the teachers, e.g., “what is the third person of him?” (The pronoun him is in the third person point of view; hence, it cannot possibly have a “third person.” But, being in the objective case, it does have a nominative case, which is he. The question should have been: "What is the nominative case of him?")]

Being a product of public schools myself, I was only slightly shocked (at least, not as shocked as my classmates were) at what I heard and saw in the school. But more than that, I can easily relate to the plight of the pupils. Looking at them as we were conducting our in-service training, I couldn’t help but imagine how I looked like when I was an elementary pupil myself, and be saddened that what was true during my time is still true up to this day: our quality of education is embarrassingly dismal. But while our situation then was bad, compared to that of the pupils in good schools in Metro Manila, the situation now is at its most alarming state — a hundred times worse than before.

Thinking what would become of the pupils when they grow up, given the kind of education they are getting, a thought hit me: the pupils who would be lucky enough to get into good schools for their tertiary education (or even simply attend tertiary education in whatever school, for that matter), would have a lot of catching up (of the right learning) and unlearning (of the wrongful teachings) to do in order to survive; that is, if they’d even realize that they had been taught wrong. Having gone through both processes of learning and unlearning myself (hence, I know how difficult it could be), I deeply empathize with them.

But more than everything else, the whole experience awakened in me passion for teaching. Being a non-teacher, I had always questioned my decision to take up MA in Language Education, especially when difficult tasks are being required of us, and more so whenever my schedule would be so hectic that I had to choose between attending my classes and staying late in the office to beat our deadline. (I had always chosen the latter, that I almost got dropped out from my classes last semester). During those times, I was always reduced to contemplating quitting from the program, reasoning to myself that an MA degree would not have any use to me, anyway.

But something always kept me from ditching my studies. At the back of my mind, I was (and still am) hopeful that someday, there would be a venue for me to share all the things I’m learning from all these studying that I do.

So, I guess the whole exercise was not for naught. After all, it allowed our group to cultivate deep friendship among ourselves, and gave us the good feeling that we were able to share knowledge and gain valuable lessons from it. If these don’t make for good reasons for the activity to be deemed worthwhile, then I don’t know what would. [seb/22feb2006]



[P.S. I love graduate school (GS). For some reason, I find GS easier than tertiary education. GS teachers likewise tend to give you the grades you deserve. There are teachers in tertiary education who give ridiculous grades. (I remember a particularly arrogant one who, upon learning that our class was big (40 students) during the first day of class, announced: “Half of you will fail.” And she did fail a lot of my classmates. She gave me a grade of 3. The reason? I argued with her about her (and her department’s) penchant for coining words to explain Philippine history and expecting everyone to know of these terms, hence, refusing to explain them. When she learned that I was a linguistics student, she made provocative statements about my department’s penchant for re-spelling English words into Filipino (e.g., association into asosyeysyon; subject into sabjek, and so on). Though I personally wasn’t very much into re-spelling English words into Filipino, I used a lot of re-spelled words in the written requirements I submitted in her class, just to annoy her. (Hey, what did you expect? Bully eh! Hehehehe.) I guess the only thing that stopped her from failing me was that I got high marks in her exams; and maybe (just maybe) my oral as well as written reports were good, albeit the re-spelled words.

Anyway, I haven’t seen that sort of thing happen in GS. (Although I heard that our GS teachers are also “terrors” in their tertiary classes.)

But what I like most about GS is the near absence of competition in class. The students help each other out. They give pieces of advice when you ask them to. They cheer you up when you think you did poorly in class; and pat you in the back when you turned in an exemplary performance. And above all, they urge you to keep going when you think you are ready to quit.]

Some friends

Got a call from Celestine tonight. And Salve has been sending me "unimportant" text messages lately. Since I was busy with work and school requirements, I didn't pay attention to Salve's "irregular" activities. Only to find out from Celestine na may niluluto silang kontra sa akin! Wanna know what it is? Let me rip from Celestine's blog her entry which she ripped off from this blog... Ang gulo! Basta, ganun yon! Yung orange na comments, kanya.

