raining on the inside

The days have been woefully gloomy lately. I don’t recall feeling the warm rays of the sun on my skin anytime this week. Tonight, after a quick trip to the nearby mall, I got home all drenched with the sudden downpour. The tricycle got me home but did little to keep me dry while I was inside it. But I had no hard feelings for the driver. He himself was struggling to keep his eyes open, what with the strong wind slapping the rain on his face. I almost asked him to stop for a while and park somewhere before continuing on our way.

There’s something powerful about the rain. The way it refuses to be stilled when it decides to strike the earth; the way it locks arms with the wind and announces its presence.

I can hear no more trickling on the roof; the smell of damp earth serving as the only reminder that the angry sky just unleashed its fury. But I can still feel the rain. . . on the inside. This time, not even the biggest umbrella could keep me from being soaked.

Just when I am starting to overcome a pain or a loss, God allows another crisis to come and disturb my peace. And somehow, the magnitude of the trial escalates: A lost phone one day; the threat of losing a loved one the next. By instinct, I’ve known what to do. I could tap the play button in the recording of my mind and listen to myself say these lines over and over again: “God loves me. I don’t have to worry. He will see me through this pain."

Sounds positive, I know, yet God knows when I’m just mouthing the words, like a mantra, and when I sincerely believe it. And so, some days I feel a bit braver, more honest, and not move a finger to tap the play button and instead say (from the top of my head and the bottom of my heart): “Lord, I don’t understand this at all. Isn’t it in Your power to help me get through my difficulties? I’ve been good, no, make that extra benevolent. But then why am I still in this rut? Lord, please show me how all this makes sense. O God, are You even listening to this cry?”

The sky must have peeked over my shoulder and glanced at this post. Decided that this writing needed an accompaniment. What else would be appropriate than the distinct sound of rain? Yes, after a momentary pause, it rains again—on the outside; now in synch with the falling of the rain inside my heart. And so I listen. And hope that maybe if I listen carefully enough, I could hear a faint melody that will make me believe there’ll be sunshines ahead.

Working in "vain"

It's Friday noon and I'm sitting on a La-zy boy chair, having my toenails done, and sipping orange juice. And unbelievable as this may sound, this is official business. My boss actually knows that I am doing this and approves of it.

Minami is the name of the relatively new beauty parlor right across our office. With my bag containing my laptop strapped on my back, I walked the twenty steps to this haven of beauty this mid-morning. And at this very moment, I'm trying hard not to get distracted by the cascading water on the wide glass with two Japanese characters etched on them. The girl files my nails; I squint a little.

Yes, the reason why I'm here is work. Our office is still on dial-up and it takes forever for us to get files--especially ones coming from publishers abroad. Cover files, inside pages, fonts--we've downloaded them all. And wonder of all (techie) wonders, this parlor offers wi-fi connection! And no need to buy any cards (what do you say of that, Starbucks and Seattle's Best?)! We needed to download a file from an FTP site and I volunteered to do it since I also needed to download a cover file from an illustrator. And since I first sat here, I've already managed to set up a gmail account, receive the cover file, and write and respond to urgent emails.

And so with minutes more to wait--for the other download to finish--I snatch some time and gather some thoughts to write this post. But nothing particularly thoughtful or inspiring here. For after all, how deep can one get while having her toenails done? ;)

PS: Lest you think I'm too "sosy" (that's sosyal or "high class")to be sitting on a La-zy boy and tinkering with my laptop, let me mention that I just returned to the parlor after a quick lunch next door, at Tess and Trish snack bar (a carinderia, actually). With a smile on my face, I say, "It's good to be pulled back to earth and shake off the illusion of class and grandeur."

Eureka!

This is the last Superman-related post you will read from this space. After watching Superman 1&2, DVDs lent to me by Ian, I now understand why.

You can trash my number 2 observation in the post below (though I still think Lois Lane is not an easy girl but now it becomes more plausible for me to take why she could sleep with Richard).

