Magical Objects in Harry Potter

The fifth installment of the Harry Potter (HP) movie and the seventh and final installment of the HP book have spawned frenzy among the enlightened muggles (HP fans for those who can’t relate, like “Tatang." Hehehehe), among them, Tayns and Salve.

In fact, Salve has devoted two entries on Harry Potter (one for the movie and another for the book) in her blog (http://www.salvacion.wordpress.com/). Even Celestine who has gotten her copy of the book, but hasn’t read it yet because she is supposed to be busy reviewing for her exams this week, has managed to write an entry in her blog (http://www.celestinerb.wordpress.com/) about how excited she is to read the book (talk about reviewing).

I’ve seen the movie and I like it, but I will no longer write something about it because Salve has done a good job at it. And since I haven’t read the book yet (I’ll borrow Salve’s Tuesday next week), I obviously can’t write my views on it yet. So what I’m going to do instead is feature two of the magical objects in Harry Potter that I like (and wish to have).

Mirror of Erised (introduced in Book 1). The mirror, according to Dumbledore, "shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts." He adds that only the happiest of men would see himself as he is when he looks into it.

In one of my entries in this blog, I’ve asked my readers what they think they’d see if they were to look into the magical mirror (Celestine has posted an entry about it in her blog). But I have not answered it then. Let me answer the question now:

I’d see myself hugging the man I love so much, and hearing him tell me over and over that he is alright now… that there’s nothing for me to worry about; things will push through as planned.

The Pensieve (introduced in Book 3). The pensieve is a shallow stone basin with odd carvings of runes and symbols around the edge into which one can store one’s thoughts and memories to relieve one’s mind of too much information. Dumbledore explains to Harry that he sometimes finds that he simply has too many thoughts and memories crammed into his mind, and so he siphons off the excess thoughts and pours them into the basin.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we can also unload our thoughts onto something that can hold them safely, whenever the going gets tough? Then we can just let go of the hurtful memories and painful thoughts that we have. Then it would be easier for us to get moving.

But then again, it may also not be a good idea, for what would we be without our memories — the good and the bad? Aren’t these things help define who we are?

THE POETIC PROCESS

Recently, I saw a blog of some guy whom I do not know (don’t even remember how I got to his blog: http://nextgr8twriter.wordpress.com/2007/06/05/the-poetic-process/), but whose writing I like. In one of his posts, he talked about poetic process, and led his readers through his way of writing poetry: from his raw thoughts, through several versions.

Because it’s just recently that I really learned to appreciate poetry, I was amazed at how one thought can be poetically said in different ways, in different poetry forms. (With my quasi-poems, I just get my thoughts onto paper and that’s it).

I cannot be as good as that guy, but I did try writing poetry his way. And here’s what I came up with:


MY ORIGINAL THOUGHT:

I fell in love
and suddenly
my dreams —
even the impossible —
came to life.

I fell in love
and suddenly
I lost the emptiness
within me.
Now, I’m alive.



MY FIRST DRAFT:

I fell in love
and finally
the moon and the sun
came face to face
in the same sky.

I fell in love
and finally,
life ceased
to be a garden
devoid of flowers.


MY SECOND DRAFT:

Love whispered
and I saw
the moon and the sun
in amorous embrace
amidst wistful clouds
on a bright red sky.

Love beckoned
And I felt something
in me bloom.
Fin’lly life ceased
to be a garden
that knows no flowers.

VERDICT: Needs more practice. Nyehehehehe

//Sherma E. Benosa
20 July 2007; 12:24am

Random Thought I:

(“Thank you, Friendster!”)

Why is it that when a friend whom you had not seen for years (and honestly had not crossed your mind for several months) all of a sudden creeps back into your life, you’d suddenly feel you’ve missed that person so badly, that you’d start wondering how you had survived the past months (or years) without sharing a laugh or a sigh with him or her… and then you’d start feeling the void that was created when you parted ways, which you had forgotten about because of your new preoccupations and your new friends, and because you were sure time has filled it up, but now you feel it as sharply as it had been the day you went separate ways?

A dear friend, Agnes, with whom I shared so many things when we were much younger, suddenly showed up at Friendster. I can’t describe it, but when I saw her name pop up in my “who viewed me” list, my heart suddenly did a flip-flop (not the kind that the heart does at the sight of your crush… but the kind you feel when you go home after being away too long). And I had the overwhelming need to hug her real tight and shout (like I used to do when I was still an unruly fresh grad): Tiiiiitaaaaaaaaaaaa Agnesssssssssssssss!

Ahhhh… Having a renewed link with old friends is "bitter-sweet-er". Bitter, because you are reminded of how un-thoughtful you had been to the friends with whom you promised to get in touched with (which, needless to say, you failed to do); sweet, because you are reminded of the good — and the bad — things you’ve been through together; and sweeter because you know it’s not yet late, that you can still re-establish your link with him or her, because it was never really broken... just neglected.

Heart without Love

A heart that is incapable of loving is like a living body with a dead soul… like a gardener who hates flowers, like a singer who cannot sing any song. It’s like a plant deprived of carbon dioxide, like earth divorcing its sun.


//Sherma E. Benosa
17 July 2007

As I Sleep

You are the night
that envelops me with peace.

Under your watchful moon
you make me feel safe.

In the company of your stars
you fill my heart with gladness.

Upon your request, the crickets
hum me a melody.

And on your order, the breeze
caresses my face.

All these, as I sleep.


//Sherma E. Benosa
13 July 2007; 3:46pm

ODES TO THE NIGHT

(i) The night, in its obscurity

The night is —

The wide canvas
upon which the moon’s mysterious smile
is painted.

