Last night I slept knowing that God loves me.
Prior, I sobbed by the greatness of the idea. How can I be loved so much?
Things are going smoothly in my life, recently at least.
I am beginning to find my way back into love. I guess I am. (When I have totally gone back in, I’d tell you more.)
I had a great time with my sister and my sister’s girlfriends in Café Breton. It was a jovial get-together with people I just met, therefore, another cosmic experience and that means meeting someone again for the first time. If that’s confusing, ok, it’s just like déjà vu but only 50 percent or barely.
One of the stranger-friends asked how younger I was than my sister or how older she was than me. We said 10 (I’m 23, she’s 33.) They were surprised and exclaimed that we looked like barkadas. By and by, all of them were one-by-one asking how big our age gap was, as if it hasn’t been asked and answered yet. So we’d say again, “ten.” And they’d be like, oh my god really? And we’d be like, yeah. And then they’d say again, para lang kayong magkabarkada. And then I said, hmm… are we supposed to look like mag-ina in real life? The long and short of it, it felt good hearing someone comment on our barkada-like sisterly relationship. I never thought we’d look like that in front of people, considering how I grew up in a not-so-close-knit-but-eventually-found-its-way-to-be-close-knit-ironically-when-we-started-moving-one-by-one-out-of-the-house family. I wonder if my mom and I would eventually look like that….
My sister and I, or better yet, my four sisters and I…. We dream together. We plan together. We make our dreams come true together.
My sister and I have been planning to build a house, nay, a family mansion, as I corrected Ate Dale, my sister’s best friend, last night when she asked what my sister and I were talking about when she butted in the midst of our deep conversation; before us was a block of high-ceilinged townhouses which reminded us of our dream house. Yes, our dream house. Not my dream house nor her dream house, but ours, for the seven of us, my father, mother, and their five daughters—us.
How ironic that, growing up in a family with perennial financial problems, moral issues, and everyday nagging at each other to deal with everyday, we still plan to have a place where to stay together for the rest of our lives. Don’t the cat-and-dog fights suffice for us to say that we eventually want total independence of each other and just see each other once in a while or not at all? Isn’t our Nanay’s nagging enough reason for us to totally, altogether move out?
Looking around society today, with most families broken by different factors, it’s still safe to say that ours is the most normal, if not ideal.
I have a father. He works for a government hospital (that’s for 45 years now a.k.a. all his life). His salary is no doubt meager to send all five kids—us—to college. But he did. Miracles happen. He made them.
I have a mother. She is a housewife. She’s been that for as long as my memory serves me well. It was my father’s staunch principle to have one of them stay at home with the kids—us—to focus on us and raise us. And that principle worked. Otherwise, one of the daughters—us again—could have had herself pregnant and got married early. One of us could have “drugged” away. One of us could have not finished her schooling. One of us could have… the bad possibilities are endless!
We are all five. Girls. No boys to look after us (except for my kinda skinny father). We went to school. We went through school and beyond. We went through a lot! (God knows what they are) But none of them included either of my parents' unfaithfulness to each other nor their children's messing up in school because we learned the value of money early on and knew better than to waste away our tuition fees. We've been a thread too close to breaking up as a family but we were never a broken family. Comparing or not comparing with other families of today, I am proud of ours.
Now you ask why I so think there really is a God who loves me (and of course, you, too) beyond this world, beyond anything, beyond our scars, beyond our ignorance, beyond our mistakes, beyond our imagination, beyond description, and beyond you and me?
I was never a religious person. (I don’t remember the last time I went to church, but it was definitely this year, and my pious mom should not know this.) But I am spiritual. I believe that there’s one big Man or Woman or Spirit out there who knows everything we do, everything we’ve done, and everything we’ll ever do, and we can’t escape from Him/Her. But the good thing is (as if the last statement were really bad), Someone is always going to catch us any way we fall. But we will never fall. We will always defy gravity. In every end, things always work themselves out because God is working them out.
Last night, I slept with my soul opulent.
