i'm gonna wear my travelin' pants, at last

In a few hours, I'm gonna fly to Singapore with my mom and sister. Yup! This momma is gonna have a vacation. Needless to say, I am excited. My last trip outside the Pinas was back in 1999! Although I would have loved to bring the whole caboodle (kids & hubby) along, I've been looking forward to spending some time away from the domestic scenery. (Besides, if all goes well, we may have a real family vacation next month at HK.)

images from my childhood: beaches

I love the beach! If I had a choice between living in Manila or living in the coastal towns of Zambales or Ilocos, I would choose the latter. However, my life is here; it is circumscribed by obligations to my family, my work and my friends in this city. Moreover, I am not ready to give up the comforts of cable tv, the excitement of shopping malls, and the overall ease of living despite the turbulent economic conditions we are currently facing.

Nevertheless, the beach beckons me, at least, every summer. God blessed this country of ours with miles and miles of sandy beaches, it might take a lifetime to even experience half of them.

My mom grew up in a tiny town named Pulot along the coast of Batangas Bay. She lived near the ocean for half of her life, leaving it all to pursue her college dreams in Manila and raising her own family later on. When my father died, I believed my mom longed to go back to her roots, to where she grew up, to be with her father and siblings, but of course she couldn’t let us live there. She knew it would prove to be difficult. Instead she insisted on the next best thing: that we visit her hometown every December and summer vacations.

Traveling to Batangas City from Manila took around two hours by bus. From there on, we would take a scary and bumpy jeepney ride along the dusty, rough, and zigzagged roads going to Pulot. It was a terribly unpleasant journey, if not for the anticipation of something really awesome and beautiful around the last bend: an unobstructed view of the ocean. It never ceased to amaze me. The ocean was sometimes like a sheet of shiny blue paper that reflected the bluest daytime sky and sometimes it was a troubled, chaotic cauldron of unrelenting forces of nature. It stirred emotions of awe and humility, agitation and trepidation in me. The moment I saw the ocean, in whatever state of activity it was in, whether tranquil or turbulent, was the singular moment that made the exhausting trip seemed trivial.

We would stay in my aunt’s house in Pulot for a few days where Time seemed to stand still or go so slowly. The day seemed to stretch for hours on end. I don’t particularly remember being in a hurry during those times, one could take walks along the beach, pick up a few pretty shells, throw some rocks into the ocean and see how many times it skims the water’s surface, take a dip (weather permitting) in the sea, make toy boats out of dried coconuts and see whose boat goes the farthest without capsizing, and lie on a bamboo bed (papag) under the sampaloc tree.

We would only leave our little beach playground when my mom or my aunt calls us to eat merienda or lunch. Our favorite native food was the suman, made of sticky rice and wrapped in banana leaves, which I learned later on was the reason for the suman’s green coloring on the surface. You could eat it as it is but I was partial to putting latik (coconut shavings that were fried and caramelized) on it and having a cup of kapeng barako (brewed coffee) on the side.

Sometimes at night, we would wait for the fishermen to go out into the sea, some of whom were my older cousins, and turn on their lamps (Alladin, they called them, which I suspect is the brand name of the torch) to attract the fish. They don’t do this on a full moon because the fish get confused with the light coming from the moon. As a child, I was fascinated by all this activity. It seemed so romantic; to catch fish this way was like poetry in motion. It was not just casting a net and be done with it. One must have the patience and tenacity to withstand nature and human competition.

Life was never really easy for the people of Pulot. Most of my relatives have migrated to the city proper, leaving behind the sand, the beach, the sea. I wonder if they miss it as much as I do.

walking wounded

One afternoon, I decided to visit one of the biggest bookstores in Manila in an effort to indulge in my loneliness. It was a refuge for a person searching for answers. And from a book entitled “The Beach”, I found this line,

“I carry a lot of scars.”

Instantly, I made the connection.