Ripped from http://celestine_tines.blogs.friendster.com/celestines_weblog/

TO SHERMA: ADDITIONAL BOOKS FOR YOUR LIST
I have taken the liberty of posting Sherma's blog entry regarding her so called "Challenge." In it she dared herself to read less than 20 books in a year. Since I am not so impressed with the number as well as her list; I believe as her friend it is my sworn duty to add a couple more. And Sherma in case you get all worked-up please include Salve to your ire 'coz I have sought her opinion on this as well... and she wholeheartedly agreed with me.
Now, where am I? Ah yes the blog entry... I ripped off her blog and added a few of my well-founded and heartfelt comments.
________________________
SOURCE: http://dwickedangel.blogspot.com/
Wednesday, February 08, 2006

The Challenge
I’ve always labeled classic literature as boring. (this statement only reinforces your conclusion about your illiteracy! hehehe...) Somehow, works in this genre fail to make me want to read on until the last page. I’m not sure if it’s the language used or the milieu in which these works were written, but it’s a real effort for me keep going.But even with this difficulty, I believe I ought to read the classics, if I want to be truly “literate.” Salve and Celestine, who were extremely surprised when they learned I got through high school without reading a single novel by William Shakespeare, Nathaniel Thorton, and the like, think so, too. They’ve been encouraging me to read the works for as long as I can remember, giving me pointers on how to get through, if not enjoy, them. And when I survey Salve’s collection of the “oldies,” somehow I feel compelled to read each one of them.

I did attempt to, several times. But each time, I always ended up dropping whatever classic work I was trying to drum into myself, before I even get to Chapter 3.

So I devised a way for me to coerce myself into reading these “unreadables” — by employing the punishment-and-reward strategy. (You dare label the classics as, ugh I can't even write it let alone think of it... You philistine!)

Here’s how it goes:

Challenge: By the end of 2006, I should have read all the books listed below (classics and non-classics alike). You call this a challenge??? It does not even exceed 20... Nah!! Definitely NOT! Let's include a couple more.

Rationale: The challenge would give me the chance to finally get acquainted with the characters that graced the pages of classic English literature. Toward the end of the year, I'd likewise be able to find out how disciplined I am: If I pass this challenge, then I'd know I have enough discipline to see me through greater endeavors; However, if I fail this one, then I'd know I lack self-discipline. I would then be able to design measures to discipline myself. (You don't need this challege to find out if you're disciplined or not. You already are. Take my word for it - disciplined bully that is!)

Classics
To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
Mythology (Edith Hamilton)
Emma (Jane Austen)
The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Thorthone)
Adventures of Tom Sawyer (Mark Twain)
Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained (Milton)
Adventures of Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens)
The Prince and the Pauper (Mark Twain)

Non-classics
The Partner (John Grisham)
The King of Torts (John Grisham)
Obstruction of Justice (Perri O’Shaughnessy)
The Last Promise (Richard Paul Evans)
Lean Against the Wind (James McKarns)
Eleven Minutes (Paulo Coelho)
Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
The Prince of Tides (Pat Conroy)
The Chamber (John Grisham)
Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)

(hmmm... this is not a challenge girl. Some of the titles you have listed can be read in one seating. NOPE! DEFINITELY NOT)

Reward: Buy myself the white gold necklace I really want without feeling guilty.

Punishment: Treat Elaine, Chie, Jing, Salve and Celestine to lunch or dinner - you call this punishment this is a reward for you! You should be so lucky! (Am still thinking whether I should include Lorien or not). And more important: refrain from bullying these five (or six, I haven’t decided yet) imps for a whole month. (Now this is punishment. You, stop bullying for a month? haha! It's like you trying not to breathe! To quote Hermione Granger "it's in your blood!")

Rationale: These girls definitely won’t let me off the hook if I fail the challenge. Hence, they’d be keeping an eye on me. Knowing that, I’d of course persevere. Likewise, for an innate bully like me, having to go against my nature, even just for a month, would kill me. I'm sure I won't last a month without doing some bullying spree.So there’s the challenge. We’ll see how I’d fare. (Looking forward to the promised free food! I can already taste our victory!)