(written 2 nov 08)
7.11.08
5.11.08
the night before obama won
For the first time, I was grateful I live far from work (or simply far, alright). The long way home would buy time for my body to digest the chao fan, lemon chicken, siomai, and nai cha milk tea I consumed with Jeff and Pyugs, friends from work, that is if it still has power to digest given that it’s way past midnight now.
We (or they) talked about their sad stories.
Pyugs’s was when his mom died while he was in the States (specifically, San Jo-say [in Pyugs’s articulated voice]), how his grandma broke the news, and how he and his siblings reunited after several years for a supposedly happy get-together but really to circle around their mother’s coffin. Being the natural speaker in the family, he delivered the eulogy, saying his mom had always been there with him in his frequent trips to the hospital sickly child as he’d been, but the rare, if not the only, time his mom was hospitalized, he wasn’t there for her. That broke my heart! (By the way, sometimes I imagine giving eulogies more of like the ones in Ally McBeal episodes, talking about the dead, not realizing the gravity of the situation if it actually happens.)
Jeff’s was... well, I don’t remember it being sad. He just went on recounting his years as a student/barista in Maryland. I think the only sad part throughout his turn to speak was when he mentioned about his favorite sad song, Blower’s Daughter, of the movie, Closer, which also made me sad remembering scenes from the movie.
And so the three of us paid the bill; Jeff dropped Pyugs at ABS, then me at Philcoa. Jeff was, the entire time, on a long-distance phone call with his mom, sharing his first live report on TV Patrol on a weekday, having been moved from police shift to Bandila shift. His mom, thinking that it was Jeff’s off today, said she did hear her son’s voice on TV but didn’t care to look at the screen, hence didn’t see him doing the live report. It was funny! (His mom always watches his reports on TV via TFC. I wonder how many times his mom has been late or missed work altogether just to catch his son on TV both doing well and messing up!) Anyway, the entire thing didn’t look like a mom-son talk but more of just a jeff-any friend talk.
These men both looked like mama’s boys to me, how they talked endearingly of and with their moms respectively. But these men are real men (Pyugs may not be physically with his never-fading-always-rosy cheeks always ready to go on-cam for any breaking news, and Jeff with his bakla-disguised-as-conyo language). They are beloved in their respective families, admired in their crafts, and loved in the newsroom. And I’m glad to know them, in a different, deeper level this time.
We (or they) talked about their sad stories.
Pyugs’s was when his mom died while he was in the States (specifically, San Jo-say [in Pyugs’s articulated voice]), how his grandma broke the news, and how he and his siblings reunited after several years for a supposedly happy get-together but really to circle around their mother’s coffin. Being the natural speaker in the family, he delivered the eulogy, saying his mom had always been there with him in his frequent trips to the hospital sickly child as he’d been, but the rare, if not the only, time his mom was hospitalized, he wasn’t there for her. That broke my heart! (By the way, sometimes I imagine giving eulogies more of like the ones in Ally McBeal episodes, talking about the dead, not realizing the gravity of the situation if it actually happens.)
Jeff’s was... well, I don’t remember it being sad. He just went on recounting his years as a student/barista in Maryland. I think the only sad part throughout his turn to speak was when he mentioned about his favorite sad song, Blower’s Daughter, of the movie, Closer, which also made me sad remembering scenes from the movie.
And so the three of us paid the bill; Jeff dropped Pyugs at ABS, then me at Philcoa. Jeff was, the entire time, on a long-distance phone call with his mom, sharing his first live report on TV Patrol on a weekday, having been moved from police shift to Bandila shift. His mom, thinking that it was Jeff’s off today, said she did hear her son’s voice on TV but didn’t care to look at the screen, hence didn’t see him doing the live report. It was funny! (His mom always watches his reports on TV via TFC. I wonder how many times his mom has been late or missed work altogether just to catch his son on TV both doing well and messing up!) Anyway, the entire thing didn’t look like a mom-son talk but more of just a jeff-any friend talk.