I miss Christopher Reeve. And I miss the witty dialogues from the first two supermovie installments. Yes Gina Camus, I now understand why you like the older versions than Superman Returns. Though technically inferior, the earlier plots were cohesive and well-developed. Moreso, how blue can those Superman eyes get? And this was pre-contact lens days! And Swipe, you must have thought how foolish I am for my line of reasoning on Lois Lane. Now, I'm embarrased for reacting the way I did!

And with this, I end my super ramblings. Promise. Next post please.

Writing about you-know-who

I am no Lois Lane but let me use my writing pencil for a minute and write about you-know-who.

My heart has returned to its normal beating now, that is, after the post-movie watching palpitations I’ve experienced last night. Breathtaking is how I can describe the seamlessly tailored scenes. Within that window of two hours when my eyes were glued to the cinema screen, if somebody were to set me up on a blind date with an alien, I would have gladly said yes. But he should be 6’4”, with blue eyes and wears spandex.

Now that I’m over gushing, here are 3 observations on this much-awaited return of the Superhero:

1 As the 5-year-old Jason’s unexpected display of strength suggests, he is no ordinary boy. Granted that he really is the son of the man of steel, how can he have the lungs of straw? (I can almost hear you saying: Wait for the next Superman installment and maybe it'll be explained why.)

2 Lois Lane is pictured as a smart, busy and tough woman who can almost singlehandedly run her life. But then, did I miss the part where it was told that she also was an “easy girl”? Okay, she had a one-night stand with Superman five years ago. How could she then sleep with another man (Richard) during that same month she shared intimate moments with the man of her dreams (Superman)? (That is the implication because Richard believes the asthmatic boy is his). Let’s just say the story goes that Superman disappeared shortly after their tryst. Does this warrant the Pulitzer prize-winning journalist to make a stupid mistake of sleeping with the next available guy? With her strong, driven personality and her tough exterior (plus obsession with Superman), is she the type who would sleep with another man she has just met? If you ask me, it’s out of her character. (Obviously, the Superman Returns writer is a man. And obviously, I'm overanalzying here.)

3 Is Clark Kent a reporter or is he just pretending to work at the Daily Planet? The scriptwriter and director failed to show that Kent was worthy of his post at the newspaper. (Or maybe I’m just asking too much—a sprinkling of intelligence—from my superheroes when they're cloaked in ordinariness.)

When I wrote the first words of this post, I thought I’d be swooning up to the last word about Superman: the character and the movie. Yes, Clark Kent (a.k.a Superman) looks good. Yes, he’s got the eyes to melt bullets and with his stare, any girl’s heart. Yet after the stardust has settled, you start to think that maybe earthlings are still more interesting than aliens.

But don't let that previous sentence fool you. Let me say I thoroughly enjoyed watching Superman Returns. Four girls and a guy can attest to that.

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Every woman—no matter how tough she has made herself to appear—longs to be rescued. She might not cry for help even while inside a plane doomed to nosedive and shatter to pieces, but she knows better. Deep in her heart, she needs somebody outside of herself to convince her everything’s going to be fine and ask after the plane is safe on the ground, “Are you alright?”

Rainy Saturday

Pong bended the blinds strip and saw it raining hard outside. Bored of watching TV with me and his younger brother Robyn, he wanted to stretch his muscles and play basketball in the garage.

“Ay, umuulan. Gusto ko pa naman play ng basketball.”

There was a tinge of disappointment in his voice. His babysitting aunt (i.e. me), wishing for a streak of color to brighten up this gray Saturday, had a quick thought. I heard the words stumble out of my mouth before the rational part of me reasoned against the idea.

“Gusto mo maligo sa labas?”

It was like asking a chocoholic if he wanted a bar of Toblerone. His face lighted up and he loudly replied, “Sige!” When it registered to the mind of 3-year-old Robyn what would soon be happening, the excitement immediately rubbed on him.