_________________________

ADDITIONAL READINGS:
Twelfth Night (William Shakespeare)
Shogun (James Clavell)
Things Fall Apart (Chinua Achebe)
100 Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia-Marquez)
The Color Purple (Alice Walker)
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (Maya Angelou)
Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austen)
Nicholas Nickleby (Charles Dickens)
Womenagerie (Jessica Zafra)
Coming Home (Cristina Pantoja-Hidalgo)
Canterbury Tales (Geoffrey Chaucer)
Jonathan Livingston Seagull (Richard Bach)
Tale of Genji (Murasaki Shikibu)
The Last of the Mohicans (James Fenimore Cooper)

So Sherma, take heed and READ the books. I promise you won't regret it. Maybe by then, Salve and I will deign to acknowledge that you have become slightly literate. Hahaha! I feel so wicked and I absolutely love it! >:-) And in case you're wondering if we really do love you, the answer is unequivocal YES. We're doing this for your own development. Salve and I look at it as social work for the less fortunate such as yourself.;-)


[Hey guys! I need to have a say on this!!!! 'Kala ko ba a "couple" lang? Bakit ang dami naman! Harap-harapang dayaan 'to! Please remember that before this clallenge, I have read but five classic books in all of my 27 years on earth — Jose Rizal's Noli Mi Tangere and Mi Ultimo Adios, Edgar Allan Poe's The Cask of Amontillado (A short story), Ernest Hemingway's (can't remember the title...) and something else I can't recall now. And now I'm gonna read 10 in just a year! And you still think it's no challenge at all?! Sige na mga friends, baka naman pwede nating pag-usapan 'to?

TEKA NGA PALA! How dare you bully me? I'm the bully here. Since when pa binu-bully ang isang bully? Hehehehehehe —Sherma]

Of friendships and goodbyes

Yesterday, Jing asked me a question I would rather not answer if I had my way: “Are you and Elaine leaving?”

Had Jing been anything less than a friend, it would have been easy to dodge her question. It fact, doing so would have been the safer route, given her position in the office — the little president, as we would often tease her. But as fate would have it, she is a good friend, too. Considering our relationship with her, I thought opting to be mum on the subject when she had asked me about it directly would have been an insult to our friendship.

So I gave her the answer she deserved — a direct yes.

I didn’t expect saying the words out loud would hurt so much. I only had to think of the friendship we (Elaine, Chie, Patsy, Manong Ricco, Ryan, Jing, and sige na nga, Lorien) had, and the happy moments we shared, and already I’m being persuaded to hang on, still. I only need to think of the improvements we could still contribute to the magazine, and already I’m thinking of giving things another go. But we had been doing both in the past four months, hoping that things would change for the better. But we had hoped in vain.

So maybe it’s time to leave. On my part, I can already see my performance slowly deteriorating. I no longer have the zeal to make miracles. I already find it hard to wake up in the morning to get to work. The signs are all there, staring everyone in the face; only a blind person would fail to notice them.

So yes, words of goodbye, amidst hopes of a better environment somewhere in the wilderness, are soon to echo in the four corners of the office. Elaine may do the honors of being the first in the group to utter them. I may still have to stay around a while longer to set our commitments in order. In fact, I may still be celebrating my birthday here next month. Just whether it would be a happy or a sad celebration, I don’t know. At the moment, I don’t even think I care.

(Not so) pathetic valentine

I don’t know if the gods devised it to doom me, or to save me from the humiliation of not having a date today, but the article I’ve been writing since yesterday afternoon (Feb 13) got screwed up not just once, but twice, so that I ended up re-writing the whole thing three times.

I was halfway through the article yesterday afternoon, when we decided to go home. I saved the article in a diskette, so I could continue writing at home. But as the file was being saved, something happened and the PC shut down. In short, walang na-save sa diskette. I found out after restarting the PC that neither is there a file in the hard disk. Tsk. Tsk.

That isn’t all. When I got home, I started reconstructing everything. I was almost done when I stopped, shortly after midnight. I saved the file in my PC as well as in a diskette. But when I got to the office this morning (Feb 14), the file couldn't be retrieved. Kakaloka...

So I had to re-write the whole thing for the third time. It took me so much time to (re)do it so that I, together with other loveless creatures in the office, had to work OT.

So you see, the gods gave me a valid excuse for not going out on Valentines Day: “I was busy.”

But who the heck am I kidding? If truth be told, I got left out. No one asked me for a date, and on Valentine’s Day at that.

Which got me thinking: Why is it that when you’d deeply appreciate to have someone to ask you out for a date, your phone would be silent but for the messages and calls that have nothing to do with romance? [Not that I would have gone out: I made it a rule not to date on Valentine’s Day itself. I just thought it would have been nice to have someone to turn down, di ba? (Oooopppps! Sorry folks. That’s my wicked and sour-graping self talking. Don’t mind her. Hehehe)] And why, on days when you’d rather stay curled up cozily in your bed, someone would be calling you thousand times, almost begging you for “dinner,” “a stroll,” or whatever they term it? Crazy, isn’t it?

