Your footsteps, my guide

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

GUMIL MM meeting and more

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wanna join, folks?

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

Me, a fashion model? Nah!

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

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

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

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

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

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

So what could it be?

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

But really, why kaya? Hehehe

"Yaya" sisterhood

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

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

Caption: Superman and the super(kulit) kids

What part-time?

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

Whew! My sched’s in limbo again!

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

Pen, un-resting

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

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

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

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

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

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



For my Dungngo, my Sun.

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

Mother Nature’s pathetic joke

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

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

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

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

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

Teaser for my photoessay

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

That's right. An enchanting story.

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

Dr. O's verdict

1.25 for me.

Damn!

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

Hah... biatch!

The music of Conroy's pen

Last weekend, I almost learned to love poetry.

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

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

Or so I thought.

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

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

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

Parting shots

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

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

Here we go:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Of beaches and bitching

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

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

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

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

/Photo: Puerto Galera, April 12, 2006/

One bright night...

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

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

No, I’m not going to cry.


[seb/August 25, 2004]

Love paradox

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

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

[seb/2001]

The healing process

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

P.S.

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

OFW Wannabes

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

A quote for Tayns

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

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

Tayns, getz mo? Hehehe

Salve speaks...

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


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

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

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

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


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

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