Sorry, i couldn't resist blogging.

It's my second day in Boracay, and yes, time has stoppped. Already, I have deposited by watch in the hotel vault, turned off my cellphone, gone across the strip, sat by the beach and lived in the moment with nary a thought in my head, drank a Choco-Banana shake at Jona's, and watched a Boracay sunset. Can't say much more, really, except that Boracay is the natural opiate.

And I feel so cool 'coz I got an IPod to keep me company, and my Canon EOS 350D to keep my memories.

Yes, yes, Boracay is the natural opiate.

I haven't packed for Boracay yet, and it's already 3:12 in the morning. My flight is at 8:10 a.m.

I had come from a long day of running errands and tying up loose ends which I had put off due to my lolo's passing, and so, I wasn't in the mood to feel festive the night before my first trip to the island. To add to the exhaustion, I had just come from helping out the law school choir prepare for their concert in December, and then having a round of beer at Grilla's afterwards.

With too much on my mind— the death of my lolo besides— I am now looking at my half filled tote bag, wondering what else I missed: three boardshorts, my aquashoes, underwear, of course, toiletries, shirts, sunblock.

Ever the scatter-brained person that I am, I am just thankful that there are some people who (quite unexpectedly) did the packing for me. And so, tomorrow, together with my other stuff, I will be bringing:

1. A new pair of Havaianas,

2. An ipod, on loan, with a sunset songlist to match,

3. Aloe Vera Gelly, in case I get sunburned,

4. A long list of must-do's,

5. And lots of good wishes.

What would I do without such foresight? I'm done packing now, thank you very much. I think I'll be bringing everything that I will need.

(It is, in fact, and truth be told: one of the kindest things anyone has ever done for me.)

So: expect that I will smile, bask in the sun, disconnect, and not think too much! I just know I will fall in love with Boracay, and I will bring back lots of stories.

The reality of my grandfather's death has not yet quite sunk in for me, so that I still have to consciously remind myself that he is already actually gone. Of course, the past five days were very real for me, as perhaps they were for many of us in the family— the morning of his passing last Wednesday, the preparation for his wake that evening, the comings and goings of relatives and friends at the crypt of Mt. Carmel, the funeral mass, the cremation. It was as real as any experience that shakes one to the very core. But perhaps by sheer force of memory, the fact that he is gone is not yet a comfortable fact in my mind; I have to consciously tell myself: Lolo Ped is already dead.

You see, this is the first time that I have experienced death up close, to someone I know and love. Death, until this week, has always been something that happened to somebody else— to a friend, to a distant relative, to a classmate's parent or grandparent. It was therefore easy to keep a comfortable distance and an objective acceptance of its existence. Until last Wednesday, death was only an imagined grief, never a personal mourning. It was never a lived reality, only a dramatic interlude. It was merely philosophical, conceptual, Shakespearean even.

Until it happened to me.

This was probably why I found it so surprising and distressing that such an emotionally charged moment could be carried on amidst the ordinary hustle and bustle of everyday living. Life, it seemed, went on around us while my Lolo was dying— Doctors came in and out of the hospital room with their usual professional efficiency; Nurses and first year residents looked on with morbid curiosity while medical procedures were being carried out to keep him alive; Outside, hospital visitors and orderlies casually walked along, even as my father was breaking down in the corridor, embarrassed, even, that they were there to see him cry; In the next room, an old lady lay dead, and family members were— like us— filing into the room for a final good-bye; The public address system hummed; The vendo machines dispensed coffee; The elevator carried its passengers.

All this life and all this death, it seemed, while in room 240, someone’s eighty-six years of life were coming to an end. And everyone, it seemed, went about their daily business. It almost made me want to ask people to stay still, stand silent, pay their respects. But the world did not stop, just as it did not for that old lady lying dead in the next room.