The rich backdrop
against which the stars’ gleeful dancing
is performed.

Dark, he lives in obscurity.
Alone, he is nobody.

Yet,
Without him —

The moon would lose its allure;
And the stars, their grandeur.

There won’t be starlit skies
under which lovers exchange dreamy sighs!

And I’d be lost —
Wouldn’t know where to find my shooting star!



(ii) Night shift

The night —

He hears
the young mothers’ lullabies.
the insomniac’s nightly cries.
the lovers’ secret sighs.

He sees
the sleeping souls’ dreams.
the crimes every thief commits.
the owls’ flights to the wilderness.

The night —
He is busy.
Tonight.
Every night.

He, too, is on the night shift!


//Sherma E. Benosa
12 July 2007; 1:05am

Oh Salve!

We’ve known each other since we were in college. I consider her as one of my best friends. I’ve stayed overnight in her place hundreds of times. I've met her family and she has met mine. She is like a sister to me… she and Celestine. I love her warmth, adore her calmness, and respect her mind. I know she is talented. But dammit, how could I not have known she writes good poems?

Let me paste here some of her poems:


i, an island

i am an island
the wind is my best friend
whispering news of far
lands in my ears.

the sea is my lover
singing hymns of promise of forever.
the trees are my knights
guarding me to safety and security.
the flowers are my dames
amusing my solitary existence.
the birds are my constant guests
lodging in my trees for a night’s rest.
the sky is my shelter
lighting my path in dark hours.

i am an island
my best friend has joined other winds
passed me by without a glance.
scampering fast, my lover has departed
singing a song of rage and atrocity.
my knights had fallen in battle
bowing their heads in defeat.
tired of enthralling, my dames had
fled and drowned in my lover’s cry.
to a peaceful soil my guests had ran
in search of better refuge.
my shelter has crumpled down
sending needles of spears into my heart.

i cried from pain,
yet i cannot move
i cannot move—
still an island.

http://salvacion.wordpress.com/2007/05/30/i-an-island/



What has become of me?
Hope has abandoned me
left me drenched in my own tears
drowned in solitude
What has become of me?

Fate has walked away,
Displeased at my ungrateful countenance
Tired, like my trampled soul—
crashed into pieces.

Tell me, what has become of me?

Please save me,
I need your mercy
Hold my hand tight;
don’t let go—

Oh, it’s too late!
You’re late!
I’m drowning,
falling
fast—
zapped into the black hole of nothingness.

What—oh, nothing!—has become of me?


http://salvacion.wordpress.com/2007/05/30/what-has-become-of-me/

"BUNGEE" JUMPING

(Reversible Suicide Part II)

Soon, it’s jump time once again. This next jump would be the biggest — and the riskiest — jump of my career. But somehow, I don’t feel as scared as I was in my previous jumps. Come to think of it, I was hardly scared then.

During my previous jumps, I was aware that there was no net to catch me. But I was also sure of the things I could do, of the things I could offer, so I never worried about not landing on solid ground. And solid ground, I always found.

This time, however, I am sure there is a net somewhere — a net that would prevent me from hitting the ground with a loud thud, in case I fail. And this time, I am not in it alone; I am jumping off with dear friends (Celestine, Salve and my brother Ogie). So though the stakes are much higher now than in any of the jumps I did before, the fear of failing still remains alien to me.

In fact, I am already excited. Why wouldn’t I be? As my friends and I come closer and closer to the jump day, the brighter our idea becomes. The closer we examine it for loop holes, the more perfect it seems.

I really do hope we'll succeed, because, more than anything, this might just be my chance to prove that I am right in believing that I need not leave the country to do well; that though the road I’ve chosen is longer and more steep, it too leads there (wherever there is). Or, does it? Hmm...


__________
(Side Story)
On Staying Behind…

It was with the carelessness of a child when I said to myself when I was 10 years old that I will never work in a foreign country, that I will travel abroad only to visit, never to work. I can easily extricate myself from that promise (on the ground that it was made before I even reached the age when I could make sound decisions)but I have always tried to uphold it.

It is not for nationalistic reasons (“the country needs excellent professionals here”) that I chose to stay, although of course I also like to think that by staying here, I am doing something for the country. [But then again, aren’t those who have left the ones saving the country from financial crisis through their remittances? Hmmm…]

I stayed because I’ve decided I cannot make the sacrifice of being away from my family for years. I always had this fear of leaving my loved ones breathing and healthy, though sad of my departure, only to find them cold and lifeless on my return. And, if that isn’t bad enough, how about not being able to see them one last time before they are buried (like what happened to my brother Ogie who was in the US for a five-month training when Inang Pacing died)?

Although it can be said that technically I, too, had not been with Inang and Amang when they took their final breaths, I was able to go home as often as I could before they died. And I was able to spend quality time with them, and store good memories of them to last me a lifetime.

So my reason for staying is selfish really, but going home every now and then, and sharing a laugh or two with the people I love so much is more important for me than hauling money ten or more times faster than I can do here.

Of course, there are times that I feel I should have left too (especially during hard times), but when I am able to tease my parents and pester my brothers and sisters-in-law face to face, when I can hug my nephew and kiss my grandmother, I know I’ve made the right decision.

And with this jump my friends and I are about to make, maybe… just maybe, this issue will be put to rest.


[Although there is a big possibility I will have to spend a few years abroad too… IF… hmmm… ironic talaga ang buhay! Waaaaaaa!]


*If you want to read Reversible Suicide, click http://dwickedangel.blogspot.com/2006/03/reversible-suicide.html

Reminiscing

(The Night You Whispered my Name)

The oft-reserved night beamed
The stars batted their eyelashes
And the moon furiously blushed
The night you whispered my name.

