Pasakalye sa Ibang Kwento Tungkol kay Nanay

A little less than three years ago I found myself knocking at the gates of Asuncion haven in Pasig admidst raging wind and rising waters. Suffice to say that my bond with my car extends all the way to a common inability to swim; so we found ourselves seeking sanctuary from my mother's brood.

Somewhere amiddle the chaos of getting-out-of-car, ringing-reluctant-bell, and running back to bring the car inside the compound I managed to rip my faithful university jacket's (*not to be confused with my faithful examination-day-lucky hoodie) left armpit.

To avoid needlessly raising Nanay's blood pressure from worry (I had called ahead to tell them i was coming in from the storm) I rushed to her room to show her that her happily-drenched grandson was wet, but otherwise peachy.

I gratefully accepted a towel and proceeded to dry my hair while we started with pleasantries. I asked her how she was, and complimented her on how her hands were not trembling as much. She explains that she has a magical bracelet that counters the tremor effect of Parkinson's, which was increasingly causing her troubles. She asked me why I hadn't used an umbrella and the conversation eventually led to my jacket's ripped armpit. And then she did the most unexpected thing--

She opened the drawer beside her wheelchair, pulled out a battered sewing kit, threaded a needle, and demanded I hand over my jacket.

For the uninitiated, Parkinson's Disease has a plethora of mean symptoms; motor tremors and muscular rigidity among others. My Nanay's hands were the first to pay the toll. By that time, her fingers were gnarled and the trembling was severe. These prevented her from even the most mundane tasks such as lifting utensils with enough coordination to feed herself, or cooking, or kickboxing for that matter.

And now she wanted to sew.

So I turned my jacket over and we proceeded to accomplish what must've been the slowest repair session ever recorded. Inch after inch we weaved through the gash; and every stitch was paistakingly slow for both of us---she with her failing hands, me with my muted protests. She would not have any of it. She was a mother. And she would sew for her her grandchildren as she had done for her children.

And all along I felt a bit broken because I suspect I know why she had insisted. Because she had taught my mother and my mom was long gone. Because I was a lost boy and I had no one to sew for me.

When we finished I was the recipient of a changed jacket. It had taken three full hours and the armpit's stitches are the ugliest you will ever see. They are crooked, and twisted, like my Nanay's hands--but I love them like I do her hands, and they make me a bit warmer, and maybe a little less lost, and I still don't use umbrellas.

untitled and overdue
(17 may 2006)

On rainy days like these,
  angels have been known to
    stay far above
      where neither aeroplanes
      nor clouds dare tread;

Keeping feathers dry,
    untrusting of our
      frightfully inadequate umbrellas
      and
      deliciously yellow raincoats

Which is why i'm wondering---

    (huddled under brolly and gamp
      unmindful of feet or flipflops,
        delighting every puddle;)

    ---what you are doing here.

-b
(written on a rainy summer day spent with a cat)

darating

Tonight i remembered not to take myself too seriously. Years ago was a boy picking himself off the floor of some party he had crashed; lost in the hours between drunken haze and inevitably hungover. Searching among the wreckage of naked limbs and oddly tranquil barf he would stumble onto what the prophets could only have dubbed as epiphany.

I remember it so well that i forget as soon as i fix my mind on it. But i remember how i got on my feet, digested the secret of the universe and sank back down on the floor. And started laughing. And laughing...

Tonight while i was making my post-midnight-cup-of-tea i heard laughter. My fervent hope is that it is the sound of a reptile learning that same secret after sneaking sips off my lola's unemptied wineglass. But these words came to mind:

Take yourself too seriously and the lizards will laugh at you.

So there. Tangina. And it's not that funny you goddamned wall-crawling reptile.

Defying the Horde



We should have run. Everything that was rational, logical and sane screamed it out with monosyllabic sense; RUN ! The Troll was on a mount which meant he was at least level forty. Griffin was uncharacteristically quiet, which i knew meant he would've advocated running as well if he wasn't of the species of black lion also called pridelords. So by all accounts we should have run-- but we didn't.

Besides, what kind of self-respecting hero runs away from a Troll anyway? I know I'd probably run from a level forty Orc and I'd definitely run from a Tauren! But a Troll?!

So we decided. We would stay. To his credit, the Troll had the decency to wait out our decision. By the time we finished our little council he was staring us down, sitting comfortably on his raptor.

So I drew my longsword. Griffin moved closer. And the Troll began his advance. And i was thinking: this is the stuff legends are made of; this is the stuff heroes are borne out of! So I rushed up to face the Troll, my lion keeping pace easily as it had in every battle we had been in... there would be no battlecry for this one, Griffin didn't make a sound...