And so outside we went—They, half-naked, with only their shorts on, and I, uhm, well, let me just say I “dressed for the occasion” too. Robyn opened his mouth wide and turned his head up, drinking the water from the sky. Pong dribbled the basketball and made more than a few successful shots. Seeing me by the side, they cajoled me into joining them where all the action was happening. They passed me the ball and watched me fumble with it (I’m no match for them but I think they were happy just to see me try.)

Soon, the heavy rain started to turn into a drizzle.

“O, pag tumigil na ulan, pasok na tayo ha.”

“Bakit wala nang rain, Tita Beng?”

Chuckling, all the answer I could muster was, “Eh wala na eh. Sige pray kayo na mag-rain pa.”

Little Robyn folded his hands and followed my advice, “Loooord, tenk yu por dis fud…”

My chuckle turned to laughter. Meanwhile, Pong’s contribution was an adaptation of a popular children’s rhyme. He sang,“Sun, sun, go away, come again another day. Little boy wants to play…”

But then all good things must come to an end. Finally, I convinced them that our time's up. I dried their feet and we headed towards the shower where they imagined they were still outside, playing in the rain.

There are some seemingly irrational things we adults shouldn't mind doing: Eating dirty ice cream in the street where our officemates might see us. Risking looking silly (don a giant goldfish costume, anyone?) in the name of good fun. And playing in the rain with kids. It's refreshing to revive the body; much more refreshing to revive the soul.

Table for One

I had a late lunch at 3pm, that is, if you could still call that lunch. This Saturday, I decided to take it easy. After all, I earned this lazy Saturday after almost being swept away in a whirlwind of weeklong activities which I logged in at work and out of work.

While sipping my iced tea, I told myself that I don’t want to get used to this. This, the independent, carefree single life.

Most people look at a single woman and blurt out, “Why are you still single? Maybe you’re too picky.” Based on the expression registered on their face, you could almost read the unspoken message: “What’s wrong with you?” And sometimes, you don’t even need to have a face-to-face conversation to decipher this message. Three days ago a married friend called me at the office. After exchanging how-are-you’s with her, she broke the news: “Our friend L is getting married. When will yours be?” My first reaction was surprise. I didn’t even know that L had a boyfriend (it turns out to be a long-distance relationship). The second was irritation, due mainly to the way she asked it. It was as if she was irked that she couldn’t hear any change-of-status news from me. My saner side stopped me from saying, “Thank you for giving me a reason to gripe to God this day about my singleness. I definitely needed that boost when I am days behind my editing projects because I’ve been helping my boss with her presentation.”

If she (and the rest of the world wondering why I’m still unattached) had the time, I would probably whip up a presentation worthy to be delivered in an international forum. Let me answer two points usually brought up when my singleness is the topic:

Maybe you’re too choosy.

Will you play Russian roulette on something that will affect the rest of your life (and your future children’s as well?) Don’t get me wrong. I’ve given up on the illusion of meeting Piolo and him finally seeing the light that I’m the girl for him. “You're too choosy” in your language could translate “I just know what I am waiting for” in mine. When he turns around the corner (or makes his presence felt more deliberately), this seemingly-choosy girl will finally make her choice.

Maybe you’re intimidating men because you’re too smart.

Do you think I hand books to guys and ask them to submit a 50-page book report? Or that when somebody gives me a love letter I will edit it using a red pen? No, of course not. I’ll use blue. Kidding aside, I can enjoy shallow conversations as much as I do the mentally stimulating verbal exchanges. Yes, we could talk about books and ideas but we could talk about popcorn and the weather too.

I’ve had occasions when somebody would introduce a guy to me. The guy starts a conversation: Asks me where I live, where I work. His extra attention signals interest. Then drops the axe that will kill it: “So what do you do?” I tell him and then a few seconds of silence. Suddenly, he’s tongue-tied and feels the urge to check if his subject and verb agrees. Almost hilarious, really, if you’re not me.

