This blog is sorta history. I’ve been suffering from writer’s block for, say five months now. But I promise to write a new post soon– soon enough after checking answer sheets, editing term papers and computing grades. I still believe that the universe will pull us all to our very first loves. Mine is writing. And blogging. Check this new addition to the blogosphere. Another blog. Same writer. Same feelings. With a different tongue. Lathala at Katha
I have never written about her. And I had never confessed how much I love her.
It was hard scribbling the words that would not fully make sense until I meant them. I know she isn’t a fan of poetries or of love letters and flowers. So here I find myself writing out of rhymes and nosebleed-worthy Shakespearean lines, hoping my number one fan would have something to cut out and keep like the other articles I have written in our school publication.
I will stop writing for her and finally write about her.
I am her boy. Her only son. She gave me birth 2 days before her 23rd birthday. She was young then, but was even younger when she bore my elder sister at 19.
A young mom she was but it never made her less than a mother for us, for me.
I remember how I would go unruly whenever she taught me how to read the simple ABCs. I would throw my tantrums and cry my uneasiness. I was stubborn. No, I am. But she would always show her compassion and understanding, seeing me in the brink of my tears after her sometimes tongue-lashing admonitions. I had never understood why she would always put me to bed at 1 pm and spank me while I run my way out from my siesta. I had never understood why she would always insist in making me swallow the veggies I thought would let me puke my intestines out. I had never understood why she never let me play with the dunes backyard.
I had never understood her being overprotective and her being a mother to me. And I think I’d never fully understand and comprehend how a love of a mother is.
She that had suffered months of nausea while I suck my thumb on her womb never falls to sleep whenever I complain of flu. She that had labored for my birth never let a sole mosquito get near me. She that had took care of me, breastfed me and taught me how to walk already accepted the truth that I’ll be walking away from home someday.
I could not remember anymore how many time have I let her cry. I think I would not be able to reckon. But I’m certain that the times she hurt me were all because of my erroneous acts. Perhaps, being mother makes you miss your own comfort just for your children. That kind of love is something no dictionary could completely and genuinely define.
I would usually imagine what if I was born of a different mother. Then, I would stop imagining because the thought is empty. No good scene comes out. It will be next to impossible.
I could not ask anything from God right now, but make my mother happy. She would not show how proud she is of me but I could feel it. I could see it from her words, bragging to my aunts about my article published in a national paper. I could feel how thrilled she was when I won competitions during high school. I saw her cry while I did my salutatory speech in grade school. And until now, I feel it. The love she has for me did not stop the day she bore another child after me. She loves me, she loves the three of us – even if my elder sister got pregnant at an early age, even if my gender orientation and preference were not something she was happy about, even if my younger sister was a dropout.
She loves us, no matter what. And through this, I would like to convey how blessed I am that she is my mother. I would never repay the things she had sacrificed. And I pray she knows that I love her even if I do not say or show it.
My mother, Maria, was more of a gift to me than I was to her.
I want to make her happy not just for a day. I want to make her happy while I am living.
I would go back to the delivery room where, after long sighs and minutes of pains, motherhood becomes official.
I know I don’t always need a mothers’ day to write about her – the woman who gave me the world and who gave the world me.
For so long as my pen doesn’t run out of ink – even without words of rhymes and poetic lines – for her, I continue to write.
I’m also in twitter: @angtweetnimike
I thought I would never write about you again.
I am lost of metaphorical titles and figurative lines. Those things I never wanted to lose had gone with the blow from my cigarette’s smoke. They afloat and mislay their core in the air. Words come flashing through my mind with indistinct gist. These fingers cannot comprehend comprehension. And I fear I am not writing a note but a poetry cocooned in a prose.
I thought I would never write about you.
I thought I am lost of words and memories and pains.
I am not.
And there you are sitting beside me. Laughing. You’re telling the stories again. And I feel your breath. There you sit right beside me. For all I know, only in my reverie.
Only in those can I hear you speaking to me again unaltered. Without awkwardness. Just like before. Only in thoughts will I see you smiling for me again, showing your imperfect teeth that I love more than the thousands’ perfect grins. Only in those figments will I be able to feel the roughness of your palm, and fingers that once had played my favorite symphony.
They are called memories because they already are done. They would not happen again. They would never happen once again.
It hurt. It hurts. It will hurt.
But it is through all these pains and heartbreaks and tears that I know that I had loved. Truly.
Even if it was not said. Even if it was kept. I had loved.