Anyway, we (Elaine, Chie, Lorien, Manong Ricco and I), the office’s loveless gang, worked overtime today. Elaine and Chie Chie thought it was pathetic. But Manong Ricco had these comforting words to offer: “Mabuti na ‘to kesa naman umuwi kayo sa mga bahay n’yo, at maging obvious sa lahat na wala kayong date.”

Oo nga naman! Things could have been worse, di ba?

Besides, we did have a great time in the office naman, doing — nah, not just plain work (ano kami, martir?) — but dyarrraannn — picture taking!

So as millions of lovers were whispering sweet nothings to their partners over candle-lit dinner (or whatever romantic things they did) we were crazily holed up in the office… romancing a digi-cam.

Now, who could say we are [not] a bunch of losers?


Interesting trivia: Would you believe I wrote this blog entry while trying to reconstruct that screwed up article I’m talking about and that it took me only 10 minutes to write this one (compared with the agonizingly long hours I spent for the screwed thing which is even much shorter than this)?

And for the record: After my whining about me being dateless and all, let me set things straight, lest I’d be thought of as some mababaw kind of girl: I really don’t mind. V-day is not for lovers alone. And love isn't just about romance.

Happy Valentine's Day!

The Power of Love

D'wicked Angel Gets Senti


I love you.

Just three little words, but they could mean the whole world when spoken by the right person at the right time. So powerful are these words that they can heal even the deepest wounds and erase even the most excruciating of pains. So magical they are that they could bury hatred and bring out the best in a person.

When I was younger, I used to think love was something synonymous to romance; that is was as simple as buying flowers or chocolates and dating, and kissing, and fighting then making up, and other romantic stuff lovers do.

That’s why I never understood why people act crazy when they are in love; why people wear that funny love-is-in-the-air smile when they think of their loved ones. I thought love was overrated. That is why I always dismissed it as something I can do without.

Until it happened. I fell in love. And my world was never the same again. There was a whole new meaning to my life. There was gladness in my heart. And suddenly, love became relevant. It became my life.

Coming head on with love had me thinking that not even the most comprehensive definition Mr. Webster has come up with could completely grasp the meaning of the word. Not even the most romantic poet can describe it.

Love is real. It is all-consuming. It is so powerful that it moved me. It changed me. It has sent me to the highest clouds. It made me come alive.

And when I said the words to him, I meant them. I loved him. And he thought he was very lucky. I thought I was luckier. It was perfect. We were happy.

But it wasn’t meant to be. So he had to walk out on me, but he wouldn't. It would break his heart to do so, so I broke mine by doing it for him. And he thanked me, and respected me, and perhaps, loved me more.

Love is powerful. It can bring out the best in a person. Just when there was nothing I wanted more in this world than to be with him, I set him free. Just when I finally learned what love was, I let it go. Because I finally understood what it was, I made love rule me.

Sigh!

[seb/2002]

The Challenge

I’ve always labeled classic literature as boring. Somehow, works in this genre fail to make me want to read on until the last page. I’m not sure if it’s the language used or the milieu in which these works were written, but it’s a real effort for me to keep going.

But even with this difficulty, I believe I ought to read the classics, if I want to be truly “literate.” Salve and Celestine, who were extremely surprised when they learned I got through high school without reading a single novel by William Shakespeare, Nathaniel Thorton, and the like, think so, too. In fact, they’ve been encouraging me to read the works for as long as I can remember, giving me pointers on how to get through, if not enjoy, them. And every time I survey Salve’s collection of “oldies,” somehow I feel compelled to read each one of them.

I did attempt to, several times. But each time, I always ended up dropping whatever classic it was I was trying to drum into my mind, before I even got to Chapter 3.

So I devised a way for me to coerce myself into reading these “unreadables” — by employing the punishment-and-reward system.

Here’s how it goes:

Challenge: By the end of 2006, I should have read all the books listed below (classics and non-classics alike).

Rationale: The challenge won't only give me the chance to finally get acquainted with the characters that graced the pages of classic English literature. Toward the end of the year, I'd likewise be able to find out how disciplined I am. (If I'd pass this challenge, then I'd know I have enough discipline to see me through greater endeavors; However, if I'd fail it, then I'd know I lack self-discipline. I would then be able to design measures to correct my weakness).