If God wills it, I’d take the greatest risk of my life. But first, he, whoever he is, must also think I’m worth the risk. And then I can start writing from the other side of the fence.

But for now, I've got to finish my lunch in my table for one.

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Check out the amusing (and serious) travails of some single friends:

1 The top ten ickiest remarks made to singles
2 Singular perorations
3 Random thoughts of a single gal
4 Ano ba talaga ang type mo?

Times are bad, God is good

It was too early to cry. But as soon as I swiped my card to log in for work, I felt the tears well up in my eyes. By the time I reached my desk, there was no stopping me. I sobbed and cried like any brokenhearted gal. But can you blame me? We’ve been together for twenty months already—the longest I’ve stayed with somebody of his kind. Sure, he was acting a bit weird lately: not doing what I wanted him to do, conking out on me in the middle of a task. But I’ve grown to love him. I consider myself faithful and didn’t even think of replacing him on a whim. Not even if there were others out there more attractive, taunting me, tempting me to try them.

Now "he" is actually an it: my Nokia 6600 phone. And the last I saw it was yesterday.

Our parting happened on my way to work. When I was getting off the non-airconditioned bus, a man wearing a sports cap blocked me on my way down. Irritated, I asked him, “Bababa ka ba (Are you going down)?” Little did I know that his hand was already in the outside pocket of my backpack, getting my treasured cellphone. I’ll stop here with the storytelling. The memory of the violation still stings. (That word, violation, encapsulates what was done to me. I felt violated and it deserved a good cry.)

My tears yesterday were of anger and frustration. Ian, who was just a few steps away from my workstation, just stood by my side while I was sobbing on my desk. He had also once lost a cellphone and so understood how I felt. “It’s OK to grieve,” he advised. And so I did—for fifteen more minutes. My teammates (and other officemates) did a great job cheering me up. My boss, Ate Yna, ordered an extra Chicken inasal for me for lunch (I told her afterwards that it was the best chicken I’ve tasted ever). Marian graciously offered to wash my plates. Ruben gave me a Mr. Donut chocolate twist to sweeten my afternoon. The rest offered words of encouragement like, “You’ll get a better phone” or would sincerely check up on me, “Are you feeling better now?” They, my burden-sharers, made it easier for me to go through the rest of the day. In fact, by lunchtime I was already laughing and joking about my loss, thinking absurd thoughts such as “What if I offered to buy my cellphone from the snatcher? I could probably haggle for a discount.”

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Mine is a safe and sanitized world. The people I work with love God, pray before meals, and don’t cuss or swear. Outside work, I spend time with others who likewise love God, pray before meals, and don’t cuss or swear. Over time, maybe I’ve been falsely conditioned that the Fall of Man didn’t happen and that the Garden of Eden was still pristine and perfect. This one incident jars me back to reality that ours is a wicked world longing to be redeemed. Yes, there are cellphone snatchers out there whose hands are too calloused to feel their crime burn through their skin.

“Times are bad, God is good,” a line from Psalm 100:5 on my bedroom whiteboard reminds me daily. In the context of this truth I am praying—and yesterday, prayed more fervently—“Lord, even if bad things happen to me, please don’t let me sin against you. Don’t let the circumstances happening around me fool me into thinking that You are not good. That You are not loving. That You are not in control." I remember Job, the biblical character who had experienced exponentially greater losses yet did not sin. Tell me, what is losing a cellphone compared to losing your children, your livelihood, your health?

