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| This bebe just gave birth to four bebes last Saturday. She had 2 salt and pepper kittens, one pure black (like Midnight), and one pure white. I want to name one of those kittens EDSA since they were born on February 25. If you're interested to become a human of one of these bebes, let me know. The white one is already taken. :) |
Monday, February 27, 2012
Happy EDSA day!
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Daydreams of a Writer Wannabe
I look at my ringless fingers and imagine a big, glittering diamond ring on my left ring finger, creating prisms across the room's walls whenever touched by the the light. I couldn't resist and drew a band around the finger with my violet colored pen, adding a one-peso coin sized diamond as its decoration. My seatmate looked at me with curiosity. I snatched my hand away from his view and gave him my best imitation of Lady Gaga's poker face. Mind your own business, buddy.
I pretended to focus on what the speaker was saying; something about rich media banner ads being the next best thing to TV ads. The speaker wore thick red-rimmed glasses, her hair in a tight ponytail, and her eyebrows arched to perfection making her look like the wicked queen in Snow White. Her hands were moving in cadence with her voice to emphasize the point she was making. I couldn't help but notice that she had two rings, each on one hand. On the right was a cocktail ring - one of those fashionable big fancy rings that usually meant nothing - while on the left was a silver band. If there was a stud there, I wouldn't know. It was hard for me to see it from where I was sitting.
What was wrong with me? I signed up for the seminar to have a better appreciation of how advertising can work in the Internet. Somehow, I find myself conjuring images of my dream wedding proposal, 20 minutes after the presentation began. Maybe it's the speaker's fault. Her demeanor lacked warmth; she seems detached like she's alone in the room without ten pairs of eyes looking at her. Or maybe it was the tone of her voice. It has that machine gun quality, intrusive and hard on the ears. Or maybe it's really me. My lack of interest, my pretentious attempt to become enthusiastic over something I don't give a shit about.
The smell of brewed coffee fills the room. It was a small room with full blast air-conditioning that reminds me of Mt. Pulag. I'd rather be anywhere but here. I look around and see the same look of boredom in the other attendees' faces and realize I might as well be looking at myself in a mirror. I absently tap my pen on my wooden desk, eliciting dirty looks from the speaker and from other participants. I raised a hand up in apology.
What I really want to do is to write, to invent stories. I imagine myself completing my first short story collection, a novella filled with stories of love, of war, of simple epiphanies that shape one's life. Or maybe a story about myself: of my quest to find my own "bramasole" and how I found my place under the sun - whether Tuscan or not. Jonathan Safran Foer will visit me and we'll exchange story ideas over espresso in an Italian piazza. I envision myself winning the Nobel for Literature and delivering my speech on how this book, this collection, is my legacy to mankind.
The speaker delivers one of her machine gun monologues and the only word I was able to capture was 'catapult'. Catapult, to jumpstart. I sigh at my choice of synonym. How can I catapult my writing career when my time is eaten by my 9-5 job? I cannot afford to write full-time. What with no time, no house to call my own (I'm not homeless, I mean I'm renting), no savings fund to lean on, writing needs to take a backseat and I have to continue this pretense of paying attention to the seminar if I want to move up the corporate ladder and keep the lifestyle I'm living now.
I pull my jacket closer to me as the air-conditioning bites into my skin, as if it was someone's hand, reaching out to pinch me awake from my daydreams. Someday, I will write that collection. That someday will come and I will have my day. But for now, I'd have to be content with writing concise ad copies and attending seminars to fill up my days.
I pretended to focus on what the speaker was saying; something about rich media banner ads being the next best thing to TV ads. The speaker wore thick red-rimmed glasses, her hair in a tight ponytail, and her eyebrows arched to perfection making her look like the wicked queen in Snow White. Her hands were moving in cadence with her voice to emphasize the point she was making. I couldn't help but notice that she had two rings, each on one hand. On the right was a cocktail ring - one of those fashionable big fancy rings that usually meant nothing - while on the left was a silver band. If there was a stud there, I wouldn't know. It was hard for me to see it from where I was sitting.