And I would write…
Perhaps not all about you. Not about us for there is no us. Not about the things I am already done writing. Not about poets with unfinished poems. Not about singers with broken tones. Not about my fingers that are finally letting go. Not about my heart. Not about you and your you. Not about unstoppable pains and heartbeats.
It will not be all about the same things again. For there is no sense of repeating, not until you would learn to write about me.
But before that happens, I know I will be writing again…
Not for you. But for someone else.
In this times when teenage satisfactions are determined by ‘likes’ and ‘follows,’ a one-month old kitten is killed and a puppy is hang dried.
Gone are the days when brutality only meant savage human killings and cannibalism. Tweets and statuses replace the 300-pages pad-locked diaries. Photos, in one click, spread through virtual albums. A boy is convicted of ‘animal cruelty’ because of a blog post. Another teenage lad is being sought after by the police after posting pictures of a cute puppy pinned in a clothesline.
The cat-killer’s name is Joseph Carlo Candare. He was a Physics student of the University of the Philippines when the news broke. His blurry pictures flashed through the screens when he blogged about the death of Tengteng – a stray cat he killed on 2009.
“I pulled it (the cat) on its tail and threw it. Then like some pro wrestler I jumped on it and my feet landed on its torso. Slam! Felt good,” Candare wrote on his blog.
It was yet a short time after the post when ‘animal-loving’ netizens condemned him. Posters of him ‘wanted alive or dead’ ran through different websites. Pages in FB speaking he should be slammed too, had been a hit. It was an instant shame, not fame. And it’s funny how people have been too cruel for a person which once had been ‘cruel’ to animals. The non-mention of his name in the television news was futile because he became a wanted celebrity in the virtual world.
Two years after, he pleaded guilty of animal cruelty filed by the Philippine Animal Welfare Society (PAWS). He was convicted with a P1000 fine and voluntary works in PAWS, taking care 200 abandoned and maltreated cats. His was the first successful conviction of someone accused of animal cruelty in the Philippines. He learned his lesson. But other teens did not seem to have learned the same.
Another teenage boy is facing charges of animal cruelty. Jerzon Senador pinned his puppy in a laundry line like it was a piece of a newly washed cloth on June 2011. The internet went abuzz shortly after he uploaded several of the ‘disturbing’ photos and, apparently, in less than 24 hours he got himself into snag when animal and pet lovers immediately created and supported a Facebook page “Report Jerzon Senador the Animal Abuser” purposely “to raise awareness regarding animal cruelty.” More than 4,300 netizens liked the page.
Senador apologized through a post in FB saying “Gusto ko humingi ng tawad sa nagawa kong kasalanan sa aking alagang aso.. Sana mapatawad nyo ako at pinapangako ko na hindi na mauulit… “but shortly, after minutes, he had an equally disturbing post saying “Hahaha, hnd ako makukulong noh.. remember senador toh! aquh ng pa2pad ng Animal cruelty at kya kong bawiin yun! ahahahaha”
The Municipal Trial Court of Calamba, Laguna issued a warrant of arrest against him for violation of Republic Act 8485 or the Animal Welfare Act. The boy is nowhere to be found right now.
These may serve a lesson to us. It is never good to share too many information through the internet, at the very first place, so is the being cruel to animals and to JC and to Jerzon.
One click and everything worsens. This is the power of the internet. Each netizen should be extra careful of what he posts and shares. It is still better to share compassion rather than tearing those people’s lives apart. The posts of putting those ‘erring young people’ to shame would not even solve the problems of animal cruelty in the country. Be a tool in sharing, tagging and tweeting about love for animals and people around, instead.
In the end, do not post your cruelty to animals through the internet. I mean, do not be cruel to animals and to the people who had been cruel to them.
Because in this times when teenage satisfactions are determined by ‘likes’ and ‘follows,’ what you feed to the virtual world is much influential than the helpless barks and ‘meows.’
It probably has become the childhood nightmares of the many and it continues up until college.
No. It certainly is more horrible than seeing a chalk eraser flying towards you. It’s even more tiresome than a ten-time jog around the oval; even more perplexing than a 30-minute elementary squat. It’s more heart-breaking than seeing your first love holding some other’s hand. And surely more terrorizing than the professor that had always given you goose bumps (though they can work so good together, really).
Mathematics. The sound of it could send chills through the veins of someone who has totally cursed numbers and fractions all his life. A touch of it could cause nosebleed-worthy talks and uncontrollable brain hemorrhages (exaggerating). It would remind you of devil-red marks on you grade cards, lost scholarships, and even crumpled sheets with unwritten answers. It could even be the reasons of your over-extended college life, million-dollar meals over depression, overnight scratching of heads and life-time unresolved problems.