The trees swayed to the wind's whistling
The breeze paused, anticipating
And time, how she had stood frozen
The moment you whispered my name.

//Sherma E. Benosa
04 July 2007; 1:45pm

EXCESS BAGGAGE

A letter that should not have been penned
A song that should not have been sung
A poem that should not have been read
A story that should not have been shared

A promise that should not have been given
A lesson that should not have been taken
An advice that should not have been heeded
A step that should not have been taken

A drink that should not have been drank
A word that should not have been said
A gift that should not have been wrapped
A merchandize that should not have been bought

A trigger that should not have been pulled
A sword that should not have been wielded
A prisoner that should not have been jailed
A risk that should not have been taken

Piled (not too) neatly in one of my closets
Are things that should not have been kept
Crowding my drawers, filling my pockets
It’s clean-up time once again, I guess.


//Sherma E. Benosa
2 July 2007; 2:25pm

SHORT VERSES AND LINES

Bright Night

The moon
Entertained by the stars
Prays thanks
To the night.

The night
Filled with glee
Invites everyone
To share his canvas.

The stars
Pleased with the night
Each light a candle
The sky is bright.

******

On a withered branch
The pigeon sang…
Spring’s promise.

On a withered branch
The rain dropped…
Autumn’s grief.

******

The sun was feted
Ready to leave
Summer’s gone.

The thunder roared
The clouds march
The rains come.

*****

Extinguished

Light snuffed, laughter exhausted
Mission carried out
Pieces of the puzzle now in place
Nothing more need be said.

*****

My epitaph

She held her head high in life
To death, she bowed.


//Sherma E. Benosa
30 June 2007

The Night Dreams

The night dreams in his sleep
Of fireworks twinkling
Of a lovely face beaming
A smile lingers in his lips.

The breeze caresses him
Wipes the sweat off his face
Whispers music into his ears
And farther he drifts.

Letting go of his fears
Giving away his darkness
Offering his calm, his peace.
He is not someone to fear.

Those that walk around
Using his darkness for cover
Are the traitors, the ones to blame
Oh, how they taint his name.

His honor befouled
Nothing's left to do but dream
In his vigils, in his sleep
He waits for the sun to creep in again.


//Sherma Benosa
30 June 2007; 4:07pm

Mga anghel ng lansangan

Kung ang mga anghel
Ay may kanya-kanyang awit
Bakit tila iba ang aking naririnig
Na namumutawi sa mga bibig
Ng mga mumunting pipit
Na sa mga lansanga’y umangkin
Upang doo’y kanilang iparinig
Handog na mga awitin
Sa sinumang nais makinig?

‘Di ba sila’y mga anghel din
Na pinili lamang tiklopin
Ipinagkaloob sa kanilang mga pakpak
At sa lupa pinili nilang manirahan
Upang kanilang awitan
Mga may mabibigat na pasanin
Nang kahit kaunti man lamang
Maibsan pighati ng mundo
Na tila ba wala nang katapusan?

Ngunit bakit tila sa kanilang balikat
Bumagsak dalahing mabibigat
Kung kaya’t sila ang naging tagabuhat
Pighating balak sana nilang ibsan
Paghihirap na sana’y kanilang bawasan
Kung kaya’t tayong mapapalad
Mga dalahin natin ngayo’y magaan
Ngunit bakit bukas nilang mga palad, ni lingon
Di man lang natin magawang tapunan?

Dahil ba tayo’y tayo, at sila’y sila
Mga tunog nating pinakikinggan
At awitin nila’y magkaiba?
Ang musikang sana’y handog
Ninakaw pa sa kanila
Malalamyos na mga munting tinig
Namaos, ngayo’y ‘di na halos marinig
Anghel na aaliw sa atin, nangapagod na
Sino’ng magpapawi hinagpis nila?


Sherma E. Benosa
June 21, 2007
12:13am

Old Photographs I

I look at old photographs and I am reminded of days long gone, of the happy times as well as the sad times, and of the people who graced my life and with whom I shared a laugh or two, or a tear and a sigh.

I look at old photographs and a smile cross my lips, as laughing and smiling faces greet me, making me wonder where their owners might be now, and if they are doing fine; and reminisce the times we spent together. My smile turns into a grin as I notice how silly we acted or looked then, and I wonder what on earth made us do the things we did, and wear the clothes we wore.

I look at old photographs and a sigh escapes my lips, as I come across the smiling faces of loved ones who had left this world, and I pray for their soul, as I am once again reminded of mortality, of how fleeting life on earth really is.


//First posted in Mr. Rudy Rumbaoa's blog in iluko.com

Old Photographs II

I look at my old photographs and I am transported back to the past, and I become a child again — free and innocent, trusting and guileless; and the tall buildings and the wide streets I see every day become the lush trees and wide fields I used to roam with my brothers and cousins; and those fellows hurriedly walking ahead of, as well as those lagging behind me, become the friends with whom I played hide and seek and patintero; and those annoying sounds coming from factories and buses and cars become the sound of infectious laughter from kids having a good time.

I look at my old photographs and I see myself as the diligent student that I was, burning with determination to better my world and that of my loved ones, full of hopes for a brighter future, bursting with dreams of finding — and marking — my own place under the sun, and jam-packed with ideas to share to the world.

I look at my old photographs and I see myself as a young woman, having her first taste of disappointments, deceit, and betrayal, and taking them all in; learning invaluable lessons from them, and letting them make her hard enough to withstand future tribulations, but soft enough to still know about compassion.