Each one of us has had scars from various events that happened in the past. I remember a friend from college who got the butt of the guys’ jokes because of her legs, which would not exactly fit a beauty queen’s profile. However, instead of getting depressed about the incident, she proudly claimed that her legs show more character than that of any fashion model. It has scars: marks from falling off a bicycle on her first try; marks from falling down on the pavement while running after her cousins; marks from falling off their window while imitating one of those “superheroes”; and a few more bumps and bruises. They were all there – dark, irregular shapes that formed like a map to her past. Each scar had a story to tell. She would never trade them for perfectly smooth legs.

Personally, that line from “The Beach” fit my own profile as well. I do carry a lot of scars. I have a big one on my forehead from getting sick with the chicken pox, a month into a new relationship (he’s my husband now). For a while, I had a long one, which stretched from my right ankle up to my right hip. A pesky protruding nail caused that minor fatality that ended my bid for Miss Universe (har! har!) And now I have all these small black spots on my legs due to my allergy attacks. (Medical science is the pits. They couldn’t cure me of my allergies and their wonder drugs leave these unsightly imprints all over my body.)

There are visible scars that I shall bear till the end of my lifetime. But there are invisible scars, too. They are invisible to the naked eye but they are there;I could attest to that. It is not the body that carries them but the soul and the spirit.

I heard about these three girls, so much younger that I am. Yet their own abusive father or brother snatched their youth away from them. Their wounds are not of the flesh alone but of the very core of their being.

I, too, bear such scars. Though mine are brought about by different circumstances. When I was a child, a relative of mine laughed at my initial attempt to sing. My heart was crushed. When I tried to get into a science high school and failed miserably, it not only broke my mom’s hopes for me, it also broke my spirit. And when I found my first love and had to let him go, I knew my wounds would never heal.

On hindsight, for a long time, I believe now that I have been walking wounded on the face of the earth, without even being aware of it. Aren’t we all?

memories

"All these years I've had this story...a story about us...that never really existed...and because of that story, I've kept you framed up on a wall...in a little box of nostalgic moonlight...and in keeping you in that little box was the only way I knew I could really have you..." - George, "The Love Letter"


I've been wondering about this thing called "memory" for some time now. Do our memories really tell the truth about someone or something from our past? Or do our minds play tricks on us sometimes? Can memory ever be objective and unbiased? Or do we have a tendency to amplify our memories of people we loved?

One thing I know for sure is that memory is fleeting, temporal. It can deteriorate or completely disappear, with or without our control.

And maybe God made it that way so that we would not take anything for granted. So that we may live in the present moment, every day, every minute, every second.

remember me

i shall not see your face
nor hear your voice,
nor feel your hand,
nor taste your kiss,
yet i know it is of an angel,
but you have gone home
much too soon.

will you recognize my voice
when you hear me speak
in the great halls
of His kingdom?

will you remember how much
i loved you
before we even met?

hope is my only companion in this loneliness.
faith is my only shield from fear.
love is my only gift for you.

remember me, my baby.

- for a friend on this day of sadness

images

last night, as we were eating dinner, i heard a weird sound coming from outside our house. i'm not very good at describing it, but i figured that it must be a cricket. (by the way, what's that in tagalog? kuliglig ba?) although i did trace its location (which was the drainage in the garage), i didn't really see the creature that was making the sound. (it was strange to hear that sound in the city, i've always associated that with the countryside.)

when we were young, my mom always took us to her hometown in batangas during the summer and christmas holidays. since there's no electricity, most of our activities were done in the daytime. after supper, there's no tv to watch, no karaoke to sing along with. it was hot and humid sometimes and it was dark outside. one of the things people love to do at night is "porching" (a term i read recently in country living magazine): friends and family gather in the porch ("balcon") and talk just about anything.

and on one of those evenings, i remember seeing these tiny twinkling lights on the tree in front of my grandfather's house. and my mom told me that they were actually fireflies. i guess you could say that it was a magical sight to behold for a young girl because i have never forgotten that image. and sadly, i never saw another one again. for i am a city girl and the lights that i see at night are mostly neon signs, street lights, and the fluorescent and incandescent light bulbs in the houses of my neighborhood.

when my Mamay passed away many years back, most of my aunts and uncles also migrated to the city of batangas, so our later sojourns were unlike those we had in Ilijan or Pulot. although they still like to talk in the evenings, gone are the twinkling fireflies, gone are the incessant sound of the crickets, gone is the magical image of my childhood. it's just plain talk.