These men both looked like mama’s boys to me, how they talked endearingly of and with their moms respectively. But these men are real men (Pyugs may not be physically with his never-fading-always-rosy cheeks always ready to go on-cam for any breaking news, and Jeff with his bakla-disguised-as-conyo language). They are beloved in their respective families, admired in their crafts, and loved in the newsroom. And I’m glad to know them, in a different, deeper level this time.
10.10.08
JOY WITHOUT A NAME
I JUST WATCHED THE THREE OF THEM GO down the jeepney without me moving a nerve but my eyes following them. Instinct told me to look out the vehicle so I effortfully leaned forward and, much to my surprise, they were looking back at me. I waved at them and, seemingly ready, they waved back. I was overwhelmed with joy made obvious by a smile that wouldn’t leave my face minutes after. I still feel myself brightening up when I remember that moment. What nameless joy children bring me!
(written 21 feb 08)
HER POINT OF VIEW
TWO CONFUSED INDIVIDUALS ENTERED A CONVENIENCE STORE in an attempt to clear the air between them, over Gatorade. It was her first Gatorade ever; as for him, she wouldn’t know. He picked two from the freezer, one red, the other, blue. He made her choose. She picked red.
They settled in a seat facing a glass wall, consuming their drinks, taking their time, as if both were preparing for the battle upfront and avoiding it, mindful or unmindful of the mostly call center agents passing by before them.
They were trying to reach a resolution where both parties would benefit—he wanted to be just friends, she wanted more than that, though no one knows if they’re telling the truth.
It looked simple yet ages seemed to pass now. It’s probably fear overwhelming each of them and without it, they could’ve been so in love now!
Both were deciding individually. Both were quiet. There was the cliché-ic deafening silence between them. He broke it by asking, “Why did you pick red?” She said, “I think it’s given that I’m supposed to pick it over the blue one.” He grinned by her remark. He then picked the two now-empty bottles and put them together, side-by-side. (If the bottles had hands, they could’ve been holding each other’s.) He kept them like that for a moment, staring at them, wallowing the picture, smiling or not smiling, the glass wall mirroring everything before it—the empty bottles, their consumers, their sad eyes. By now, the reflections were worth a thousand words! They’d look up and face the glass wall, but no one could tell if they were looking at each other’s reflections but avoiding eye contact, or looking through and at the people beyond, or at none at all.
It was a symbolic moment—the empty Gatorade bottles put together and the glass wall reflections—but symbols for what?
The Gatorade bottles were as empty as they—two confused individuals, with his and her own scripts to tell, both had been ruined through time, both seeking refuge, both longing to enjoy their Godforsaken right to be loved. Had it not been for the place and consequences, they could hug, and kiss, and take refuge from each other, and equally enjoy their right to be loved now, only if these people around wouldn’t see them.
They went out. They entered the car. She started sobbing for the heaviness of her heart. He wouldn’t know what it meant. They wanted each other, so bad it could’ve killed them. But not on the same level, not at the same time.
They left the place, more confused than ever before….
They settled in a seat facing a glass wall, consuming their drinks, taking their time, as if both were preparing for the battle upfront and avoiding it, mindful or unmindful of the mostly call center agents passing by before them.
They were trying to reach a resolution where both parties would benefit—he wanted to be just friends, she wanted more than that, though no one knows if they’re telling the truth.
It looked simple yet ages seemed to pass now. It’s probably fear overwhelming each of them and without it, they could’ve been so in love now!
Both were deciding individually. Both were quiet. There was the cliché-ic deafening silence between them. He broke it by asking, “Why did you pick red?” She said, “I think it’s given that I’m supposed to pick it over the blue one.” He grinned by her remark. He then picked the two now-empty bottles and put them together, side-by-side. (If the bottles had hands, they could’ve been holding each other’s.) He kept them like that for a moment, staring at them, wallowing the picture, smiling or not smiling, the glass wall mirroring everything before it—the empty bottles, their consumers, their sad eyes. By now, the reflections were worth a thousand words! They’d look up and face the glass wall, but no one could tell if they were looking at each other’s reflections but avoiding eye contact, or looking through and at the people beyond, or at none at all.