I look at my old photographs and I can’t help but compare the present me to the picture I envisioned myself to become when I reached my present age — and I notice the disparities; but I like who I am now just the same.

I look at my old photographs and I realize I’ve gone a long way from the starting point, but still far away from the finish line. So I whisper to myself: “Long way to go, lady. Keep going.”


//First posted in Manong Rudy's blog in iluko.com...

PRECIOUS MOMENT I

(Roughly a week before Amang went)


It was merienda time, yet, instead of a food or a drink, it was Amang’s hand that I held in my left hand. He was lying supine on his bed, and I was sitting right next to him. His eyes were closed, his grasp firm, his breathing regular yet shallow. I reached out to caress his gray hair with my free hand, my eyes never leaving his face. For the nth time, I was awed at how handsome he still was, despite his advanced age of 88 and his illness that had devastated his body.

He must have felt my gaze upon him, because just then, he opened his eyes, and he looked deep into me. And for a long time, we stared at each other, neither of us willing to break the link.

That instant, my mind was wiped out of thoughts. My fear that he would soon go left me. And I felt a strength surged through me, and I wondered where that extra strength came from.

Still, the link remained unbroken. I remember now that as I gazed into his eyes, as I struggled not to break the link, even as my eyes began to hurt and tears were threatening to break free, I was asking him questions in my mind, though I don’t think I ever knew what those questions were. And I remember too that his eyes seemed to be telling me something, but exactly what they were, I never truly understood, but I was — and still am — sure they were of love — his love for us.

Soon my eyes hurt real bad, and the tears finally broke free. The instant he saw the tears, he closed his eyes and I felt sorry. Sorry that I failed him… that the strength he had lent me was still not enough to sustain me. And sorry that I broke the link.

I knew then that the moment had passed.

I wiped my tears not too discretely, hating myself for being weak just when Amang wanted me to be strong, and for failing to hold back my tears. But then I remembered that his eyes were moist, too. And instantly, my heart warmed, realizing that Amang never cried in sorrow; his tears were only for happy times.

Again, I looked at Amang’s face, his eyes still tightly shut. I moved closer to him, smoothing his gray hair. And just then, I felt him tighten his grasp on my hand.

And I realized, the link was never really broken.


Amang Roman died on 31 May 2007; 3:37am.

Sherma E. Benosa 7
June 2007; 2:37 pm

More wedding pics... (starring me!)

Wailing

Today is a red-letter day in my personal calendar. It is supposed to be a day of celebration. In fact, I am supposed to have received three dozen burgundy roses yesterday, and to have had a hair spa this morning. I had planned to put on a simple dress, and wear a barely-there makeup, so that when I am online, he would know that he is indeed special. Maybe he would tell me I looked good, or tease me with, “Oh, langamon, Ragu!”

But none of this happened. Right now, I sit in front of the computer, typing this piece after leaving comments in some neighbors’ blogs in Iluko.com (as I have done yesterday) to drive my worries away.

Except that they won’t go. I don’t think they would, until I get that piece of information I need so badly — the results of his tests assuring me he is alright. That there’s nothing serious. That it’s just fatigue. That all he needs is rest.

If I get that, then I could easily forget that we’ve been robbed off the chance to enjoy our most special day. But until then, I sit here, willing the tears away, wishing he can find a way to contact me soon… and tell me, “Happy Anniversary, Love!”

D'wicked Angel Exposed...

Strong-willed and self-reliant are the words that are always affixed to my name. Shrewd is my nickname, stubborn is my middle name, and straightforward is my pseudonym. Sugar-coated speech isn’t my specialty, and flattery is nowhere in my vocabulary. The weak hate me, and the ridiculous detest me.

I have a penchant for winning, an insatiable thirst for learning, and an unexplainable affinity towards the unexplained.

I am often drawn to unexplored territories and untested waters. Defying the odds is my favorite sports, challenging authority is my favorite pastime, and taking risks and jumping off different cliffs are among my hobbies.

I have a steady love affair with logic and a regular rendezvous with creativity. For the former, I am a word slayer; but for the latter, I am she who puts form and persona to the abstract, and mystic to the tangible.

In some ways I am both yin and yang. I can be calm as the sunset, and fiery as the noontime sun. I can be both reckless and careful, passionate and disinterested, simple and complicated.

Excellence and elegance are my trademarks. I work not just with my hand, but also with my heart and mind. Over big and minuscule details I slave, until the two qualities I so admire — unique and outstanding — are embodied in my creation.

My family and the love that I have are my greatest treasures; whereas my biggest assets are the contents of my heart — the love that flows out of it, the warmth that emanates from it, and the peace that resides in it.

My greatest aspiration is to live a life that’s full and with very few regrets. Meaningless schemes and pathetic pursuits have no place in my daily itinerary. What's in it are making this journey I have started as meaningful as it can be, never stepping onto other people’s toes, and encouraging others to pursue their dreams.

I believe that there is a Great Being that guides us through every step of the way, although the decision about whether we take a step or not, and which direction to take is left to us. I hope — and believe — that the direction I have chosen to trudge will lead me to that place where I can look back to my life, and say, “well done!”

INVADING ILOCOS

Cool Slideshows

What comes after a wedding?

Did I hear someone say honeymoon? Hmmm.. lemesi. A honeymoon is only for the groom and the bride. I'm thinking more of something for the wedding guests.

Packing and going home? Nah, not us. I'm thinking more of having fun, of invasion. Because that is what we did. The day after Manz and Sheryll's wedding, we launched our invasion campaign... and had lots of fun at Pagudpod, Burgos, Bangui, Batac, Pinili, Currimao, Paoay and Vigan. That is, after invading Laoag, the bride's hometown.