Perhaps what W.H. Auden— that astute observer of mourning and death— wrote about suffering is true:

* * *

But while the world did not stop as my Lolo lay dying, it did for us, in that room in Cardinal Santos. Already, I had watched helplessly as the technicians straddled the bed upon which he lay, furiously pumping his chest in the hope of jump starting his ailing heart. Six doctors looked on as the Chief of Cardiology tried for two frustrating hours to revive him, but his heart was just not strong enough. After three prior heart attacks, there wasn’t much that could still be done.

I had to go out of the room because I could not bear watching what they were doing to him. Seeing my dad break down, and now, my Lolo at the brink of death, I was fighting hard to turn back tears. Between informing relatives, comforting my dad, and telling myself that this was actually happening, the experience presented itself with amazing surreality, like I was watching a medical show on TV. Only, the tears told me that this was real.

Later, at about a quarter to ten in the morning, the doctor finally emerged from the hospital room, accompanied by my uncle who was an orthopedic surgeon. He met my dad, mom and me in the corridor fronting the hospital room and explained to us that they had been attempting to stabilize my Lolo’s heartbeat for the better part of two hours. He said that while he was still alive, it is unlikely that his heart will be able to beat on its own volition without the aid of the adrenalin injected into his body. Considering his age, the consequences of such prolonged cardiac arrest also had an adverse effect on the amount of oxygen that reached his brain. He could not tell for certain the amount of brain damage this had caused.

Finally, he said (quite calmly and deliberately, at that), “There is not much that we can do for him now. He is going any time now, and I suggest that the family begin saying their good-byes.” My uncle concurred. My dad sorrowfully gave his consent, but requested that my Lolo be kept alive until all the family arrives.

We re-entered the room moments later, and saw him on the hospital bed, unmoving, with a tube which pumped oxygen into his body fastened to his mouth. The defibrillator sat obtrusively beside his bed, the monitor scribbling erratic lines which represented the spasms of his heart.

Immediately, almost by instinct, my dad bent down to hug him, breaking down again. I could not stop my tears. My mom was at the head of the bed gently stroking his hair, also in tears. My uncle, the doctor, stood at its foot, ever with the cold detachment of a medical scientist thoroughly initiated to the mechanisms of death. My dad went out to compose himself again, and I stepped forward, leaned down and looked at my Lolo’s strangely peaceful face, and whispered into his left ear, “Paalam, Lolo Ped. Maraming salamat.”

Sometime then, my other uncle, the youngest, had arrived with his wife, and they stood by the door in respectful distance. Moments later, my aunt arrived— the eldest child— together with my cousin, and she too broke down by my Lolo’s bedside. My dad left to pick up my Lola, who, I had just heard, was in the middle of a hysterical fit, having thrown herself sprawled on the garage floor.

While waiting for word from my dad, I watched as the nurses quietly wheeled the medical equipment out of the room. The defibrillator beside the bed scrawled irregularly jagged lines, nearly flat now— the only indication that my Lolo was still with us. The attending physician was merely waiting to declare him dead.

During those moments, I sat at the far end of the room, not quite sure of what to feel. The helplessness of the situation overwhelmed me; in the face of death we are powerless, they say. And while I knew that I would have to face it at some point in my life, as indeed, I will have to face it finally when my own time comes, death was a reality that left me emotionally unprepared. I could not rage against it; I could not stop it from coming. I could not conjure up some lofty philosophical truth to justify its happening, except that it actually was, and that I was simply being carried by the experience, watching, as death (or life) took its course.

The phone call came at around ten past ten in the morning. It was my dad, telling my uncle, the doctor, that my Lola did not want to go to the hospital anymore. After a brief exchange, he put down the phone, and with medical efficiency, turned to the nurses and said, “Okay na, tama na yan. Tanggalin niyo na.” And I watched as they stopped pumping oxygen into my Lolo’s body. He was no longer moving, of course, and were it not for the shallow peaks and troughs of the heart monitor, one couldn’t tell whether he was merely sleeping, or already dead.

I went out for a moment; the atmosphere in the room had become just too ominously heavy. I called my brother to tell him what had happened (He had classes that morning). When I went back into the room, my Lolo had died: the heart monitor showed a flat line.