What was wrong with me? I signed up for the seminar to have a better appreciation of how advertising can work in the Internet. Somehow, I find myself conjuring images of my dream wedding proposal, 20 minutes after the presentation began. Maybe it's the speaker's fault. Her demeanor lacked warmth; she seems detached like she's alone in the room without ten pairs of eyes looking at her. Or maybe it was the tone of her voice. It has that machine gun quality, intrusive and hard on the ears. Or maybe it's really me. My lack of interest, my pretentious attempt to become enthusiastic over something I don't give a shit about.
The smell of brewed coffee fills the room. It was a small room with full blast air-conditioning that reminds me of Mt. Pulag. I'd rather be anywhere but here. I look around and see the same look of boredom in the other attendees' faces and realize I might as well be looking at myself in a mirror. I absently tap my pen on my wooden desk, eliciting dirty looks from the speaker and from other participants. I raised a hand up in apology.
What I really want to do is to write, to invent stories. I imagine myself completing my first short story collection, a novella filled with stories of love, of war, of simple epiphanies that shape one's life. Or maybe a story about myself: of my quest to find my own "bramasole" and how I found my place under the sun - whether Tuscan or not. Jonathan Safran Foer will visit me and we'll exchange story ideas over espresso in an Italian piazza. I envision myself winning the Nobel for Literature and delivering my speech on how this book, this collection, is my legacy to mankind.
The speaker delivers one of her machine gun monologues and the only word I was able to capture was 'catapult'. Catapult, to jumpstart. I sigh at my choice of synonym. How can I catapult my writing career when my time is eaten by my 9-5 job? I cannot afford to write full-time. What with no time, no house to call my own (I'm not homeless, I mean I'm renting), no savings fund to lean on, writing needs to take a backseat and I have to continue this pretense of paying attention to the seminar if I want to move up the corporate ladder and keep the lifestyle I'm living now.
I pull my jacket closer to me as the air-conditioning bites into my skin, as if it was someone's hand, reaching out to pinch me awake from my daydreams. Someday, I will write that collection. That someday will come and I will have my day. But for now, I'd have to be content with writing concise ad copies and attending seminars to fill up my days.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Sabado (Part 1)
Nagising siya dahil sa nakakabinging putok ng machine gun mula sa kanyang panaginip. Sa totoong mundo, tila isang sanggol na walang tigil sa pag-iyak ang kanyang alarm clock na nakapwesto sa mesang katabi ng kanyang kama. Buti na lang at panaginip lang ang lahat, kanyang nasabi sa sarili.
Bakit kaya ganoon ang mga panaginip? Kadalasang hindi lohikal. Weird. Maliban sa huling bahagi ay wala na siyang naalala pa sa kanyang panaginip. Kasali pa nga ang kanyang mga alagang pusa doon. Sa panaginip tatlo ang alaga niya, pero sa totoong buhay dalawa lamang. Ang putok ng baril ay galing sa dalawang kapitbahay niya na nagtungo sa tapat ng kanilang bahay. Isang babae at isang lalaki na parehong nakatakip ang mga mukha. Tinawag niyang 'Jenny' ang babae ngunit ang lalaki ay hindi niya kilala. Wala naman talaga silang kapitbahay na Jenny ang pangalan at lalong wala silang kagalit sa kanilang komunidad. Mula sa nakabukas na bintana ay isinuksok ni Jenny ang machine gun upang magpapaputok. Dali dali naman siyang dumapa malapit sa bintana upang saklolohan ang isa sa kanyang mga pusa na nakaupo sa ilalim nito. Sakto nga lang at naitabi niya ang kanyang kaliwang tenga sa baril kaya halos wala siyang marinig matapos nitong pumutok. Sa puntong iyon ay nagising na nga siya.
Kaunting inat at bumangon na rin siya mula sa higaan. Sabi ng wall clock, alas-otso ng umaga pa lamang. Napaaga ang gising niya, kadalasang alas-10 na siya gumigising kapag Sabado. Alam niyang imposibleng bumalik pa siya sa pagtulog, lalo na't malinaw pa sa kanyang isip ang bangungot niya kanina.Wala din naman siyang planong lumabas o gumimik nang ganuon kaaga.