God is good—still is and always will be. All I have, material or otherwise, is His. God has already surprised me with extraordinary blessings before. He has answered more prayers than I can count. He has made me feel special with people in my life who are actually angels in disguise. The love of God is with me and no thief—a cellphone snatcher or even the Devil himself—can steal this from me. (Romans 8:5,38-39)

at the airport

A man beside me is holding a magazine, hoping that whoever needed to see it would glance his way. Patiently, he holds it up while scanning the sea of faces flowing his way, checking if one would flash a hint of recognition. “Ayun siya, para nang Amerikana!” I hear another excitedly call out. Floating on top of the giggles and high-pitched conversation is the distinctive sound of happiness. A part of me feels I could share the hope and happiness of these strangers that the corners of my lips turn up for a smile. I’ve got a great vantage point from where I am—at the greeters’ area. It affords me a ringside view of the faces of the arriving passengers that suddenly light up at the sight of their loved ones.

Though my presence in this place is business-related [to fetch a Thailand-based author slated for a weeklong speaking engagement], I don’t want to let this moment slip by uneventfully. While waiting for my own passenger to arrive, I still want to see the world around me spinning. And then I started my wondering. With every cart of baggage being wheeled out, a story of life is being written. The long-haired teen sporting a backpack with white buds on strings glued to his ears, might have a life sprinkled with adventure. I see a young mother, with a 3, maybe 4-year-old in tow while a younger boy was nestled in her arms, and wondered if hers is a life of contentment and domestic bliss.

I’ve been to many airports—from the most sophisticated where overhead trains could take you from one terminal to the next, to the most simple where signs are still done in crude, handwritten lettering. But whatever its location, there’s something about the air in the arrival area in airports that smells and feels the same. Maybe it’s the fragrant smell of hope, and the fuzzy feel of love.

For don’t you think that the airport’s arrival area could easily be named as the happiest place on earth? What with every reunion it has witnessed—lovers who endured months, or years, of loneliness can now revel in each other’s gaze and embrace. Families once separated and limited by geographic boundaries can now experience the warmth hardly simulated by a thousand phone calls.

And last night, at the airport, the lines of a new song aptly played on my ears:

When love takes you in everything changes
A miracle starts with the beat of a heart
When love takes you home and says you belong here
The loneliness ends and a new life begins
When love takes you in, it takes you in for good
When love takes you in

I’m beginning to like airports. Not the runway, not the duty-free shop, not the departure area. The best spot in all airports in all of the world is where travelers are embraced and whispered, “You’re home.” Yes, you're home.

when the answer is silence

Is there a divine blueprint stacked somewhere in heaven which details the course each of our lives must take? If we pray—hard enough, long enough, fervently enough—will a scroll magically fall down from the sky, land on our feet, and then reveal a message that will erase our uncertainties about the future and make us grasp the present with the firm grip of courage?

I could ask a thousand and one more questions and still get an answer not different from what I got the first time I asked: the deafening sound of silence. Cloaked in the fine linen of mystery, silence can alternately be disturbing and calming, induce fear and hope, appear as black and white.

So how does silence reveal itself to me: as friend or as a foe? Does the answer of silence to all of my questions rattle me? Do I stomp my feet in impatience or wring my hands in despair? Or can I take silence as a companion and realize that silence can purge my ears of the unintelligible ramblings of the world and its litany of worries and woes?

Here in my room, where the hands of time seem to be frozen and the boundary of the Milky Way is confined to my room’s four corners, I distill my thoughts. Revel in the sound of silence. Waiting. Praying. Patiently hoping that it won’t be long until silence is dislodged in my heart by what would best take its place—the sound of a still, small Voice.

The "G" word

geek:’gēk/:noun:1: a carnival performer often billed as a wild man whose act usually includes biting the head off a live chicken or snake;2: a person often of an intellectual bent who is disliked;3: an enthusiast or expert especially in a technological field or activity [computer geek]

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I can’t be a geek. It’s bad for the reputation. The geeks I know are the underdogs in B-movies whose glasses are as thick as windowpanes, with hair rarely visited by a hairbrush, and with a social life confined to the front and back covers of a book. Okay, so I'm not willing to wear the tag. Yet another thought challenged my initial apprehension: But who says we can’t break the stereotype?