He was gone, just like that.

Perhaps it was because I thought of life as being one long motion picture in my mind, I always imagined death to be accompanied by some dramatic overture, some thunder or lightning, some dying words by which immortal poetry would be spun. But that morning, there were no violins, no thunder or lightning, no words and no expression. There were no ecstatic visions, no tunnels or mystical lights, no metaphysical manifestations of the movement of the human soul. My Lolo simply went, and we knew it only by some blimp on a black and white screen. I did not even notice that he was dead.

And just like that, eighty-six of life and love ended quite finally, without even a flutter or a flourish. Just as the world did not stop for my Lolo’s dying, I was surprised by the oppressive commonality and ordinariness of his going. It seemed so silent and fragile, that all of life itself seemed arbitrary and trivial, useless, even, in the face of the muteness and utter anonymity of death. Even Julius Caesar had to die, and Shakespeare too lamented,

Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,
Shrunk to this little measure?

It was then, looking down at my Lolo’s lifeless body— so much appearing as though he were merely asleep— I was able to glimpse that feeling of emptiness and despair poets write about following the conclusion of a life shared in love (certainly, no doubt, what my Lola felt, following sixty-six years of marriage):

It all boiled down that, I thought: on a hospital bed, gone, forever. When Martin Heidegger wrote that we are beings onto death, I wondered: did he really know what he was talking about?

* * *

Fr. Mon Bautista, my dad’s cousin and one of my favorite Jesuit priests, said that, in the face of death, we are humbled into a recognition that we do not control so many, many things. Death, he says— especially the death of a loved-one— often forces us to pause and take a step back from the hustle and bustle of everyday living, to ask ourselves what things truly matter. He observed that the difficult thing, after all, is not “going-on” with life, but stopping— to think and ask some of the simplest yet hardest questions like Why? or What’s the point?

My Lolo answered with the witness of his life, so filled with love for his children and for one woman, my Lola. He is perhaps one of the kindest persons I have known. His quiet manner and unobtrusive presence have demonstrated to us the surrender by which he has dedicated his life to what truly matters, so much so, that— as my dad rightfully observed— he had even surrendered his very identity.

Reflecting about the past couple of days, the reality of his death is still so much of an abstraction for many of us. I still have to consciously tell myself that Lolo Ped is actually, really gone. While I must admit that I certainly am not as devastated by his passing as perhaps my Lola, my dad or his other siblings, the constancy of his presence is a habit which will be difficult to undo, and his absence, a reality which will take much getting used to. We had taken his presence for granted, almost, so that now that he is gone, we will all have to re-learn living with the reality of his going.

As Fr. Mon said during his homily at Lolo’s Requiem Mass last Sunday, all of life and all our loves are merely gifts from God. Lahat ng biyaya natin ay hiram lamang. I like that word: hiram, because it captures both the overflowing goodness of the Giver, yet also reminds us of the temporariness of the gift that has been given. So be it with Lolo, whom we return somewhat reluctantly to God, knowing, with gratitude, that he has enriched our lives so much in the eighty-six years that he had lived.

He will certainly be missed.

Lolo Ped, my grandfather after whom I was named, died this morning, at 10:20 a.m. at the Cardinal Santos Medical Center of his third cardiac arrest. We were all in his hospital room when he went, and we were able to say our good-byes. While the family is slowly coming to grips with the reality of his death, we are comforted by the fact that he is in a better place.

This is the first time that I have experienced death up close, and while I have a few reflections on the reality and eventuality of death, I guess I will have to reserve it for some other time. Right now, I would just like celebrate the memory of a very kind man who dedicated his whole life to the care of his wife and family.

Below is a speech which my dad gave on the occassion of Lolo Ped's 85th birthday.

* * *

Magandang gabi po sa inyong lahat.

The measure of success of a man’s life is sometimes determined not by its final outcome but by the length of the journey.