It was a symbolic moment—the empty Gatorade bottles put together and the glass wall reflections—but symbols for what?
The Gatorade bottles were as empty as they—two confused individuals, with his and her own scripts to tell, both had been ruined through time, both seeking refuge, both longing to enjoy their Godforsaken right to be loved. Had it not been for the place and consequences, they could hug, and kiss, and take refuge from each other, and equally enjoy their right to be loved now, only if these people around wouldn’t see them.
They went out. They entered the car. She started sobbing for the heaviness of her heart. He wouldn’t know what it meant. They wanted each other, so bad it could’ve killed them. But not on the same level, not at the same time.
They left the place, more confused than ever before….
LEFT OF THE MIDDLE
End of the third round
As I put the phone down
Chasing the same lines
Over the old ground.
I’m pushing zero
Where is my hero?
He’s out there somewhere
Left of the middle.
And the world falls down
And you’re there calling out
But it’s something I can’t say
Though it seems the only way
And it’s a game that I can’t play
Not today.
I’ve got my ticket
And I got a straight road
But I’m passing the same signs
Over and over.
I need to tell you
Trying to get through
It’s not always easy
Left of the middle.
(Natalie Imbruglia)
As I put the phone down
Chasing the same lines
Over the old ground.
I’m pushing zero
Where is my hero?
He’s out there somewhere
Left of the middle.
And the world falls down
And you’re there calling out
But it’s something I can’t say
Though it seems the only way
And it’s a game that I can’t play
Not today.
I’ve got my ticket
And I got a straight road
But I’m passing the same signs
Over and over.
I need to tell you
Trying to get through
It’s not always easy
Left of the middle.
(Natalie Imbruglia)
FAST FORWARD IT
I RODE THE BUS HOME. The bus sets me to mood. The mood of loneliness, as different pictures pass by your sight, literally and figuratively.
Sometimes the words of my film teacher, Sir Patrick Campos, make me think… that one can only be happy so much, but never “truly, completely” happy. He said, probably happiness is not really here. It’s probably not in this life. Probably, it’s after this life—the life with the Creator. It’s probably there, that’s why we can’t really have it, feel it, here and now. Prolly….
I had dinner with one of the reporters last night. At least that’s the only source of happiness for my entire workday. Just a little bit of happiness. Not full.
I’m beginning to think I’m really a loner. (Is this Charlie Brown speaking?) WAAHHH!!!
The Realization that SNAPPED and SLAPPED me today: Fast forward the lonely moment. (inspired by Ally McBeal)
(written 5 sep 07)
Sometimes the words of my film teacher, Sir Patrick Campos, make me think… that one can only be happy so much, but never “truly, completely” happy. He said, probably happiness is not really here. It’s probably not in this life. Probably, it’s after this life—the life with the Creator. It’s probably there, that’s why we can’t really have it, feel it, here and now. Prolly….
I had dinner with one of the reporters last night. At least that’s the only source of happiness for my entire workday. Just a little bit of happiness. Not full.
I’m beginning to think I’m really a loner. (Is this Charlie Brown speaking?) WAAHHH!!!
The Realization that SNAPPED and SLAPPED me today: Fast forward the lonely moment. (inspired by Ally McBeal)
(written 5 sep 07)
4.10.08
3.10.08
A JEEPNEY-RIDE LOVE STORY
It was love at first sight.
He was sleeping; she was unmindful. He suddenly lifted his head up and she saw that he was handsome with his beautiful, sleepy eyes and a fashion that rocks—black polo, folded-at-the-edge pants and Chuck Taylor pair. He probably noticed her, too, as he didn’t sleep anymore since.
She paid. SM po. He paid. SM.
When they reached the latter, she quickly took another jeepney. He seemed to follow her and rode the same.
She paid. He stretched his arm to reach her. It was one, two, three seconds of touching each other’s fingers. His middle, index, and thumb. Hers, too. Then she thought, she could have handed him a calling card or a piece of paper with her number on it at the same time that she handed him her fare to be handed over to the driver. But it only happens in the movies.