The Conspiracy

Monday, 6:35 pm

I glowered at the sight of Mr. Mario Ventura, our new HRD officer, and Mr. Rolando Bautista, our Sales and Marketing manager, at my doorstep. They were still in uniform — black slacks and long-sleeved barong. Mr. Ventura was carrying a black leather briefcase in his right hand. I looked at each of them hard, not bothering to conceal the extreme annoyance I felt about their presence. I had a long bout against them and their fellow managers in the conference room the whole day today. Their tired, thirty-something faces were the last things I wanted to see after work. For a brief moment, I considered slamming the door on them.

“Won’t stay long.” Mr. Bautista announced as he stepped into the living room, not waiting to be invited in. My face must have made it explicitly clear that an invitation was not in order.

I moved into the living room without bothering to check if they were following. Reaching the center, I turned around, my face still tight. I didn’t ask them to sit down.

Mr. Ventura set the briefcase onto the center table. He opened the briefcase slowly, his eyes focused upon my face. I gave him a nasty look then lowered my gaze to the newly opened bag with its content now exposed. My eyes, swollen from crying and lack of sleep, literally bulged at what I saw. Money! An awful lot of money!

Both men noticed my reaction and were evidently pleased by it. “Five hundred thousand pesos in cold cash,” Mr. Ventura stressed. “For you.”

I dragged my gaze from the briefcase back to his unsightly face. “For me to keep my silence?”

“And for you to withdraw your charges against Mr. Uy.” He said, referring to the sexual harassment charges I filed this morning against Mr. Uy Huang Lu, our Chinese general manager.

“And why would I do that?”

“Five hundred thousand pesos, that’s why.”

“Get lost!”

“You’re a fool not to take the money, Jhannie. You’re sending off your brothers to school, aren’t you? And your father’s still battling with bronchopneumonia, isn’t he?” he asked, his eyes twinkling with malice. I glared at him, damning him for knowing just the right button to push.

“Forget about yourself, Jhannie.” Mr. Bautista interjected. “Just think about your family. How would you feel if something happens to your father, knowing that you could have prevented it? And if your brothers dropped out of school, wouldn’t you feel guilty knowing that you could have done something about it? Be practical. Anyway,” his voice dropped, “nothing happened.”

“Nothing?” I instantly flared. “I was nearly raped. I am about to lose my mind. I haven’t slept for 48 hours. And now, you calmly tell me that nothing happened?”

“I mean physically. What are kisses, embraces? I’m sure you did more than just those with your past boyfriends. I’m sure you’ve…”

“You’re insulting me, Mr. Bautista.” I cut him off. “The issue is not whether the act was consummated or not. We’re talking about a violation committed against my person!” I gritted my teeth. “Your boss is a devil.”

I noticed Mr. Ventura not-too-discreetly signal Mr. Bautista to leave things to him. The latter kept quiet, eyed the sofa, and proceeded to sit down. Mr. Ventura turned his attention back to me. “Jhannie, calm down…”

“Calm down? You’ve got the nerve to order me to calm down after what he did to me?”

“Jhannie, listen…”

“No, Mr. Ventura, you listen.” My voice was hard. “Clearly, we see things differently. And it’s apparent to me whose side you’re on. Tell me, if you could bribe me, what are you going to get in return? Promotion? Reward money?”

“Nothing. I’m just protecting the interest of the company.”

“Interest of the company? At the expense of the employees? Sir, you’re the HR manager! You’re supposed to protect the employees, not just the management!”

“And I’m doing just that. Jhannie, can’t you see? You have no case! No witnesses. No physical marks. No proofs. How could you prove that he molested you? It’s going to be your word against his. And who would take the word of an executive secretary over that of a respected country general manager? No one.” He breathed hard, then his voice softened. “Take the money, Jhannie. You’ll lose one way or another. Remember, you don’t come quite clean, what with the issue with Eric.”

I raised my eyebrows at the mention of my American friend’s name. “What’s Eric got to do with this?”

“Oh come on. You may be able to fool your officemates into believing that your relationship with Eric Collum is innocent. But the management knows better. And remember, an affair with a married man wouldn’t help you through this case in the least.”

“Affair with a…” My head spun when I realized what he was insinuating. “You’re accusing me of sleeping with him, is that it?”

“Aren’t you?” he countered.

I glared at him. “That’s absurd! We’re not doing anything wrong.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’ve been spotted together many times. What will your officemates think? The management?”

“Ridiculous! Having lunch together does not warrant an affair.”

“Yes. But if we’d take it as a character reference,” he paused, a nasty smile playing on his lips, “we can easily plant a seed of doubt about your character in the mind of whoever is going to investigate this case.” His face moved closer to mine. “And where will that leave you?”
My hands balled. God, how I wanted to knock him off!

Again, he smiled. “Take the money, Jhannie. Save your face.”

“Get out!”

“Sure, we will.” He answered as he calmly closed his briefcase. “But think about it, Jhannie. You have until tomorrow morning to decide.” He picked up the briefcase with his right hand then, beckoning Mr. Bautista to follow him, walked to the door, his confidence unshaken by my outburst. They were already at the door when Mr. Ventura looked back, his face arrogant. “Choose well.”

I glared at him, but he and Mr. Bautista just walked coolly to the parked company car.



Tuesday, 7:45 a.m.

“HAVE YOU MADE a decision yet?”

My heart missed a beat at the sound of Eric’s voice; I didn’t know he had arrived. I was doubly surprised that he knew of the bribe Mr. Ventura had offered me, of which I had planned to tell him this morning. I jerked my head up to look at him. He was settling himself on an officemate’s desk to my right, deciding to half-sit, half-lean on it, making him seem a few inches shorter than his actual height of six feet flat. I gazed at his bluish-gray eyes that were fixed upon mine. “How’d you know I’m to make one?” I asked, my brows creased.