Though it could be just a piece of cheese cake for the dexters and geniuses out there, it could also the biggest stumble block for those whose brains cannot spare some space for numbers. Many struggle through it. And with this kind of difficulty and problem, no formula would seem work.
According to my best friend Encarta, Mathematics is a way of describing relationships between numbers and other measurable quantities. It can express simple equations as well as interactions among the smallest particles and the farthest objects in the known universe. Mathematics allows scientists to communicate ideas using universally accepted terminology. It is truly the language of science.
Indeed, the innovation of Mathematics is tantamount to the innovation of the modern technologies ate the present. Those who are good in Math have the edge over the others since many of the professions today focuses on technology.
Sadly, not all considers Math as something easy to learn. People had been raised with the thought that Math is something that one doesn’t learn without the innate intelligence about it. You get or you don’t – this is how people put it.
Perhaps it’s true. Perhaps our right brains should be blamed why we are instead good in arts rather that math. And perhaps it is also true that one needs an innate intelligent to get a 1.00 mark in it. But the thing is we must not succumb to our fears and dislikes of numbers.
As what one of my mentors in high school had said, “Do not let your sagacity get wasted. Math is hard but it would even be harder if you run away from it. Do your part in the formula of learning.”
Mathematics is so hard to conquer (especially to those who solely depend on calculators or to the mercy of his seatmate), but students need to pass through the rigors of academic life.
We would be bombarded with numbers and though we so want to run away with them, we still need to find the value of Y.
It probably has become the childhood nightmares of the many and it continues up until who-knows-when.
I know many hearts are of their biggest smiles right now. This is the day for those whose hearts are in the zenith of bliss and ecstasy. This is for the roses and bouquets in the hands of every woman and for those which fragrance will never last til they rot. This is for the boxes of chocolates, of candies and lollipops and of sugars which shall melt before you actually taste them. This is for the love songs, love stories and love notes which messages would echo through the years. This is also for the poems still unwritten, for proposals never said, for smiles which would just turn into tears, for dinners never attended and for hearts who’d always beat for the person not meant to be.
This is a day for happiness and bitterness, for completeness and brokenness, for the most poetic lines and most heart-breaking phrases.
This is for you. For the inks spilled. For the crumpled papers. For the empty smiles. For the shattered days.
This is for the words unsaid. And for my notes unread.
A piece from a yellow notebook
It’s raining so hard. I wonder if this still stops. Just like the rain, I wonder if this sentiment of mine ceases to flow for you. I’ve never seen you today and here i find my self staring at the photograph you’ve taken on my cell. I suppose I’d never stop thinking about you even if the rain suddenly decides to stop.I never though this would run so deep. I want this to end.
I’m disturbed with the thought of you. You’re in my mind in every petty thing I do. I wish I never have to write this but this emotion could really kill me literally.
I’m being stubborn again. I should never throw a look for someone like you. I should never think of someone before going to slumber. I should never be like this. But then, I could never stop my self from falling…
It’s raining so hard and I think of you. I wonder if you also hate the weather this very moment. I wonder what you’re doing or wearing. I wonder if I had ever crossed your mind. I wonder of you also feel “incomplete” not seeing me today. I wonder if you ever think of me. I wonder if you also love me.
It’s raining so hard and I’ve got no idea when shall this stop. I just hope that as the sky slowly clears off, my heart will also stop beating for you. I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t know anything at all. I only know one thing: you are the reason of my struggles.
January 05, 2011
This is actually a very late reaction.
I know. I know. You could call me now a loser for I haven’t known an article of mine was published on a national paper last February 4 (that’s a week and a day ago). I tried sending an article to Philippine Daily Inquirer’s Youngblood for the first time last month without giving a damn if it gets published or not. Of course, I was hoping it would happen but I never expected. Not really.
So there I was receiving a text message from a friend that she had read the article. That was last Friday, exactly 6 days after the issue was released. And I was shocked and had felt a bit bad at the same time (because I’ve known it so late). Nevertheless, I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t even speak a word while the pack was jumping and shouting.
For those who haven’t read. Here’s the article:
Lolo the unforgettable
I remember the times I would run to granny’s room every time he came home drunk at night. As a child, I couldn’t understand then why he was acting the way he did. And I was afraid every time I saw him in that state. But despite my fear of him, I learned to respect him.