Classics
To Kill a Mockingbird (Harper Lee)
Mythology (Edith Hamilton)
Emma (Jane Austen)
The Scarlet Letter (Nathaniel Thorthone)
Adventures of Tom Sawyer (Mark Twain)
Wuthering Heights (Emily Bronte)
Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained (Milton)
Adventures of Oliver Twist (Charles Dickens)
The Prince and the Pauper (Mark Twain)


Non-classics
The Partner (John Grisham)
The King of Torts (John Grisham)
Obstruction of Justice (Perri O’Shaughnessy)
The Last Promise (Richard Paul Evans)
The Runaway Jury (John Grisham)
Lean Against the Wind (James McKarns)
Eleven Minutes (Paulo Coelho)
Da Vinci Code (Dan Brown)
The Prince of Tides (Pat Conroy)
The Chamber (John Grisham)
Angels and Demons (Dan Brown)

(Legend: Finished reading; Untouched: Ongoing)


Reward: Buy myself the white gold necklace I really want without feeling guilty.

Punishment: Treat Elaine, Chie, Jing, Salve and Celestine to lunch or dinner (Am still thinking whether I should include Lorien or not). And more important: refrain from bullying these five (or six, I haven’t decided yet) imps for a whole month.

Rationale: These girls definitely won’t let me off the hook if I fail the challenge. Hence, they’d be keeping an eye on me. Knowing that, I’d of course persevere. Likewise, for an innate bully like me, having to go against my nature, even for just a month, would kill me. I'm sure I won't last a month without doing some bullying spree.

So there's the challenge. We’ll see how I’d fare.


Note: This particular entry will be updated regularly to show my progress.

Your door

It’s Saturday night. I know you’d be here soon. You’ve never missed coming home every weekend. As usual, I’m again in front of my PC, waiting for you in disguise of writing this article.

I listen for the now familiar signs that announce your arrival—the way you open the gate and the sound of your keys as they dangle in your hand and of your footsteps as you cross the living room, making your way up the stairs to your room.

The scene that follows is one that happens week after week after week. I’d turn my head toward you as you make your final step up the stairs, then you’d pause, we’d smile and greet each other, then you’d reach for the door to your room, let yourself in, then shut it at my face.

I’d stare at the closed door, hating and cursing it for being there to shield you from me, for not being the kind of door that opens to present opportunities and invite people in, and for being the unbearable witness to my anguish as it mercilessly shuts itself after you pass through it without me.

Then I’d get on with my writing, waiting for that damn door to open and give me at least another glimpse of you before I finally call it a night. But seldom has it listened to my pleas. It is like a prison wall, except that I, the prisoner, am shut out.

And tonight, I don’t see it as anything different.

I busy my hands with the computer keys, trying to come up with an article for the magazine I work for. But occasionally I’d catch my thoughts drifting toward you and it is a real effort to drag them back to the subject I am writing. I need to finish this article.

But why aren’t you here yet? It’s already an hour past the time you usually arrive. Where are you? Have you possibly met up with someone? Damn!

Another thirty minutes passed. I didn’t hear any sound, but now you are already walking up the stairs (I must have really gotten engrossed with my typing). I looked up and greeted you with that practiced smile—the kind that exudes warmth but hides deeper emotions, lest you’d find out how I really feel for you. You smiled back, but not the kind of smile you’d given me all these years. There’s something peculiar about the way you were looking at me. I couldn’t figure what it was, but you looked at me as though it was the first time you’ve seen me. Your gaze was so intense I was thinking maybe you thought I was a ghost, or someone from out of this world. And, instead of reaching for your door, you walked straight toward me. I felt my heart do some silly flip-flopping and my whole being trembled.

I didn’t remove my gaze from yours, not even when you reached for my hand and gently tugged me to stand. My legs had turned to jelly and I was more than willing to be in your arms. I’ve waited forever for this to happen; there’s no chickening out now.

I saw your face moving closer and your lips descending to mine. I didn’t have any thoughts of resisting; only anticipation for that moment when our lips finally touch. And when they did, everything else faded.

The kiss might have lasted only for a few minutes, possibly seconds, but the contact was enough to set my body ablaze. Then, I looked up and met your eyes, ready to confess how I felt for you.

But, as I opened my mouth to speak, I heard movements on the stairs, and there you were, making your way up to your room.