Meron d’yan nag-umpisa ka sa km. 90 at nakarating ng kilometer 100, meron naman d’yan, nakarating rin sa kilometer 100 pero nag-umpisa sa kilometer zero!

Ang buhay ng daddy belongs to the latter. . . for his journey, which now spans 85 years, can aptly be described as “malayo ang narating.”

Daddy’s education started at the Hagonoy Elementary School and from there, he moved over to Manila to live with relatives as he pursued his studies. (Please note that his education was interrupted by the war years.) He attended high school at the Far Eastern University and even proceeded to college at FEU for his pre-law. Yes, PJ, your lolo was a budding lawyer.

We have pictures of his college stint where he was a marksman in the rifle and pistol team.

From FEU, he transferred to MLQU where he took up law proper. But on his third year, he made a decision which ultimately changed the course of his life– he got married to mommy.

At the early days of the marriage, they started out with virtually nothing. And then by dint of hard work and frugality, this couple reared five children and provided them a solid education— education that can be argued as the best this country can offer– Asian Institute of Management, Maryknoll, Ateneo University, UP College of Medicine.

This they attained by spending long and arduous years of thrift– such that today, they still retain their life-long habits of being masinop (kuripot?).

When you look at Daddy at 85— he is such a “good man” and by this description, I mean to say that “siya’y walang utang, siya’y walang iskandalo, siya’y walang kaaway.” This is his legacy.

In further describing Daddy, I will refer to a memory aid— 5M.

First M– magandang lalaki. His past pictures show that he was movie-star quality. Even today, you will agree that he has aged very well. Poging-pogi, kaya naman patay sa kanya ang mommy!

Second M- masuwerte. Many of you know that just two months ago, he suffered a heart attack and I was told by his cardiologist to expect the worst. Yet here he is now among us, as if nothing happened! Masuwerte rin siya na nagkaroon siya ng mga anak na maganda at guwapo. . . O sige na nga, at least you will agree that his grandchildren are beautiful– di ba Maribel and Bea? And I would say that masuwerte si Daddy sa buhay niya in having guardian angels hovering over his family all these years– in the persons of Mommy Luming, Daddy Long, Tita Neng. Mommy Luming was Daddy’s special proponent such that according to Mommy, if she wanted anything from Mommy Luming, all she had to mention was Daddy and Mommy Luming would immediately follow her.

Third M– mabait. He has such a pleasant disposition. He may have his moods and tantrums but on the whole he is evenly well-tempered and accommodating. (Siyempre kailangan s’yang mabait pagka’t partner niya ang mommy.)

Fourth M– masipag. Proof of this is their apartment projects which they built on leveraged funds. Daddy had a passion for cars which he repaired and maintained himself. Remember that blue Taunus which we used for fifteen years?

Fift M - madasalin. (Even today, he would remind me to accompany him to the Sto Domingo. La Naval procession.) He attends daily masses with mommy. I can safely say that devotion to God is deeply ingrained in his personality that it has become an instinctive reflex.

Today, Daddy stands before us as a gift. First, because after he suffered a heart attack last November, he is with us all hale and hearty. Second, he has given to us his children so much– the value of education, the value of support and caring through all these years and just as important, the value of a good and unsullied name.

Maraming salamat Daddy at happy birthday to you. May I now ask everybody to stand up for a toast . . . .

To Daddy, many more years of health and happiness!

* * *

All roads lead home, the old saying goes. And tonight, it was true, because by sheer serendipity (it seemed), we had all found ourselves meeting in Loyola again, as the day was drawing to a close.

Because we had not talked for some time now, and, because we certainly would not get to talk again anytime soon— the stress of law school beginning for them again the next day— I. and I decided to go for an impromptu drive, having come back for her in Makati because she had earlier left her house keys in my CRV. Naturally, my car drove itself to Loyola.

Strangely enough, sometime later, a black car pulls up in front of the benches where we were seated, and hands began to wave: some of I.'s classmates were also out for a drive too, on their last night of freedom before their last semester in law school.