Para po. She made a last look at him but he wasn’t looking. She alighted the vehicle and the story ended.
Or not. Malay mo. Bilog ang mundo—the jeepney radio played.
(written 16 sep 2007)
He was sleeping; she was unmindful. He suddenly lifted his head up and she saw that he was handsome with his beautiful, sleepy eyes and a fashion that rocks—black polo, folded-at-the-edge pants and Chuck Taylor pair. He probably noticed her, too, as he didn’t sleep anymore since.
She paid. SM po. He paid. SM.
When they reached the latter, she quickly took another jeepney. He seemed to follow her and rode the same.
She paid. He stretched his arm to reach her. It was one, two, three seconds of touching each other’s fingers. His middle, index, and thumb. Hers, too. Then she thought, she could have handed him a calling card or a piece of paper with her number on it at the same time that she handed him her fare to be handed over to the driver. But it only happens in the movies.
Para po. She made a last look at him but he wasn’t looking. She alighted the vehicle and the story ended.
Or not. Malay mo. Bilog ang mundo—the jeepney radio played.
(written 16 sep 2007)
THE COFFEE CUP
It started and ended with a cup.
It was cool and windy. She stopped at a vending machine for coffee. She realized she’s one peso short. The coffee was 10. She only had nine. Then came a peso on the palm of his hand, offered, brushed from behind her. She hadn’t noticed him at all. Oh, thank you, was all she said then finally delighted at her coffee. She brushed herself aside giving way for the next customer. She sipped, loved it, and sipped again. She felt warmth. Seconds grew awkward as she naturally expected the man to proceed to get his coffee. Baffled, she finally asked, “You’re not able to get your coffee?” “Oh no, it’s fine.” “There’s still some left, isn’t there?” “Yeah, I think so. But it’s fine.” She was not understanding him. Naturally, she thought, he would have his turn after her.
And then she felt embarrassed.
The coffee was 10. He only had nine. She felt guilty; he saw it so he assured her it’s really nothing to worry about. They stared at each other for a moment and then smiled. And then laughed. It was no longer awkward, but funny. Amidst the laughter, she tried to apologize for “stealing” his one peso. She knew, though, he wouldn’t like it, so she offered to share her drink. “I’d love to, but it’s alright.” She insisted. He refused, so she insisted more, close to pushing. He agreed, “Only if you’d finish it up to mid-cup,” sounding more challenging than commanding. She OKed.
They sat at the bench just beside the vending machine, she, waiting for the coffee to cool off a bit, he, waiting for his turn. Little by little, she sipped her coffee until its hotness was bearable. They started talking, reluctantly at first, then there was a conversation. She takes the train every time she needs to; he mostly rides the bus but apparently not this time.
The wind blew as it always did those days of cool months. They were a painting to behold. They spoke freely and listened earnestly to each other, almost forgetting about the finish-it-up-to-mid-cup goal.
Now, she handed the cup to him, noticing how much she’s consumed. He took it. She thanked and beckoned him goodbye, as the approaching train reached a halt. It was quick but the smiles were forever.
HE--felt a tinge of joy as he pushed the dilapidated cup back to its drawer, its home for two years now.
SHE--was at the train station again, as she had always been everyday for the past two years, waiting for a familiar sight to see. But for the past two years, she went home and took the train, looking forward to going to the station again the next day.
(written 3 sep 07)
It was cool and windy. She stopped at a vending machine for coffee. She realized she’s one peso short. The coffee was 10. She only had nine. Then came a peso on the palm of his hand, offered, brushed from behind her. She hadn’t noticed him at all. Oh, thank you, was all she said then finally delighted at her coffee. She brushed herself aside giving way for the next customer. She sipped, loved it, and sipped again. She felt warmth. Seconds grew awkward as she naturally expected the man to proceed to get his coffee. Baffled, she finally asked, “You’re not able to get your coffee?” “Oh no, it’s fine.” “There’s still some left, isn’t there?” “Yeah, I think so. But it’s fine.” She was not understanding him. Naturally, she thought, he would have his turn after her.
