The Dorian Society

Vice-President. That’s the position I’m occupying in this not-so-secret society I and several of my officemates have established (at least in our imagination). We could be holding regular meetings but why bother? We’d probably forget we’re supposed to meet.

Our group’s name, in full, is “The Dorian Society of People Who Regularly Suffer from Temporary Amnesia.” We are naming ourselves as such in honor of a fish, Dory of Finding Nemo, who’ve brought to light the plight of those of us who have this uncanny ability to obliterate details from our consciousness. Details such as you have to take out the key from the ignition before getting out of the vehicle and locking the car (the current president confessed to this). Or that you can stop worrying that your cellphone got stolen because you actually left it at home (the secretary’s case).

Among us bonafide Dorians, we share the same anguish and self-loathing after a particularly frustrating forgetting episode. We all want to knock ourselves in head for forgetting such seemingly consequential things. How could I forget where I left it?!But most of us are making progress. The president told me that he’s installed automatic locking system in his vehicle and trained himself to push the button to lock/unlock. The secretary, I think, is improving as I haven’t heard of any more of the false alarm Oh-no-I-think-I-lost-my-cellphone instances.

So it is with much sadness for me to admit that I might soon be up for the presidency. Today, I’ve had three strikes against me. Strike one, I dial-an-order for pancit from a nearby eatery. The delivery comes. Halfway through our mid-afternoon meal, I discover the sixty pesos from my wallet didn’t make it to the deliverer’s hand (she also forgot to ask it from me). Strike two, I pencil in a piece of paper the subscriber code I needed for a bank transaction tomorrow but then I couldn’t find where I put it (This case too common!). And Strike three, on my way home tonight, I buy an astringent from a small drugstore right next to Ang Barbecue ni Alex (The Pride of Davao) [For a second I wondered if it was the business of somebody I know!]. This time I paid. I gladly handed the storeclerk my payment. So what did I forget? The astringent. Because I was more excited to check out the barbecue I ordered which was grilling at the adjacent store. (But I eventually remembered the astringent, after I got the barbecue.)

Now, unlike some petite women in the Philippines like me, I am not position-hungry. I don't want to be the president of the Dorian society! Forgetful I might be but hopeless I am not. Now, if I could only remember that.

* * * * * * * *
Meanwhile, Jenny's take on forgetfulness, it being a curse yet a gift, is interesting.

if loneliness were a road

The wooden sign sitting atop a rusty metal pole with crudely etched letters read, “Loneliness.” She takes tentative steps, her gait—wobbly, unsure, unsteady. Isn’t there another way? But in her heart she knew, she must pass this way—even just once in her life.

And so she enters the road and lets her eyes take in the sight. The horizon looks bleak; with the skies overcast with dark clouds, threatening heavy rains. But where would I go to shelter myself when the downpour comes? A drop falls but not from above. A lone tear makes its way down her cheek, which she quickly wipes away with the back of her hand.

She draws a deep breath and decides to resume her walking. The terrain, constantly changing, seems painted in gray—not one streak of yellow, not a hint of red. Will I survive the lonely journey? The few steps multiply but not the courage in her heart. While treading through the rocks of insecurity, she didn't know where to plant her feet. While braving the sandstorm of unfulfilled longings, she wasn’t certain where to hide. And after surviving yet another near-fall in the cliff of compromising, she pauses for a moment. Tired, she’s almost ready to give up.

She drops to her knees, buries her face in her hands and asks, How many more steps? I can’t go on anymore. Her eyes finally succumb to the fatigue in her heart and release a flood of emotions. The tears, now flowing freely, are salty with frustration, despair. Hopelessness.

In between sobs, she lifts her head and sees an outstretched Hand in front of her. Its fingers, calloused. Its skin, a deep brown, tanned under the hot Jerusalem sun. And the Hand, showing a scar as a heavy nail once spiked through it.

This time, it is this Hand that wiped away her tears. With her head now lifted, she scans the horizon again and realizes that the gray suddenly doesn’t look as gray anymore. Maybe I can take His Hand, she mutters to herself with a weak smile. Maybe she’ll make it through this road after all.

The (Non) X-(Rated) File

I’m thinking about sex.