We all sat along the plastic benches outside the Rizal Mini Theater, fronting the driveway of Xavier Hall, when later, through the laughter of pretended reminiscences, we suddenly heard what we thought to be the gentle melancholic wail of a lone violin floating furtively from somewhere, we could not tell.

At first, we were unsure. But the violin persisted, and someone recognized the tune, slowly sang the words, together with the rising melody:

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack Frost nipping at your nose,
Yuletide carols being sung by a choir
And folks dressed up like Eskimos.

The lovely melancholy of the moment caught us all off guard, and for a while, we were lulled into the fuzzy bitter-sweet feeling of recognition: Christmas was here, again.

Unable to resist my curiosity (drawn perhaps by the virtuosity of the player), I stood up and walked toward the source of the sound, towards Xavier Hall, where students waited for their rides going home. What I saw: on the same plastic bench, a man, playing his violin, his back turned towards me, straight and dedicated; and beside him, a woman, drawn close, leaning her head gently on his shoulder.

They know that Santa’s on his way,
He’s loaded lots of toys and goodies on his sleigh.
And ev’ry mother’s Child is gonna spy
To see if reindeer really know how to fly.

And at about that instant, it began to drizzle. Wonderful, I thought. Kill me now.

I promptly returned and told my waiting companions what I had discovered. The reaction, of course, was unanimous, coming as it did from a group of persons, alone at the prospect of another lonely Christmas. What was left for us to do, therefore, but sour grape: Iiwan ka rin niyan! Chocnut lang yan! Wala namang forever, e. But while none of us acknowledged it, retreating as we did into the convenient balm of humor, we all knew it was true—

Ano'ng gagawin mo ngayong Pasko
Nag-iisa ang iyong puso?
Dapat mong isiping
Mayro'ng ibang nagmamahal sa iyo.

At kung 'di makita ang hanap mo,
Mga kaibiga'y naririto.
Ating ipagdiwang yaring panahon
Tulad ng mga bata tuwing Pasko.

The most difficult time for me, of course, is during the first hours of Christmas morning, after midnight, when all the gifts have already been opened, the noche buena feast concluded, and the house falling silent to prepare for the activities of Christmas day. It is at this time when the heart is most full, yet also when the heart is most longing: for that special greeting, or that special phone call, or that special embrace.

It seems that it won't be much different for many of us this Christmas. And while some of us may feel that waiting does get a little tiring sometimes, we hold on to what Wong Kar Wai wrote in his movie 2046 (and what Wong Kar Wai writes is true because Wong Kar Wai knows love). He writes, “Love is a matter of timing. It's no good meeting the right person too soon or too late."

And so, we continue waiting for that perfect moment, hopeful and vigilant, always, for her advent. I guess that is what Christmas is, in a sense, after all: celebrating the coming of someone we never could have expected; and whose coming— all glorious surprise of it— made all the waiting worth it.

We had arrived just as the opening remarks were being said. The main theater was dimmed now, and the curtains were lifted, exposing the stage, bare, except for the musicians' chairs and the conductor's podium. We found our seats to the right of the theater because having arrived late, we were obliged to sit near the doors until the following intermission. I smiled to myself, thinking how long it was since last I was there, listening to the same orchestra. The same but different.

The first time I saw the Philippine Philharmonic, I think I was back in second year high school. My mom's bank was a donor to the institution, and in return, would be given box tickets to every performance (not only to the Philharmonic, but to ballets and other performances as well). Since then, I was hooked. Every time my schedule allowed, I would drag a couple of friends over (often, it would be Mr. Pagsi and his wife, and a some other interested Sibolistas) to the Cultural Center, and, on a Friday (or Saturday) night, we would indulge in an evening of classical music.