**********************************************************************

going back to the present cricket incident: as i sat back down at the dinner table, i made a comment to my husband, "it's just ronnie cricket!" (get the pun?) and i suddenly remembered this has-been actor ronnie ricketts. now, i am not an action movie fan, much less a pinoy action movie fan, but i just realized that he's not been making movies recently. which prompted my husband to comment: "san ka nakakita ng action star na stick-to-one sa asawa niya?" you see, ronnie has not been linked to any other woman inside or outside showbiz except to his wife, the former singer, mariz. ok, that's as far as i know, i'm not really into this showbiz gossip stuff, you know. ;)

and that's how our discussion over image came to be. case in point: the bad boy of philippine cinema, robin padilla. his popularity and notoriety was at its peak, when he made the "baby ama" movie. he shaved his head. a lot of prison inmates, boys and men from tondo and other parts of the city shaved their heads. he was idolized. at that time, i think he was involved with the most beautiful women in the country. and a lot more would have volunteered to have his baby. (am i giving his virility too much credit?) then, he got into deep trouble and was sent to prison.

flash forward: he was released from prison a few years ago. and now, robin has embraced "the peacemaker" image. he has converted to islam. has been projecting an image of a family man (although his legitimate family is thousands of miles away in australia). he's basically a "good guy" now. so is he still popular? not really.

so i asked my husband, does this mean that filipinos like their action heroes to be bad because they condone this kind of behavior? or worse, idolize this kind of behavior? if yes, why? i heard somewhere that movies are a form of escape for the masses, which is why they are most likely drawn to characters/actors/stars who are larger-than-life, someone who fights for their cause (whether in the reel or real world), and someone who could do the things they could only dream of.

still, too bad for good guys like ronnie ricketts...they are set aside and nearly forgotten...images of them fading from our memories...

no matter what or who we are

Reese Witherspoon’s acceptance speech at the 78th Oscars is bound to be quoted for days (or years) to come. In that short sentence, in which she actually quoted June Carter, she has struck a chord in the hearts of men and women across the globe: “I’m just trying to matter.” That is a common thread that binds us all: the wish to be valued for who we are. Utimately, to be loved for who we are.

Unlike Reese and those in society who have power, fortune and fame, I am an ordinary person. A common woman. My circle of influence shall not span across the Philippines, much less the entire world. And yet, like June Carter, I try to be of value, which I hope I am, especially to my family.

So when I heard a husband talked about loving his wife because she is the mother of their children, I became a little afraid of the same prospect for myself. And it is not without good reason. For I have seen men who are so enamored with their children that they have relegated their wives as mere postscripts to the fact. She has brought forth the seeds of his legacy, and thus, the deed is done. Some men, of course, institute their wives to the caring and raising of their children, another one of the reasons for her usefulness. The man, generally, earns the prime source of income for the family, but even if the woman is productively employed, her main obligation is still their home, her husband and the children.

As I voiced this concern to a friend, I was reminded that “motherhood is the noblest of all occupations. So it is nothing to be afraid of or ashamed of, if your husband values you or loves you because of that.” It didn’t surprise me to hear my friend say that, being a man himself. No matter how in touch he was with his feminine side, it would still take a woman to understand what a woman feels.

What I wanted him to understand was that I wanted my husband to see me, not as someone who would serve his purposes, whatever they may be, but see me as someone he loves for no other reason than my being who I am.

Yes, I am now a proud mother of two children. Yes, I am now a wife. Yes, I am a partner in this institution called marriage. But I am also a woman. I have my own thoughts, dreams, ideals, principles, and most of all, emotions. I am my own person, separate and independent of other human beings.