And then she felt embarrassed.
The coffee was 10. He only had nine. She felt guilty; he saw it so he assured her it’s really nothing to worry about. They stared at each other for a moment and then smiled. And then laughed. It was no longer awkward, but funny. Amidst the laughter, she tried to apologize for “stealing” his one peso. She knew, though, he wouldn’t like it, so she offered to share her drink. “I’d love to, but it’s alright.” She insisted. He refused, so she insisted more, close to pushing. He agreed, “Only if you’d finish it up to mid-cup,” sounding more challenging than commanding. She OKed.
They sat at the bench just beside the vending machine, she, waiting for the coffee to cool off a bit, he, waiting for his turn. Little by little, she sipped her coffee until its hotness was bearable. They started talking, reluctantly at first, then there was a conversation. She takes the train every time she needs to; he mostly rides the bus but apparently not this time.
The wind blew as it always did those days of cool months. They were a painting to behold. They spoke freely and listened earnestly to each other, almost forgetting about the finish-it-up-to-mid-cup goal.
Now, she handed the cup to him, noticing how much she’s consumed. He took it. She thanked and beckoned him goodbye, as the approaching train reached a halt. It was quick but the smiles were forever.
HE--felt a tinge of joy as he pushed the dilapidated cup back to its drawer, its home for two years now.
SHE--was at the train station again, as she had always been everyday for the past two years, waiting for a familiar sight to see. But for the past two years, she went home and took the train, looking forward to going to the station again the next day.
(written 3 sep 07)
Let’s talk about death.
by josefina y Villanueva
A friend of mine recently died. We shared a lot. We shared so much. Our memories together are strong. How can such strength collapse to nothing at the end of the day?
Death is the opposite of life, but we don’t talk about it as much as we talk about life. As if the death word is damned; no one wants to discuss it, and if someone does, s/he knocks on a wood, curses his/her mouth, and fidgets subtly, as if s/he is doomed to tread the road to perdition right there and then, for the mere act of thinking about it and s/he feels suddenly evil. As if it’s suddenly real. Why is death always serious and never casual? We never play with even the thought of it? What’s the use of NOT talking about it when no one knows about it anyway? But then again, what’s the use of talking about it when no one knows about it anyway?
But isn’t death with us everyday?
Isn’t it a temporary death when we lie in bed at night and doze off into dreams, and sometimes into mere vacuum because we are unconscious? We fall into stupor and none of us knows what is happening to us – whether we’re standing up, experiencing REM, or muttering while the eyes are shut (save for the mosquitoes circling on our surface which are, of course, not credible to talk to after sucking the blood out of us). Our state of unconsciousness is a state of death. You may not agree I understand. But who knows the truth?
Sometimes, we experience death with the demise of the spirit. Life often sucks, and it sure sucks the life out of us. That is why, sometimes after a from-dawn-till-dusk workout at the gym, we reward ourselves with a feast. It’s a cycle of life – of losing and dying, of gaining and living.
Sometimes I wish someone who has been dead would resurrect and present him/herself to the living and tell about what it’s like being dead and being in whatever place it is after earth. I wish s/he would talk to the living and remind them all the requisites to having eternal life so they won’t end up like him/her – dead and gone. Is death really what we know it here and now? Is death a form of punishment or reward for how we excelled or failed in the school of life? Like any other word, death is relative to each being. I’m sure all of us have been dead, one way or another.
My friend didn’t die a physical death. He merely left. But it was death for me. I died that day.
(first published in Fragments, Miriam College portfolio, 2005)
A friend of mine recently died. We shared a lot. We shared so much. Our memories together are strong. How can such strength collapse to nothing at the end of the day?