And so ended—with minimum struggle—my stint in the geek denial stage which lasted all five seconds (though it necessitated a confirmation from a “greater geek” who answered my “Am-I-officially-a-geek-already?” question with a simple, and relatively painless reply: need u ask?? :-B).

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Today I accompanied Jenny, a Mac-user, to one of their monthly mac gatherings. They might not make a people-power crowd but what mac users lack for numbers they make up for passion. Mac-using geeks (there’s that word again) intently listen to the speaker/forum moderator as if he was teaching them how to survive WW III. But then again, if they were willing to give up a weekend afternoon to be sitting in wooden blocks at the Powerplant Mall, is it any wonder how they could stay glued to the seminar?

However, my friend and I had another agenda: Can we wi-fi and surf? Scouting for a hotspot, we zoom in on the outside tables at Figaro. But before we order anything, first things first: does it have signal? It does! Two 12 oz. iced tea please!

And so after folders of music and picture files were shared, a Q&A discussion on some websites took place, and all the battery power was drained (mine), we sipped the last drop of our drink and felt satisfied with our virtual victory. [On the left is an evidence of my satisfaction. Thanks for the picture, Jen!]

Yes, Merriam-Webster. You can call me a geek.

Finding "the one" in (cyber)Promised Land

The Promised Land seemed so near—an MRT ride and a hundred or so steps away from our Mandaluyong office. Initially, I wasn’t sure if it held what it seemed to promise for me but I was hopeful. There was bound to be “the one” for me somehow. You see, it was my first time to buy a brand new computer, a laptop, and a thousand butterflies were dancing in my stomach.

My six-footer technical guru Aleks (who multitasks and acts as my voice coach and pianist in some instances) and I trekked to Cyberzone in SM Megamall. It was a Friday night and there was a midnight sale ongoing. We expected the two-kilometer mall to be bursting at the seams. Thankfully, we arrived before the people frenzy began.

All I wanted was for it to be white. I didn’t care if it had an expandable memory or if it could write DVDs or if it could accommodate multiple USB ports. Sounds Greek to me, really. Call me simplistic, or better yet, call me naïve who is fixated on a color [At least I still had enough sense to ask somebody else to act as my common sense!]. Aleks would laugh at me when he would see me obliviously walking past the non-white laptops which didn’t deserve a nanosecond of my time. In retrospect, it was like me looking for shoes: “I need brown shoes,” which eliminates all the other hues in the color spectrum. Going back to the laptop, we finally found the one I liked—a Taiwan-made Twinhead 12.1” notebook with features that seem excellent for its price. And needless to say but I’ll say it anyway: It’s white, shiny pearl white. I’m one happy camper.

Over dinner, Aleks asks me what name I’ll give my newly-purchased gadget. I laugh and answer, “I haven’t named any of my things before.” But then again, why not? I’ll be spending days and nights with this piece of machine I might as well humanize it. “Do you want it to be a boy or a girl?” he asks. “A boy,” I answer. I mull it over and after a quick trip to the restroom I confidently state my laptop’s name: “April Boy.” With a silly grin on my face I explain, “Well, it’s a boy and I bought it in the month of April.”

And so the next time I hear “Di Ko Kayang Tanggapin” over the radio, you know why I’ll be smiling.

All about days

Twenty-five days. This is the longest time I’ve waited since the last entry I wrote (not counting the Peanuts comics strip I’ve posted). I hope my fingers haven’t grown stiff with their under-exercise. I’m missing every nook and cranny of this spot in cyberspace so much that during idle moments, I’d relish in my mind the thought of blogging again.

Four days. That’s the number of days I’ve spent with my officemates during our annual company retreat last April 23-26. Ilocos, Bicol, Cebu, Boracay, Banaue—we’ve been to these faraway places before but this time, we hied off to somewhere nearer: Laguna. This year’s theme had me thinking about risking and trusting God more about the future; considering who my only comfort is; wishing He’d take me to higher ground in my spiritual life, career and personal life.