In “The Stations of Solitude,” Alice Koller presented her idea of loving:
Loving a man and his loving me would have to be of the same sort: having no purpose beyond our loving one another…I would not need him, nor he me. We would only want each other: want to be part of one another’s lives, want one another’s good, want to be one another’s best friend, want one another sexually as the supervening benison on our being one another’s best friend.

Having said that, it is also imperative that before one enters into marriage, before one becomes a mother, one must become “a complete person.” For our spouses nor our children have the obligation to fulfill us, it is ours, and ours alone.

A scene from the movie “Jerry Maguire” comes to my mind: A deaf-mute couple was in the elevator with Jerry and Dorothy. And when they left, Jerry wondered what the guy told (using sign language) his girlfriend. And Dorothy said, “You complete me.” I have to admit that when I saw that movie, that particular scene and the scene where Jerry comes back to Dorothy, I thought that that was how love should and would be. It was hopelessly romantic of me to believe that it was true. Hopeless being the operative word there.

Now, I still believe in love, but not the kind that asks for dependency and possession. D. H. Lawrence was quoted to have said that, “marriage should be a combining of two whole, independent existences, not a retreat, an annexation, a flight, a remedy.”

A. S. Byatt wrote in “Possession”, “how true it was that one needed to be seen by others to be sure of one’s own existence.” And how true it is, especially in an intimate relationship such as marriage. It is the burden that we put into the institution that strains the exact thread that connects us.

But that is how it is. We need to be seen. We need to be loved. We need to be loved for who we are. We need to matter. No matter what or who we are.

may the force be with you...

found this neat site thru Filipino Librarian...just for fun.

soulcraftwriter -- [noun]: A master blogger 'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

so who do you look like?

Just for kicks...I tried this site My Heritage and saw my look-alike. I was surprised, but very flattered, even though we only had a similarity rating of 56%. I think, I look more like Christina Ricci. What do you think?

Erica Jong & Half-Lives

On my second visit to Bound Bookshop, I chanced upon a woman with blonde hair and beautiful blue eyes on the cover of a paperback book. It was a book of poems by a poet named Erica Jong. And the blue-eyed woman was Erica Jong herself. It was love at first sight. I loved her even before I read her poems. Although when I browsed the book and read some of her poems at random, I closed the book and forgot about her for awhile.

Then, one unusually quiet morning, when the kids and my husband were sleeping late, I decided to have an early breakfast of garlic rice, eggs, luncheon meat and Erica Jong's poems.

I read them aloud, taking full advantage of my early morning solitude. And when I came to read the "Prologue/The Evidence" from the book "Half-Lives", I unraveled and wept endlessly.

(As far as I can recall, there were only two poems that have really moved me to tears. Sad to say, I have no idea where to find those two poems now. One was written by a good friend who could not remember where she wrote that poem: it would take an exploration of her stacks of boxes in her storage room, reading every piece of paper, which requires time and patience, both of which she could not muster at the moment. She assured me, though, that if she did write it on her journal, she would find it and give it to me. So I am praying for that miracle.

Finding the other poem would take more than a miracle, though. I read it when I was still in college (which was eons ago), in the Sunday Inquirer. Can't remember the date, the poem, the poet. All I remember was the effect it had on me. It was heartbreaking and my heart was broken then, so I took it as sympathetic to my plight. It spoke to me; it spoke of my pain. It knew. That was all I needed then. )

Erica Jong wrote:
"Why does life need evidence
of life?
We disbelieve it
even as we live."

What evidence do I have that those two poems existed? I have no physical proof. Nothing to show for. I could not even remember the words. All I have is the memory of what I felt about them. And even memory is fleeting, temporal. In a few years, I may get Alzheimer's, and forget every thing about myself or life. So maybe by writing about it, setting it down in print, in black and white, I have asked for forgiveness of my carelessness, of my taking for granted the temporal nature of things on earth, of my inability to remember: I ached. I cried. I was touched. Maybe that is evidence enough.)

I have no photograph of you.
At times I hardly can believe in you.
Except this ache,
this longing in my gut,
this emptiness which theorizes you
because if there is emptiness this deep,
there must be fullness somewhere.
(from "Prologue/The Evidence", Erica Jong)