Damn! I’ve done it again. My writing had gotten the better of me again, swallowing me whole into this make-believe scene I’ve often played in my mind that oftentimes became too vivid and seemingly real, I get lost in it. Like I did tonight.

But of course, like a good actress, I managed to quickly regain my composure. Never would I let you know how, just moments ago, I had been shamelessly imagining kissing you. So when you smiled and started teasing me, I was cool enough to tease you back, until you inevitably reached for your door, closing it behind you after saying goodnight. Again, I stared helplessly at the faceless, cruel monster that hides you from me, as though it was its fault that I couldn’t get through you.

When will you stop seeing me as the younger sister you never had? Ah, the door that’s literally next to mine is as far as Mars is to Earth.

If only you’d open your heart for me.


[seb/feb2004]

Humor is us. But...

Someone trips over, we laugh. Someone makes a mistake, we laugh. Someone says something subtly insulting, we laugh. Someone shares a joke, we say, “Ang corni!” then laugh.

It seems we spend a lot of our time laughing. Even when things go wrong — commodity prices going up, the political weather getting worse, many families barely able to make both ends meet, etc. — we are laughing still. And more than that, we can still afford to create and send jokes via SMS and e-mail. (In fact, a survey of Pulse Asia in 2003 shows that jokes rank third among the types of text messages sent most often by Filipinos, just behind personal communications such as family news and greetings.)1

But why do we laugh?

First, humor is an integral part of our survival. We use humor to convey a message that is otherwise difficult to express. Compared to Westerners, we are said to be non-confrontational. Generally, we never say “no.” We often find it difficult to tell others exactly what we mean especially when we think what we need to say may hurt the other person’s feelings. So we turn to humor to get the message across. We joke about it, in the hope that the other person would understand our joke’s underlying meaning. How many times have we found ourselves wondering if a certain joke, especially if loaded with several meanings, is indeed a plain joke? More often than not, our jokes are “half-meant” or half-truths.

But more than a communication tool, we use humor as our way of coping with the adversaries that come our way. Director and writer Jose Javier Reyes, in his article, “The Power of Laughter,” writes that more than just a source of entertainment or diversion, humor for us is a survival kit. A must-have. It is our way of coping with our misfortunes and means of overcoming our predicaments. “More than just comic relief from the harsh realities,” he writes, “Filipinos have found in humor a reservoir of psychic energy from which they draw a positive outlook in life. Filipinos argue that if they can laugh at a situation, they can rise above it.”

Psychologist Patricia Licuanan, PhD, agrees that indeed, laughter is an effective defense mechanism. She says: “Beneath the laughter is a resilient spirit that enables Filipinos to weather the worse economic and social conditions. Modern Filipinos like to compare themselves to the bamboo that sways and bends with the wind, no matter how strong, but never breaks. And like the bamboo, which thrives in the harshest environment, Filipinos survive the most trying times.”

Finally, humor is a weapon, as observed by Philippine Daily Inquirer columnist Conrado De Quiros. He writes: “Laughter is the most potent weapon of the powerless in the country.” When we find it difficult to directly criticize the government or anyone in power, we turn to humor. Is there anyone in the country who still doesn’t know, or has not received an Erap or a Garci joke?

So we laugh because humor is us. It is our way of life. To not see humor in any situation is to be un-Filipino.

But on second thought, and without discounting the good things humor do for us as a people, are we not laughing a bit too much? Isn’t laughter our non “full” verbal way of saying, ”who cares?”

Take for example the controversy involving the president and former COMELEC official Garcillano, which spawned hundreds of Garci and Gloria jokes around the country and the world. While the whole country was appalled at the turn of events, and wondered whether the President indeed was the one on the phone; and as things progressed with the President asking the people for their forgiveness, and a number of politicians making inconceivable moves and some groups calling for the President to step down, most of us stayed glued on our television sets, watching the event as though we would not be affected however it turns out, and created jokes about it.

There are many reasons we didn’t take the heed of going down the streets to oust yet again another president, one of which is the question on her successor. Somehow, the scenario of having Noli de Castro as president doesn’t paint a good picture, yet installing someone else to the presidency would not be constitutional. Another reason is the fact that any change we make in our structure now would spell instability. And then, there’s also the issue of going to the streets being not anymore as effective as the first two EDSA revolutions. So maybe we are left with no other choice than having to contend with a president a growing number of our countrymen no longer trust.