Lumabas siya mula sa kanyang kuwarto at marahang binagtas ang hagdan pababa, patungo sa unang palapag nang bahay. Lumangitngit ang kahoy na hagdan na tila nagrereklamo sa bigat ng kanyang katawan. Luma na talaga ang kanilang bahay; ilang bagyo na din ang sumubok sa tibay ng pundasyon nito. Kung sakaling bumagyo ng malakas o kung, wag naman sanang loobin ng Diyos, lumindol ng mahigit pa sa 6 ang intensity sa Richter scale, posibleng masira na nang tuluyan ang bahay na tinatawag nilang tahanan sa mahigit na 15 taon.
Natanaw niya si Puti, ang kanilang pusa, tila hinihintay siya sa unang baitang ng hagdanan. Maliksi itong umakyat at nang umabot sa kung saan siya nakatayo ay naglambing na tila hinahalikan ang kanyang talampakan. "Magandang umaga, Puti. Ngayong araw ka na ba manganganak?" malambing din niyang tanong dito. Isang mahinang 'nyaw' ang isinagot ni Puti at lalo pang ikiniskis ang sarili sa kanyang binti. Sabay silang bumaba ng hagdan at dumiretso siya sa kusina kung saan nagtimpla siya ng kape.
Kape. Hindi lalampas ang isang araw na hindi siya umiinom ng kape. Dalawang tasa sa umaga at isa sa merienda. Isa ang kape sa mga ritwal niya sa umaga, Sabado man o hindi.
Kape. Hindi lalampas ang isang araw na hindi siya umiinom ng kape. Dalawang tasa sa umaga at isa sa merienda. Isa ang kape sa mga ritwal niya sa umaga, Sabado man o hindi.
(Itutuloy...)
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
OHMAYGHAAD #2 or the Daily Countdown to V-Day
I am 25 years old and I am single I’ve been single most of my waking hours. It’s not something that I am ashamed of. What with the scarcity of real men (figuratively and literally) nowadays, it is not an abnormality to find yourself without a boyfriend these days. I know a lot of women who can relate to this. Women who are fulfilled in their own chosen paths; strong women who recognize that life is indeed sweet and that it can be sweeter when you have someone who loves you (and who you love back).
There are certain norms in society that makes a 25-year old woman feel old which men will never be able to feel until they’re pushing 40. It would be hypocritical to say “F*ck social pressure.” because I do feel the pressure of my own biological clock ticking away. More than that, it is that feeling you have that you’ve done most things happily on your own, in your own way and that you want to share these things that make you happy with someone else. This is not desperation talking for the sole reason that “wanting to have someone” and “will die If I will not have someone immediately” are not the same things.
Yes, this post was conceived because Valentine’s Day is just a week away. Most of the time, we singles say that it is just one capitalistic event. Let’s admit, though, that it also makes us contemplate on why we are still single. If you don’t feel this way, lucky you. For me, however, (and for most of my friends) discussions about singledom begin on February faster than you can say 'leap year'. And yes, I admit that sometimes, at the end of a tiring day it would be good to have someone whom you can share the details of your day with; someone who’ll make you swoon every time he smiles at you; someone to simply hold hands with. :)
There are certain norms in society that makes a 25-year old woman feel old which men will never be able to feel until they’re pushing 40. It would be hypocritical to say “F*ck social pressure.” because I do feel the pressure of my own biological clock ticking away. More than that, it is that feeling you have that you’ve done most things happily on your own, in your own way and that you want to share these things that make you happy with someone else. This is not desperation talking for the sole reason that “wanting to have someone” and “will die If I will not have someone immediately” are not the same things.
Yes, this post was conceived because Valentine’s Day is just a week away. Most of the time, we singles say that it is just one capitalistic event. Let’s admit, though, that it also makes us contemplate on why we are still single. If you don’t feel this way, lucky you. For me, however, (and for most of my friends) discussions about singledom begin on February faster than you can say 'leap year'. And yes, I admit that sometimes, at the end of a tiring day it would be good to have someone whom you can share the details of your day with; someone who’ll make you swoon every time he smiles at you; someone to simply hold hands with. :)
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