It was over in twenty seconds, =P how long did you expect a level 22 hunter to last against a level 40++ warrior anyway? Hehehe, but damn it was fun, and we didn't run... we stood fast, and held our ground... all twenty seconds till the Troll kicked the crap outta us *

* * *

*Below are more screenshots from WoW. Azeroth really is a wonderful place to have adventures in. =)


Gryphon flight under Darkshore's night sky *


Tracking a bunch of Blackrock Orcs *


Waiting for the Pridelord who would eventually become my Griffin *
(Damned black lion spawns only about once a day !)
(That's Joppet waiting with me)

Kalachuchi

Earlier this evening Anna asked me what i thought of the recent events in the continuing saga of Philippine politics and poopoo things (easily synonymous and alliterative). I like Anna so i couldn't play squirrel; but i've learned that walking away from the answer can sometimes be the way to it.

Here is me walking away:

It was late, i was hungry, the giant yellow letter 'M' made me do it. Some nights we are mere pawns of our gastric urges. Some nights the neon signs play tricks on us. At any rate i was there before i realized what i was doing and it was too late to back out of Mt. McDo's Drive-Thru. So i order 'chicken' (we don't actually know what's under all the flour if anything is under there at all) and throw in fries so i can eat them frenchlike (mayo instead of ketchuppp).

Right after ordering, though, a little girl comes up and taps my passenger side window for change. I curse her timing for not showing up while i could still order her food instead of giving her money. I fish a bill out of my pocket, roll the window down and hand it to her. I notice her eyes are still untouched by the world, and I notice her cheeks seem untouched by the reality of hunger. So she utters the perfunctory thanks and is off.

As she walks off i notice a single kalachuchi was leftover from my earlier adventures. So I pick it up and roll my window down. She must've heard the window cos she is looking at me. And suddenly we are both out of our equations; and suddenly there are no words. I motion with my hand for her to come back.

And we dance this dance:

She walks slowly.

I keep the flower out of sight.

Her eyes are curious.

I am now on full automatic pilot.

She reaches the car.

I hold up the small flower and proffer it in silence.

Her lips turn into a smile as she reaches for it without a second's hesitation.

And then we are off again.

I wonder if i was only imagining that she liked the flower more than the money. I wonder if that smile was as sweet as i was remembering it. Too often, I wonder too much. But just as i was about to dismiss the whole thing, rounding the corner of Mt. Mcdo, i see her standing on the edge of the elevated parking lot, with my flower in her hand, waving at the weirdo who had given her the most useless thing that had ever earned her smile.

And i knew.

I know it's not much of an answer. But i don't usually have good answers anyway. So here:

I think there are too many little girls looking for money when they should be receiving flowers. I'm not much of a political analyst. I'm not very good at economics either. I can't save the Philippines; Hell i couldn't even save that one girl---but i can climb trees, and i'm weird enough to give useless flowers, and i'm still naive enough to believe it matters somewhere.

* * *

(this post is 16 days late because of World of Warcraft--it looks fun, it seems harmless BUT IT'S NOT* * * WoW Post will follow )

Deus ex

(from 16 February 2006; and thank you, pldt dsl, for the wonderful delay*)

This is what i've been reduced to:

There were days i was deluded enough to imagine marshalling a clone army to wreak armageddon the likes of which no drughappy evangelist could have ever imagined. There were days my teddybear's ego was huge enough to decree that those clones would be copies of myself. There were days we dreamed of dragging the moon down with chain and winch--happily chanting 'Long live the Queen!' while we plotted. Days spent tossing boulders across the world with pinpoint accuracy--

And then there's today.

Today, I am faced with the harsh reality of mundane faculty room thwarting. For those of you who know me well enough, you would be more than familiar with my vast dislike for being thwarted.

And yet here i sit; blogging instead of printing the long test i need for my next class--thwarted by my new nemesis: the faculty room's lone HP Laserjet 1000 Series printer.

It is a cruel piece of technology. Buttonlessly stupidproofed for the common human idiot. Its white panels scream "I am clean! You are sweaty!". Its lights designed to be beacons of despair--PAPER JAMMED!, OUT OF PAPER!, OUT OF INK!. Ah, how evil comes in neat little packages of plastic and ink.

Fifteen minutes ago we fought the battle that would decide the fate of man. We locked eyes and stared each other down (i pretended the blinking lights are eyes...), unyielding (it doesn't seem like it's going anywhere or budging from its place anytime soon), man versus machine at its pathetic worst (where are the killer robots? where are the evil cyborgs? where's the romance? the glamour?)---

Fiften minutes later i am slouched (Mama Ludz and Mama Delfin are in class so i take the opportunity to sit in the fashion favored by most of my race, gender and age) and licking my wounds; my ego bruised over losing to an inanimate object. This is what i've been reduced to.