“I have sources. I know about the bribe. So, what’s your decision?”

I didn’t answer. I stared at him with questioning eyes.

His eyes met mine. “I didn’t know five hundred thousand pesos could make you indecisive.” He sounded disappointed.

“It’s a lot of money.”

“Not much compared to what you nearly lost.”

I looked down, unable to answer.

“Did you really think if you dropped the charges, they’d give you the money?” he asked when I didn’t answer.

Again, I looked up at him mutely.

“They won’t. They’d have you drop the charges then relieve you from your post. Where will that leave you?”

I sighed. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Then you are naïve.”

Again I sighed, focusing my troubled eyes upon his. “Eric, Mr. Ventura mentioned something about us. He… The management thinks we have an affair.”

“Damn!” He burst angrily. “Jhannie, listen. I … shit!” He swore when he heard voices coming from the first floor. “They’re here. You know what to do.” He said, then walked to his office.

No. I don’t know what to do, I told myself.



Tuesday, 9:30 a.m.

THE MANAGERS were already settled when I entered the conference room. Mr. Uy wasn’t there. I felt relieved. I didn’t want to see him. I took the only vacant seat near the door. There were only five of us in the ten-seater room, but the room seemed too small for all of us. Already I was gasping for air.

“So, Jhannie, I take it you’ve already made a decision?” Mr. Ventura sounded nice, while Mrs. Teresita Canida, the deputy manager and the only female in the room excluding myself, looked at me calculatingly. Gone was the calm, motherly face she always wore, replaced by something more akin to what she really was — a scheming bitch. Even the other managers — Mr. Bautista, Mr. Allan Cabuyao, and Mr. Tim Lanuza — were staring at me. They were sure I was going to take the money. Somehow, that thought angered me.

“Yes.” I answered.

“In that case, we’d better go to the police station so you could drop the charges.” Mr. Ventura said, looking pleased.

I looked directly into his eyes. “No, Mr. Ventura. I’m pursuing the case,” I said, surprised that my voice sounded strong.

Mr. Ventura’s smile instantly turned into a frown. For a moment, he looked angry, but he soon controlled his anger. “If you say so,” he said, shooting Mrs. Canida a look. Their eyes talked.

Mrs. Canida adjusted her oval eyeglasses, opened the cream folder she was holding, then stared at me. I stared back. “You very well know that you don’t have witnesses. No physical marks. And your morality is questionable,” she began. I started to say something, but she lifted her right hand, signaling me to keep quiet. “Even if you say you’re not having a relationship with Collum,” she said, referring to Eric “we can easily make people believe you two are having an affair.”

I glared at her. God! How I wanted to kick her in the ass! How could she talk like that, as though she doubted Mr. Uy’s guilt when she was with us in the conference room yesterday, when he admitted his crime and begged me for forgiveness? And why are they — the managers — covering up for him?

“In addition to that, Mr. Uy hadn’t signed an overtime form,” she continued. “That means, technically, your stay in the office after the regular work hour is illegal.”

“He told me he’d sign it the following Monday,” I said defensively.

“Is that our SOP?” She looked up at me, her right brow raised. Then continued, without waiting for me to answer, “No. Our office procedures explicitly instruct employees to have OT forms signed by their superior or whoever asks them to render overtime work before actual OT.” Again, a smile played on her lips, telling me that she knew I was on the verge of crying.

“We also have the guard’s report on the date you claimed Mr. Uy harassed you. It says here that at 3:30 pm, about fifteen minutes after you clocked out, you were seen sitting at the reception area. The guard warned you that employees are not allowed to loiter in the company premises once they’ve clocked out. You answered you were waiting for Mr. Uy. Ten minutes later, you and Mr. Uy left the office in his Cefiro driven by his driver, Bong. That means…”

“Excuse me, Ma’am!” I interjected, failing to restrain myself. “That’s not true. I clocked out at 3:15, about five minutes after Mr. Uy harassed me. I immediately fled the building. There’s no way that incident could have occurred.” I said, trembling with anger. “Everything in that report is a lie!”

“Calm down!” Mr. Ventura and Mrs. Canida shouted at me. I kept quiet, but continued to glare at them.

“This is an official report.” Mrs. Canida continued. “It came from a third party.”

“You bribed the guard.” I replied.

“You can’t prove that.” She countered, sounding hard. “Besides, we have with us Bong’s statement, corroborating the guard’s report.” She emphasized the last words. I shook my head. Tsk, they had everything well plotted. “And what’s more, it says here that Bong drove you to … hmm, surprise, surprise … to Mr. Uy’s unit in Greenbelt Residences! Tell me Jhannie, what did you do in Mr. Uy’s apartment?”

“You’re in a better position to answer your question, ma’am,” I answered sarcastically. “You’re the author, you’re the one who knows the events in your story.”

She ignored my sarcasm. “Even if it were just your word against Mr. Uy’s, Jhannie, you’re already disadvantaged, given your questionable character. But there’s also the guard’s report and Bong’s statement. Tsk, tsk.” She shook her head as though she pitied me. “Anyway, because you didn’t accept our offer, you’ve only two choices left: either you resign or we’ll terminate your employment.”

“That’s illegal.”

She smiled. For a moment I thought she was Satan’s female counterpart. “You must remember, my dear, that you’re merely a contractual employee.” She held out some documents. “”Here’s your evaluation.”