Lolo has always been good to his grandchildren. When he was younger, he would bring us fruits fresh from his farm and he loved to play with us and carry us in his arms. My childhood memories of him are still so vivid. And though there’s still that fear of him, I remember him as a very caring grandfather.
My father would tell us stories about how a disciplinarian Lolo was—the spanking, and the kneeling on grains of salt. He would recall in a funny way how he felt when Lolo would come home drunk, which was exactly my feeling too. My father would tell me how he would dance and sing in front of my drunken Lolo. He said he did those funny “foolish” things because he was afraid of Lolo. But through it all, my father still saw in Lolo things he believed he ought to emulate.
Lolo Temio, as we call him, was indisputably a respected leader in our place. A barangay captain for quite a time, he was respected for his accomplishments. This, I believe, was what pushed his sons to continue his legacy of public service.
I remember how big Lolo’s and granny’s smiles were when all of us, their grandchildren, were gathered in their house. We were all unruly, but they never showed a trace of exasperation with our presence. And Lolo, being a good listener, patiently paid attention to my stories no matter how impossible they seemed.
Lolo has only three grandsons (all others are granddaughters), and I’m the closest to him. When I was a small, I loved to sleep with him. He would tell me various things like the war, the flood and many other stories I can’t recall anymore. I played solitaire with him and he always reminded me to be a good son to my parents. I didn’t understand then, but I would tell him, straight up with all innocence, to stop getting drunk because I was afraid of him when he was. And he would just burst into boisterous laughter.
I see how the years have formed wrinkles on Lolo’s face. His hair has turned grey, and his skin is now all creased. But he has not changed, not a bit. He still drinks. He still tends the fruit trees, the fish pond and the house. He still plays the solitaire. But he does these all alone now. Granny died 15 years ago, and all his children now have their own families, and his grandchildren are all grown-up, and we don’t play with him anymore; and, sadly, gathering all of us is next to impossible.
At the age of 85, Lolo is still in good health and a bottle of liquor is still his best friend. “We would all be leaving this world, of course. We all will,” he would say.
Yes, Lolo is old now. But I still see the strength that I always saw in him during my younger days. I still see it now, even through his wrinkled skin.
They’ve always been the campus’ best pair.
We call them MSUans – those extraordinary individuals whose fashion statements never go out of style. Nope. We don’t actually see their styles being featured in a well-renowned magazine nor have we seen America’s next top model ramp with their denims on. Everything is awfully smarter than that.
A typical MSUan fashion doesn’t follow much of the world’s trends. Simply because they create their own world. And though pages of the world’s fashions turn out from one to another, MSUans’ style would stand still.
The basic fashion statement of MSUans is spelled with t-shirt, shorts, and the campus’s best pair – tsinelas.
Albeit the campus is never situated to some muddy streets, students in here never get away with slippers. We see those pair of cuties being worn in the commercial center, in the corners of seventh and fifth streets, in the cold milieu of ‘Tagaytay,’ and amazingly (though may sound too disgusting for others), inside the classroom, even while taking the exams.
Perhaps, in the history of all Philippine Universities, it is only in MSU that students still religiously wear slippers matched with faded shorts (if not rolled-up pants) and three-week old shirts while attending classes. It is a headache for professors who deem formality inside their classes but at a certain point, the fashion had already been an acceptable part, and funnily a sort of requirement, of being an MSUan.
There’s no certain face of this tsinelas craze, actually. Slippers vary from the oh-so-expensive Havaianas, to the time-tested Islander, to the tatty classic Spartans. Some would be more than an inch thick. Some may even look like it has been rubbed to the surface of the earth for years. There’s the hole, the beads and the ‘tongueless’ cute little mouths of the feet. Some would even be too noisy, too creaky, too eye-enticing and even funny. There’s the floral, the kind that stepped on the beauty of the garden of Eden.
Whatever the weather may be, the pair would always come in handy. It is the best weapon in fighting the devouring waves of the fifth street. And perhaps the very reason why the clumsy gals took their disgracing falls on the slippery ways. It is the greatest fear of the cockroaches (You were too hysterical to see them flying; you haven’t noticed the slippers flew like saucers). Or – for the most poetic line, the one that would protect those little feet from the burning coldness of the floor. You can even throw them to someone you hate so much (kidding). The twin is even the commonest present one would give, come Christmas time.
To the very point of this, slippers, though we least give them value, certainly play a very significant role to the MSUans and the MSU as a whole. The wearing of it had already been a trademark; the never out-of-date fashion.
Certainly, after years of the campus’ existence, they’re still considered the best pair we ride and step on.
Truly, tatak MSUan!