Death is the opposite of life, but we don’t talk about it as much as we talk about life. As if the death word is damned; no one wants to discuss it, and if someone does, s/he knocks on a wood, curses his/her mouth, and fidgets subtly, as if s/he is doomed to tread the road to perdition right there and then, for the mere act of thinking about it and s/he feels suddenly evil. As if it’s suddenly real. Why is death always serious and never casual? We never play with even the thought of it? What’s the use of NOT talking about it when no one knows about it anyway? But then again, what’s the use of talking about it when no one knows about it anyway?
But isn’t death with us everyday?
Isn’t it a temporary death when we lie in bed at night and doze off into dreams, and sometimes into mere vacuum because we are unconscious? We fall into stupor and none of us knows what is happening to us – whether we’re standing up, experiencing REM, or muttering while the eyes are shut (save for the mosquitoes circling on our surface which are, of course, not credible to talk to after sucking the blood out of us). Our state of unconsciousness is a state of death. You may not agree I understand. But who knows the truth?
Sometimes, we experience death with the demise of the spirit. Life often sucks, and it sure sucks the life out of us. That is why, sometimes after a from-dawn-till-dusk workout at the gym, we reward ourselves with a feast. It’s a cycle of life – of losing and dying, of gaining and living.
Sometimes I wish someone who has been dead would resurrect and present him/herself to the living and tell about what it’s like being dead and being in whatever place it is after earth. I wish s/he would talk to the living and remind them all the requisites to having eternal life so they won’t end up like him/her – dead and gone. Is death really what we know it here and now? Is death a form of punishment or reward for how we excelled or failed in the school of life? Like any other word, death is relative to each being. I’m sure all of us have been dead, one way or another.
My friend didn’t die a physical death. He merely left. But it was death for me. I died that day.
(first published in Fragments, Miriam College portfolio, 2005)
MISUNDERSTOOD.
I smile. Am mocked.
I cry. Am pitied.
I laugh. Am loathed.
I get serious. Am laughed at.
I talk. Am silenced.
I become quiet. Am provoked.
I play. Am made fun of.
I retire. Am taunted.
I run. Am halted.
I stop. Am pushed.
I open up. Am rejected.
I reach out. Am ignored.
I do good. Am killed.
(first published in CHI-RHO, MC official publication, 2004)
I cry. Am pitied.
I laugh. Am loathed.
I get serious. Am laughed at.
I talk. Am silenced.
I become quiet. Am provoked.
I play. Am made fun of.
I retire. Am taunted.
I run. Am halted.
I stop. Am pushed.
I open up. Am rejected.
I reach out. Am ignored.
I do good. Am killed.
(first published in CHI-RHO, MC official publication, 2004)
JOEY
There are countless stereotypical ways of defining the person, some of which are as follows:
By her zodiac sign: Aries – pioneering, enthusiastic, quick-witted, quick-tempered, and impulsive.
By her animal year: The Ox – a born leader; never gives up when something is half-way done; knows how to give an order and how to make others follow it; is not swayed by her emotions; has a strong sense of morality; does not easily change her mind because she is stubborn and sometimes prejudiced; her courage, logical thinking, and nimbleness are covered up by her simple appearance; faces danger fearlessly; can be an eloquent speaker when an opportunity is presented; believes that only those who have a down-to-earth style of work may never be defeated.
By her birth order: Youngest - usually the one who wants to do it all--paint and produce a movie, all in a day; believes that tears are the only way to get what she wants and because of this, is an excellent actor; is usually brainwashed by her siblings to think that she was adopted as a baby and found in a trashcan; loves to make people laugh or take center stage; a great storyteller.
By the etymology of her name: Josefina – Spanish feminine form of Joseph, which was from the Hebrew name Yoseph meaning "God shall add."
By the school she goes to: Miriam College – students from this school are affluent, articulate, and ma-arte.
However, none of these fits her perfectly primarily because she’s not your typical girl.
One look at her and she’ll return it with her seemingly perfunctory scrutinizing gaze behind the spectacles. She is this sickeningly stubborn pain-in-the-ass individual who is confident enough to say “no” when everyone else says “yes” and vice-versa. She has 150-75 vision, but you’ll be surprised by how she sees through you. Commonly misinterpreted as one who complicates things, she believes that every little thing is too important to just shrug off. She always has something to say about the world, because she believes that when people cease to complain, they cease to think.