Or maybe we have become too tired to do anything, realizing that whoever we put up there to govern us, would simply do his or her best to fail us. Take Erap. Take Gloria.

So we laugh, believing that there is nothing more we can do with our situation. Either that or we cry. Other nationalities may have already cried in despair. But not us. Crying, we say, cannot make the problems disappear. However, neither can laughter. Still, the latter can make the problem seem lighter; while the former adds weight to it.

Laughter is not always positive. It may also mean resignation. Or worse, apathy. [seb/oct2005]



End Notes & Bibliography

1 San Andres, Emmanuel A. “News, greetings, jokes top list of Filipino’s text messages.
www. Cyberdyaryo.com. June 20, 2003.
Reyes, Jose Javier. The Power of Laughter.
www.livinginthephilippines.com/philippine_articles/sense_being_filipino/power_laughter.html
Licuanan, Patricia B. A People of Hope.
www.livinginthephilippines.com/philippine_articles/sense_being_filipino/people_hope.html

The rise of the newest office bully

I’m fully booked this week, and it’s all Chie’s doing. You see, she holds me responsible for her not being able to cover the event [the presscon of Regine Velasquez and Ogie Alcasid’s upcoming concert, "Forever After"] last Saturday. She says had I been in Manila last week, we would have been able to attend the event which, according to her, was star-studded.

Now, as a payback for my absence [that’s how I see things, anyway], she took matters into her hand when I asked her “paki-ayos naman ang mga coverages natin this week,” meaning, sort them out. She made confirmation to every single event we were invited to attend, giving my name and hers as the attendees without [let me repeat that, WITHOUT] first consulting with me, or at least checking with me my schedule.

And as if that isn’t enough, as we were eating lunch today at Virgin Café during one of the events she lined up for me to cover, she blurted out, “Ako na ang mag-i-schedule ng mga coverages ninyo nina Elaine, ha?” in a tone that made me wonder whether she was asking me to assign her that job or telling me to oblige.

O my! I don’t know what happened during the two work-days I was away, but suddenly, Chie had grown into a little tyrant. Imagine, she now bullies the big bullies in the office — Elaine and me. Now, with this development, it’s no longer easy to pinpoint who among us is the biggest bully. Everybody now bullies everyone. [Sure, I’m the original, but those little imps are slowly overpowering me. It seems my reign as the office’s biggest bully is about to end.]

Now, going back to my schedule, I understand I am to sit through two more presscons this week: one at Hyatt Hotel (tomorrow) and another at New World Renaissance Hotel (Thursday). I just hope I’ll have a good time.

Congratulations, Celestine

Received some good news from Celestine (T-tayns) last Thursday: she got accepted to the Japanese Scholarship sponsored by the Japanese embassy. Like her other good news, which I would not elaborate here for fear of being beaten to death, this one failed to surprise me. Our common friends and I knew all along that she would be accepted; it was only she who wouldn’t want to expect. Sure, it’s wise of her not to hope, but I dare say it was quite obvious she’d make it. So why not hope… and dream?

But it’s just so like her to be humble. (Unless you downplay her beauty. She'd fight you tooth and nail if you'd tell you're better looking than she is. Her battlecry is: “According to my mom…”)

Knowing how hard she worked to get accepted to the scholarship and how much she really wanted to further her Japanese studies, I can only be happy for and proud of her.

So, congratulations, Tayns. You deserve it!



NOW TAYNS, moving on to your other “issue,” tell me: any news yet?

Why do I see you grinning? You mean, ala pang progress?

Puwes, eto lang masasabi ko sa’yo (let me borrow this phrase from Elaine): “Hay Naku!”

For someone who’s got sky-high IQ, you are a little dummy in that department, my friend. So am I [dummy, that is], but at least I fair better! And that gives me the right to be exasperated with you. After all the figuring out you tasked me to do!? Hah!



OKAY, going back to the scholarship thingie… I found my book on Transformational Grammar. You might need it. Just give us a shout if you can’t put 2 and 2 together when you start doing your thesis on... ano nga 'yon? Japanese pro-forms? 'Di ka naman nagpapakamatay, ano? Hehe...

I’m sure you can do it. ‘Kaw pa?!

Still, Salve and I will just be here, always ready to give you a hand. On one condition though: you'll have to let us bully you anytime we feel like it… Nyehehe. [What do you say, Salve?]