You can recover from your shock now. Heave a sigh of relief or wipe that silly grin from your face because (thankfully) it’s not what you think.

Percolating in my mind lately is this talk on sexual purity I’m giving to the young people’s group of a Chinese church tomorrow. (I got invited by the virtue of my being a True Love Waits [a sexual abstinence campaign] trainor and a Sunday School teacher for college students in my church.) For the past several days I've been logging in hours reading reference materials, archived notes, internet articles. Also, clipping newspaper ads to prove that ours is a sexually charged society using the lure of the flesh to sell almost everything—from health food to cameras, to slippers even!

How can a fish swim against the current? And how can a person keep his way pure while living in a world that promotes instant sexual gratification? How can one overcome the carnal struggles to feed romantic fantasies or to entertain lustful thoughts? Difficult? Yes. Impossible? No. For how can a person not trust an All-powerful God for battles he cannot win on his own?

But make no mistake: I have learned that God is pro-sex. The idea was His; this masterpiece designed in His own drawing board. God's Word celebrates sexual love. For tell me, why else would Song of Songs make it to the Bible's table of contents? Or how could a sentence like "May your kisses be as exciting as the best wine, smooth and sweet, flowing gently over lips and teeth" be found in the same Book where we could read "I am the LORD your God; consecrate yourselves and be holy, because I am holy"?

When I said that I am thinking of sex, it’s not that there’s an X-rated movie playing in my mind. It means that I’m thinking, and thanking the All-Wise Creator who officiated the first ever wedding, of Adam and Eve, in a garden named Eden, and who spared nothing in ensuring that a husband and wife enjoy the most intimate relationship a man and a woman can have on earth.

Day 12

It’s everywhere. I watch TV and I see this Goldilocks ad with a woman taking out a black forest cake from the ref. I scan through today’s Philippine Starweek and a feature on The Last Chocolatier greets me. Why is it that after you’ve decided to swear off something, this very thing taunts you and makes its presence felt as if saying, “Hey, don’t you miss me?”

And if I may answer back, “You know I do.” Like crazy.

The first few days after I’ve declared my self-imposed 30-day choco fasting were peanuts. For two consecutive days, I’ve had opportunities to sink my teeth into two varieties of chocolate and I’ve turned my back on them. How hard can that be? After all, my tongue can still remember the taste of the three months’ worth of chocolates that has passed its fibrous road. Now, on my twelfth day, I’m miserable. Miserable enough to wonder, “Why did I ever decide to give it up in the first place? Is there anything inherently sinful about chocolates? It’s not as if I’m taking Ecstasy or smoking marijuana. Did God even want me to do this chocolate fasting?”

I count the days, like a little girl counting the days till Christmas. Day 12 of 30! I’m not even halfway through. How will I possibly make it through the next eighteen days when thoughts of McDonald’s hot fudge sundae, Nestle crunch, chocolate cake—any kind, and other eatable chocolates dance in my head like John Travolta doing his signature moves in Saturday Night Fever? (Now where did that metaphor come from? I plead temporary insanity, your honor.)

Forgive my ranting. Withdrawal symptom, I guess, alongside the headaches and depression. Yet my fleeting doubts notwithstanding, I know I am still convinced why I'm doing what I'm doing. If this small sacrifice can help me honor God with my body, then I know He will honor the heart behind it and give me the strength to make it. I love God more than all the chocolates in the world.

So when you see me in the hallway and you’ve got a chocolate, do me a favor: Don’t let me see it. :-) I’ve got a serious chocolate battle to win.

when words shouldn't be like gold

beautiful, loving words
are as precious
as a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls

but . . .

the analogy of words and treasures
should end with their worth.

for words,
unlike a chest full of gold
or an endless string of pearls,
should not be kept hidden
in a cold, impenetrable place
where they are
unseen,
untouched,
untold.

so how could you ever be happy
until you free your fingers
to glide across the keys,
to let words precious to you show
for all the world to see?

and how could i be writing about a "you"
when this is really about me?

About a boy

What is the national food of the Philippines?
a. Turon
b. Adobo
c. Chickenjoy
d. None of the above

If that question was asked of me five months ago, I wouldn't know how to answer. But now, courtesy of a five-year-old nursery student, I can. It's D, none of the above!