She’s more than what the supercalifragething spells and means. Reflective, intuitive, sensitive, and manipulative rolled into a woman. She’s a child who sees it as a holy duty to continually make her parents proud, a friend who sincerely tells you if you’re ugly and helps you feel beautiful, and a maverick who’s too busy to care about the rules.
In this world of woes and wars, she keeps a vision of changing society through education empowerment. She is an idealist who, according to Henry Ford, is a person who helps other people to be prosperous. But sure enough, she will not live long to witness the change, for she herself is yet to win the greatest battlefield in the world, which is simply winning over oneself (which is hardly simple).
But behind her façade hides a daddy’s girl who talks and walks in sleep, frolics in her train rides while enormous billboards along EDSA leave her openmouthed, has gargantuan appetite and her figure doesn’t show it, treats crying as her source of rejuvenation more than what the spa can do, and ironically has this everyday fear of writing, which is denied by her journalistic prowess.
She has the mind of a great lawyer, the keen eyes of a filmmaker, the influential voice of an activist, the listening ears of a friend, and the gentle heart of a child. She’s like philosophy – dynamic: every practice of it changes its meaning.
By her zodiac sign: Aries – pioneering, enthusiastic, quick-witted, quick-tempered, and impulsive.
By her animal year: The Ox – a born leader; never gives up when something is half-way done; knows how to give an order and how to make others follow it; is not swayed by her emotions; has a strong sense of morality; does not easily change her mind because she is stubborn and sometimes prejudiced; her courage, logical thinking, and nimbleness are covered up by her simple appearance; faces danger fearlessly; can be an eloquent speaker when an opportunity is presented; believes that only those who have a down-to-earth style of work may never be defeated.
By her birth order: Youngest - usually the one who wants to do it all--paint and produce a movie, all in a day; believes that tears are the only way to get what she wants and because of this, is an excellent actor; is usually brainwashed by her siblings to think that she was adopted as a baby and found in a trashcan; loves to make people laugh or take center stage; a great storyteller.
By the etymology of her name: Josefina – Spanish feminine form of Joseph, which was from the Hebrew name Yoseph meaning "God shall add."
By the school she goes to: Miriam College – students from this school are affluent, articulate, and ma-arte.
However, none of these fits her perfectly primarily because she’s not your typical girl.
One look at her and she’ll return it with her seemingly perfunctory scrutinizing gaze behind the spectacles. She is this sickeningly stubborn pain-in-the-ass individual who is confident enough to say “no” when everyone else says “yes” and vice-versa. She has 150-75 vision, but you’ll be surprised by how she sees through you. Commonly misinterpreted as one who complicates things, she believes that every little thing is too important to just shrug off. She always has something to say about the world, because she believes that when people cease to complain, they cease to think.
She’s more than what the supercalifragething spells and means. Reflective, intuitive, sensitive, and manipulative rolled into a woman. She’s a child who sees it as a holy duty to continually make her parents proud, a friend who sincerely tells you if you’re ugly and helps you feel beautiful, and a maverick who’s too busy to care about the rules.
In this world of woes and wars, she keeps a vision of changing society through education empowerment. She is an idealist who, according to Henry Ford, is a person who helps other people to be prosperous. But sure enough, she will not live long to witness the change, for she herself is yet to win the greatest battlefield in the world, which is simply winning over oneself (which is hardly simple).
But behind her façade hides a daddy’s girl who talks and walks in sleep, frolics in her train rides while enormous billboards along EDSA leave her openmouthed, has gargantuan appetite and her figure doesn’t show it, treats crying as her source of rejuvenation more than what the spa can do, and ironically has this everyday fear of writing, which is denied by her journalistic prowess.
She has the mind of a great lawyer, the keen eyes of a filmmaker, the influential voice of an activist, the listening ears of a friend, and the gentle heart of a child. She’s like philosophy – dynamic: every practice of it changes its meaning.
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