One day. This is the day I am waiting for. I am praying for the day when I could do more than just pay lip service and prove to God that I love Him. Wondering when I won’t use the currency of words anymore but pay Him the love He deserves with more of my time, energy and thoughts. Whether that happens here on earth or only when I get to heaven is only for Him to tell. All I know is that I’m waiting for this day.

I have a strong feeling there’ll be better days ahead.

fishy me

Yes, some nights I get fishy. The giant Styrofoam goldfish (now left rotting in a trash bin in Laguna) was a product of several trips to National Book Store, a few late-night sessions of cutting and taping, a couple of hours’ worth of brain activity and a big dollop of silliness.

For a publisher, we’re pretty much relaxed, don’t you think? Let this picture dispel all notions that we brood over books each time we meet. On the contrary, you’ll find us some nights disrobing of our normalcy, donning an alter ego and fluttering (or in my case, swimming) the night away.

I bagged the second prize of our Retreat Fun Night Costume Awards (the theme: creation) with the grand prize going to an officemate who came in as a tree (She wrapped her body in brown cardboard and used a green umbrella as her leaves). You might be wondering what would compel me to sweat it out looking this silly. Here's what: Seldom do I get the license to be outrageously playful, I might as well give it my all and enjoy the experience. And enjoy I did, not just mine but the costume of my equally creative and playful officemates! [Temporarily curly me with Ian the angel, Lea the butterfly, Gladys the ladybug and Ate Glo and baby Nathan.]

Ever lost a library book?

A Gypsy and a Geek Poet

A gypsy and a geek poet have been added to my blog roll.

The gypsy, I’ve been egging to start her own blog since she visited mine. I’m thinking what a waste it is for her random thoughts to be lost in oblivion because she doesn’t write them down. Her blog will surely be interesting, I tell myself. And I convince her of the same. Now with three posts to her week-old blog’s credit, my persistence has not been in vain.

I warn her, though that her life will be changed. Her fingers will be doing demanding calisthenics on the computer keyboard, she might as well be preparing for the blogging Olympics (that is, if there was one). In a recent email, this writer-slash-new blogger tells me, “You’re right, it’s addicting.” Very recently, she wailed about her life as a pedestrian. Yes, she wrote about her ordinary walking days because this gypsy ain’t riding a caravan. More like surviving EDSA, really. She shares, “I find myself a hair’s breath away from speeding buses and motorcycles. If they swerve just half an inch on my side of the road—well, we will then have to include ‘humans’ somewhere in the definition of roadkill.” Funny! I can tell, this early on, that I'll be inspired and entertained to read what is dancing in the gypsy's mind.

As for the geek poet, no, I had nothing to do with his blog. A friend from way back (we worked on several projects—a newsletter, an interactive CD, book covers), some of his posts remind me of what I knew about who he was while others reveal for the first time who he now is. Who could miss his blog’s unique design, with tabs not usual to blogger.com templates? Go figure—he designs websites for a living (Check out his other baby, the Crossover Singles website).

Among many things about his life, this geek poet writes about a "bloody" dating book, his nephew Iko and his life as a singleton. A paragraph of his what’s-my-type-post reminds me a little of Chandler in his pre-Monica days. An amusing line from this particular post reads, “I don’t want to end up with a cow eh! (he's referring to a real cow here)” This from the guy who, though considers himself as nice, would rather be known as something else. He laments, “Don't you hate it when you hear people say what they think about you and you hear... nice?”

I'm looking forward to adding more links on the right side of this screen. Because there are other bloggers out there whose lives and adventures merit a few clicks on my mouse, and a couple of rolls on my scroll. If the worldwide web is a street, then am I glad to be running into a gypsy, a geek poet and all the other characters in between.

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?