"Ang pambansang pagkain ng Pilipinas ay lechon!" Well, at least, that's what my nephew Pong tells me. But when I follow up with a trick question, "Anong klaseng lechon, baboy o manok?", he just shrugs and says, "Di ko alam."' How irrational of me. Of course, he wouldn't know. They learn that in Kinder. It's unbelievable what they teach kids nowadays. (I'm suspecting that Aling Mila and Mang Tomas are somewhat involved in cooking up this national fact.)

Pong also loves knock-knock jokes. Here's a sample:
Knock, knock(which sounds more like nak, nak).
Who's there?
Titanic.
Titanic who?
"Tay-ta-nik ay di biro, maghapong nakayuko. Di man lang makatayo . . . "
(The joke gets lost in transcription. Believe me, it's funnier listening to it.)

This rice-loving, basketball-playing fella is one of the few people who can make me do what I don't want to do. Like play catch football when I should be finishing a parttime editing job. Or make me watch TV with him when I'd rather be catching up on much-needed sleep. But you can't really blame me. For how else can I discover that lechon is the national food of the Philippines? :-)

* * * * * * * * * *
I actually asked some people if they knew about this national-food-fact. Surprisingly, two out of three answered in the affirmative. Maybe I just wasn't listening when this was discussed in my preparatory school class light years ago.

*picture taken very recently at the Enchanted Kingdom.

Chocolate Chronicles

“So you can’t eat ice cream?”
“No.”
“And you can’t eat chocolates?”
“Nope.”
Gasp! “What kind of life is that?” I smiled and rhetorically asked D whom I spent five days with in our most recent conference. What elicited my shock was her declaration: "I'm allergic to sugar." I enumerated all the sugar-laced food I can think of, leading me to mention ice cream and chocolates. Ice cream, I can manage not to see for a month or two but chocolates. Now, that’s a different story.

On top of my desk is a bank of chocolates that allows me to make daily withdrawals. This bank, in the form of a canister, currently holds the following assets: a mini-Nestle crunch (the last piece from the bag of chocolates my sister gave me), a tiny bar of Hershey’s milk chocolate, generic chocolate bites wrapped in foil, Harry and David’s chocolate almonds, and the chocolate raisins I bought from Toby’s house of nuts last night.

Since I came back from my month-long vacation in the US and reported back to work in January, I have not missed a single workday when I did not eat chocolates. Not one. It’s March already. You do the Math, and figure out how much chocolate has tickled brown my tongue. By the way, did I tell you that I couldn’t donate blood? With the amount of chocolate I’ve ingested, the RBC, the WBC, the hemoglobin and all the other components of blood officially adopted cocoa as one of them and made it the leader of their team. So now my blood type—C (for Chocolates)—wouldn’t match anybody’s.

But I don’t intend to let chocolates rule my life this way anymore. I am declaring Proclamation 0-choco-30. No chocolates for one month. Thirty days, I think, is long enough to convince my brain that this body is not made for and of chocolates. Thirty days can help me clean my palate of the sweet, smooth taste of this brown piece of heaven. With God’s help, I know that I’ll survive the thirty chocolate-less days. In fact, I can’t wait to be free of my addiction that I’ll start not eating chocolates—tomorrow.

As for today, I will seize the day. I have some serious clearing of assets to do.

Unbloggable

The common apprehension I hear from people who I know would make good bloggers is this: "I don't think I can share personal stuff about myself."

And I tell them, "That's how I felt too." If I had time, and their interest, I would tell them that I once compared blogging to stripping. That is, peeling off layers--but this time, not clothes that cover your body but pieces of armor that protect your heart. With a hundred or so keystrokes, you suddenly become vulnerable. Open to understanding or misinterpretation, admiration or ridicule. Risking to be thought of as wise or foolish.

I have taken eighty-six risks, the number of posts which have appeared on this site. And so far, the risks have worked in my favor. Save for a single post I unposted because I felt it wasn't true anymore, I have not regretted any single article I have written. Yet I have this one regret.

That there are unbloggable topics. That there are still places in my life I could not lead you into to take a peek. That there are still emotions I could not bring myself to share. That I am, still, after a year of "stripping," guarded and careful. The "S" in my middle name should stand for "Safe."