I took the papers then slowly read them. There’s a letter signed by Mr. Ventura, informing me that I failed to meet the standards of the company. With trembling hands, I turned to the evaluation sheets. Incompetent. Inefficient. Lacks cooperation. Those were the remarks of the supervisors who evaluated me. I knew these were all just made up, but I felt bad. These very same people had been very happy with my work. Impressed even. Mr. Uy himself had said so. Now they’re telling me I failed to meet the company’s standards? Yeah, right!

Mrs. Canida handed me two unsealed envelopes. “One contains a termination letter, the other, a resignation letter. It’s up to you which one you prefer. Just make sure you sign one.”

“You’re all evil.” I cried.

“Just sign, Ms. Ancheta.” Mr. Ventura prompted. I glared at him. I grabbed the pen he was offering me and signed the termination letter.

“Good. Mr. Uy will be very happy.” Mrs. Canida said, smiling. I scowled at her but she merely laughed. “In this life, idealism got no place, Jhannie. You’re still young; you still have a lot to learn. But remember this so you’d wisen up: In this life, nothing but money talks. Money makes things go round. Not idealism. Not self-respect. Money! Lots of money. That gives you power! And when you’ve got power, you’ve got everything. Everything, Jhannie. Ev-ery-thing! So strive to get a lot of…”

I stood up and walked out of the door. I didn’t have time for craps.



Tuesday, 11:20 a.m.

“What are you doing?” Eric asked, planting himself behind me.

“Packing.”

“Yeah, I can see that. But why?”

“Why?” I repeated. “I lost, that’s why.”

“No, you’re not going to lose.”

My brows furrowed. What was he saying? “I’m afraid, I already have.”

“No. The battle has just started.”

I abruptly turned around to face him, annoyance evident on my face. “What are you saying? We have just finished and I lost.”

“Nope. HR officers from Hong Kong will be coming in tomorrow,” he said, referring to our head office. “Heads will be rolling, but definitely not yours,” he announced calmly.

My forehead creased. “What do you mean? I just got fired, can’t you see? I won’t be here tomorrow. Today’s my last day!”

“You’d still be here. Listen,” his voice dropped. He walked me to his office. Once inside, he closed the door, making sure no one would hear what he was about to say. I walked to the chair opposite his desk and sat. As he usually does, he half-sat, half-leaned on his desk, slipping both his hands into his trousers’ pockets. “Hong Kong knows everything that went on in there yesterday and today. Someone has been passing to Hong Kong what had been discussed in the meetings.”

My brows furrowed deeper. “But who…? Why…?”

“Who? It is I. Why? Because I had orders.” He cut me off. “Hong Kong had been receiving complaints against Mr. Uy, albeit anonymous ones. We’ve identified only two victims, both unwilling to file a case. The first one is a girl who used to hold your position — her name’s Edna — very young, just your age…”

“What about her?”

“Mr. Uy got her pregnant.” I was shocked. Mr. Uy, nearing 60 years, got a twenty-three-year-old girl pregnant? I looked up at Eric, wanting him to confirm that I heard him correctly. He nodded. “He’s supporting the baby. But we can’t act on that case because, like I said, Edna’s not willing to file a complaint.”

I sighed. “Does Mr. Uy’s family know?

“I don’t think so.”

I sighed.

“Did you know why your HR manager is relatively new?”

I shook my head.

“Mr. Ventura joined the company a full month before you did. That must be… what, six months ago? Mrs. Cayetano, the old HR manager, was fired because she witnessed Mr. Uy harassing another young employee. This employee is no longer with the company. She didn’t file a complaint; she simply resigned. Mrs. Cayetano tried to talk her into filing a complaint. Promised to help her. But she — Mrs. Cayetano — was fired before she could do anything. Mrs. Cayetano filed a complaint right after that — illegal dismissal. She also told Hong Kong about a conspiracy among the managers, including Mr. Uy, of which I vaguely know. This is still being being discreetly investigated; I wouldn’t tell you by whom, but this I can tell you: that conspiracy explains why all these managers are covering up for Mr. Uy.”

He paused, allowing me to digest the information. I knew my eyes were betraying my confusion, but I couldn’t make them leave his.

Eric let out a long sigh, raked his fingers through his longish dark blonde hair, then he continued, “Anyway, with the new developments, the girl never got to file her complaints. But still, Hong Kong decided to probe this sexual harassment issue, separate from the conspiracy thing, but also very discreetly. They thought I was the perfect person to do the job, as no one would suspect I’d be interested in other matters besides providing technical support to Philippine projects. I was specifically tasked to look after young, good-looking new employees like you.”

My head snapped up. “Why?” I asked.

“It was likely he’d make you his new victim.”

Anger immediately bubbled up inside me. “So I was set up, is that it?” I shouted. “And you didn’t even bother to warn me? To tell me I might be in some danger?”

He held up his hands “No, no. Don’t think it that way. You were hired as an employee, not some kind of specimen we had to observe. Your employment was, and still is, legitimate. Neither Hong Kong nor I have anything to do with it. But we reckoned he might be interested in you, so they made me look after you. But I wasn’t allowed to say anything about my mission, until now. It was top secret. We weren’t sure he would harass you, though we reckoned he might. Besides, how do you think that knowledge would have made you feel?” he asked. Then, without waiting for my answer, continued, “You’d be bothered. So, I looked after you instead. I was always with you, wasn’t I? Always made sure that I knew where you were no matter how busy I was. We even became good friends. Did you think I’d let anything happen to you? Had I not gotten sick Friday through that fateful Saturday afternoon, he wouldn’t have had a chance to lay a finger on you.”

I calmed down, but I was confused still. “But you weren’t in the conference room yesterday and today. How could you have known…”

“Mr. Ventura. He was reporting to me.”