I am sorry, friends, i let us down. Boo for mankind, the machines have won.

Demon Chicken Rising Part I



This is what my nightmares are made of:::

Somewhere between two and three, long before the king makes his way around and up the eastern passages. Pitch black, cold sweat, everything still.

I am wondering why i'm awake; i am wondering if i'm awake.

And this is how my thoughts fly in my dreams; a corrugated-corduroy-chameleon game of one thought sliding into another:::

Asleep. I. am. awake. elsewhere.

But more importantly i catapult compound-thoughts such as:::

Nimbus. Nimbus. Shower. Shower. All. It. Takes. To. Save. The. Flowers.

and

Gnome. Smoking.

But they're just escapees from my asylum. And I feel something else is about to make its way out.

This must be the calm before the storm. The shaman singing maelstrom. This is taunting silence. A kiss-your-ass-goodbye moment. But already i can hear it, worse than batshriek; even wolfcry:::

.......cock-a-doodle-dooh.............

* * *

Is it possible? Could it be him? Why am i dreaming of El Polo Diablo? Am i eating too much of Mang Teo's breaded chicken + shanghai fried rice + kuchay pie combo? Is the demon chicken back?

               Agno Street

           

It is surprisingly unsettling,
      this moment of realization,
      this subtle love affair
           as old as

                water and stone;
                wet and dry;

                used to make nothing
                but mud.

But here,
      and ever since these
           streets were born,

           they come together;

                soft drizzle,
                hazy downpour,

           and make puddles that
                hold ripples.

‘Bakit kaya tuwing binibisita kita,
      umiiyak ang langit?’

                               ‘ewan.'

armageddon angry

It happens every now and then; quite rarely actually and so quietly that you'd miss it if you blink. So i'm unblinking today. Something is shifting tonight and i can't help feeling cat-cornered-and-ready; so this one's for you Sun Tzu.

They taught me a long time ago that there is no shame in running. They said it was okay. They said running is good exercise and you just need to pick the proper pair of running shoes---work for some; alcohol for others. And for awhile we'd empty bottles of beer and fill the vacuum with our stories.



'Boy; everybody runs!', they said, 'You must learn how to run!'

So i did. And i have been without knowing it. Past convenience stores, inside my room, outside my window, right by the house doppleganger, over sand dunes and under blankets. Probably why i've been waking up tired. Probably why she used to tease me about not being able to keep still; a long time ago when we were storks.

What they didn't tell me is that you'd eventually have to stop. And knowing it just makes you want to run faster. Faster until your lungs quit, and you're all out of steam, all the way through till one day you're all out and too tired to put up a good fight on the way down.

Which is why i'm stopping today. And i'm gonna bend down and reach for the sand. And let my toes have their fun. And there won't be any cheese about facing my ghosts. Masyado na silang marami at masyado na akong matanda. I'm much too old to be afraid of ghosts anyway.

What i am gonna do, though, is stop running. I'm gonna stop while i've still got enough to turn around the push back. I'm too much of a monster to go quietly anway.

So here is a postcard from my desert:



It is hot here where i've found myself after all that running. Which isn't so bad because out here i am camel-like. I love the sun; and my mark bears its likeness. I am sunburned crisp and happily making my way back. Most of all i am camel-like because i prefer to walk now, and i'm going to make a big stink like i used to.

Armageddon is coming. Tell them.

Pawikan on the Run
(For my bestfriend, Paolo, who has never been afraid of succeeding.)


(Above: DLSZ's First Debate Team [1998 - 1999]; Seven years after that fateful day they failed to stop Ronald McDonald from conquering the world.)

This is what happens when we realize that we can never go back. When we realize that five seconds ago is farther that you can ever travel in kilometers or miles because while time might be crawling, it's always crawling forward. And they tell us the key to any tiptoe-tightrope-act is to never look down. I guess the key to dealing with our unidirectional time scheme would be to never look back. I guess this is how we'll have to work till we find ourselves back home--sipping our favorite beer under our beloved Alabang sky.

So i won't dredge up the past while Manila's emptying out--

But this one's for you, bro:

Remember to bottle every story for the trip back, remember how you taught me to sleep when you're sleepy and to eat when you're hungry, remember that you are much better at creating and i am here when something needs destroying, remember we kept playing even when there were only three of us left* * *

There will never be a way back for us but maybe, if we move fast enough, we can come full circle someday. Enjoy the world Vishnu, Shiva watches over Alabang while you wander.

* * *