My mouth opened up in surprise. “But Mr. Ventura…”

“… was the one who offered you the money, I know. He was instructed by Mr. Uy and Mrs. Canida.”

“So why would he go to you and tell you about what he and the rest of the managers have been doing?”

“Because he’s our undercover. He — he’s the uncle of the girl I just told you about.”

My brows creased as my mouth opened wider. I was so dumbstruck I was unable to utter a word for a long time. Eric, too, didn’t volunteer any more information, allowing me to digest what he’d just shared. “Why didn’t you tell me those things yesterday, when I told you what had happened?” I asked after a while.

“Three reasons. First, I told you, I wasn’t allowed to say anything about my mission. Second, I didn’t want to influence you on your decision. Lastly, I knew you’d do the right thing.”

“You couldn’t be so sure about that. I myself am not sure I did the right thing. Until now.”

“Then maybe I knew you more than you know yourself,” he smiled. “I knew that for a while, you may feel tempted, but you’d always do what’s right. You’re a decent person, Jhannie. I swear, older people could learn a thing or two from you.”

“What if I accepted the money? What would you have thought of me, then?”

“Funny it didn’t occur to me that you would,” he replied. “But I think I could understand if you did. Your family needs money. Either way, you’ll always be my friend.”

I bowed my head. I didn’t know what to say. Again, we were quiet for a long time.

“Thank you,” I said, looking up, tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Anytime,” he replied, smiling.

I meant to smile back at him. But instead of a nice, grateful smile, a hysterical laugh rang out. It was a relieved, carefree laugh. It was like the laugh of a condemned, good-for-nothing person who just outsmarted the devil by sheer luck. Immediately, I recognized it as mine. I was crying and laughing at the same time. It was crazy. I felt so good. The pain, the hurt, the uncertainty that plagued me are now gone. This morning I felt damned. Now… now I felt so relieved. If not for Eric’s presence, I would have danced, and jumped, and sang at the top of my lungs. But I was worried he’d think I’d gone crazy. But then he, too, was laughing! Had he gone crazy, too?


//Sherma E. Benosa, 2004

Corridors and Alleys

Walk
Out of the alleys
Of shallow imaginings
Of impossible dreams and pursuits
And futile and empty quests.
Such labyrinth's not
Safe.

Tread
Along corridors
Of meaningful endeavors
Lofty undertakings and pursuits
And fundamental journeys.
Such ventures feed the
Soul.


//Also posted in VF's "Living Outside High Walls" as my challenge for him to write poems of this metering: 1-5-7-9-7-5-1.

SIKA AMANG (ROMAN)

Natibkerka nga inkam’ nagsadagan
Iti naunday a panawen sika’t kamang
Adigi a nalinteg, naanus a nangiwanwan
Sarikedkedmi, sika laeng Amang.

Sika daydi bukel nagdisso nadam-eg a daga
A rimmusing, nagagawa ket rimmangpaya
Sika ti puon dagiti amin a nagtagisanga
Nga apon dagiti tumatayab; agawidda kenka.

Sika ti urat pagtalaytayan naruay a taraon
Maibisibis kadagiti sanga ken kadagiti bulong
Sika ti sappupo dagiti bunga ken sabong
Nabsogda’t pammagbaga, ta sikat’ salinong.

Palubusannak nga agkurno kenka, Amang
‘Toy bungat’ saringitmo, itandudona 'ta nagan
Iti agnanayon sika ti innak pagtamedan
Tibker pammatim, isu’t innak pagtaklinan.


//Sherma E. Benosa; April 12, 2007; 11:07pm
For myAmang, Roman Bona Benosa
on his 88th birthday, March 28, 2007

Some thoughts on looking back

Dwelling on the past may not be the most brilliant thing to do. But to move forward without looking back once in a while can prove to be fatal to the soul. —Sherma Benosa, 2003

It is not bad to look back to our past. It only becomes unhealthy when we do it much too often, and when we allow the past to hinder us from moving forward. While we may need to have our sights focused on what lay ahead, we also need to look back to our past once in a while to strengthen our resolve to move on. —Sherma E. Benosa, April 14, 2007 while on final stopover during my trip to NV

Looking back may serve as a test of how strong we have become as a person, despite (or rather, because of) our experiences, including those that brought pain to our heart, tears to our eyes, torture to our mind, and anguish to our soul. It is when we can look back to the past without getting hurt — and with acceptance, if not understanding — that we know we have definitely moved on. —Sherma E. Benosa, April 14, 2007 while on final stopover during my trip to NV

Sunset by the Sea

Fiery shades of red
Dazzle across the canvas;
A tint of orange
Lingers in the Painter’s brush;
Hush the vast expanse.

Enchanting music
Of waves coming home to shore
Serenades the Sun
Lulling in the horizon;
Precious peace, she hums!

Breathtaking colors
Gleam in the serene waters;
A few shades of gray
Serve as the tableau’s backdrop;
What a lovely sight!

Two souls sit in awe
Enthralled by the glorious scene
Flashing above them
The masterpiece, the treasure
Of the Master’s hand.

Two hearts deeply touched
Go warm and supple and lithe
Turn to each other
Talking of love and prom’ses;
A soft vow is made

As gleaming silh’ette
Gracefully makes her entrance;
And li’l sparklers
Disperse themselves far and wide;
Night has fin’lly come.

//A poem I was able to create from pieces of verses I posted when I challenged MCP to a duel using 5-7-5-7-5 metering (an extended version of haiku. This metering we called ChaikuS)

//First posted in Kamarin ni MSB in Clifton Pascua's blog in iluko.com, April 11, 2007