I even remember the most breathtaking performance of the orchestra I've seen: playing Rachmaninov's 5th piano concerto, Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini. The image itself was enthralling: there, aside from the seventy-odd instruments playing on stage, were two black grand pianos positioned side by side in front of the orchestra, beside the conductor's podium— they were not the baby grand pianos one normally finds in homes and showrooms; they were those imposingly long black Weinsteins that in every way really looked grand. Never have I heard two pianos play together, and no less than Cecille Licad and Rowena Arietta granted me the pleasure of an initiation.

And so, on this evening, the memories of those heady days returned to me with amazing clarity, because I had not had the opportunity to recall them for so long. I guess it was fitting, then, that the evening's performance was called Remembering.

I found it odd, at first, for the ticket to say that the performance would have Solita Monsod as narrator. Only when the first piece began— it was a work by Micheal Tilson Thomas— that I understood that the music would be interspersed with entries from the Diary of Anne Frank. Needless to say, it was rather heavy and tedious; I had the feeling that I was listening to a play on the radio.

The second piece, following the intermission (we had already moved to our ticket seats, orchestra center, in the middle of the theater!), was by Margaret Brouwer, and was written as a tribute to her recently-deceased husband. The piece started off quietly, mournfully even, but progressed quickly through pulses of harmonies both loud, at times, and evocative in others.

The evening ended with Beethoven's Symphony No. 1 in C-major, op. 21. While I appreciated the prior two pieces, it was certainly Beethoven that captivated me the most. I was amazed at how the master could do so much, yet with so very little: no brass, except for the horn and the trumpet, no gong, no piano, no cymbals; just a timpani strike here and there. And yet the soar was just as glorious, if not more.

Also— for the first time, I found myself moved by the music I was listening to: here, sometimes expectant; there, sometimes afraid; yet here again, relieved and peaceful. I mention this because for as long as I can remember, listening to the orchestra was somewhat of a mental activity for me, conscious always of what exactly was happening on the stage: the movement and beat of the conductor, the parts each instrument was playing, the delight at seeing the violin bows go up and down at the pulse of the music.

Yes, I did notice all these things again (and with Eugene Castillo conducting, you will certainly not only have an ear full, but an eye full as well— he might as well have been dancing a ballet on stage to the music of his own orchestra! The Washington Post called it, sculpting the air.), but in addition, I think, I paid less attention to what I saw, and allowed myself to get lost in what I heard. It made the experience all the more complete.

As the last strains of Beethoven's First wafted through the theater, the conductor holding up his hand in a suspenseful fermata, with the musicians straining to keep their positions as the last note diminished into silence, I could almost hear the beating of my own heart, and I knew that this night wouldn't be the last time we would be watching the Philippine Philharmonic. In that expectant silence, I thought: what a perfect moment.

Sa asul na walang hanggang,
Nang ang mundo ay bata pa,
Lumilipad at kumakanta
Ang adarna na kay ganda!
mula sa Adarna ng Dulaang Sibol


I had not picked up a camera in quite some time now, and so I was more than happy when Mr. Pagsi asked me to take some photographs of Dulaang Sibol's November production of Adarna.

I remember that it was also in Sibol, eons ago in high school, that I first got to tinker around with a camera. (It was my sophomore year, to be exact.) My dad had just given me his rickety, but ever-dependable Canon AE-1 (which was older than me), and so, to put it to good use, I'd lug it around school and take pictures of anything that moved (or didn't, even).

As with every beginning, there was a lot of adjustment and experimentation. I knew nothing about shutters and f-stops, film speeds and focal lengths! But my pictures came out pretty okay (that is, they came out at all!), a bit underexposed, but passable.

I thereafter became the unofficial Sibol photographer. I'd make little scrapbooks of Sibol events, and shared the pictures with my fellow Sibolistas. (Actually, I think someone even took those scrapbooks without permission, and now, I don't know where they are! Those were two years of memories! But I still have the prints.)

It was at that about that time when Mr. Pagsi decided to re-stage Sinta!. I was tasked with taking the publicity shots. I really didn't know much about taking pictures in a theater, about flash photography, and whatnot! I ended up using one of the old Sibol spotlights to increase the lightlevel in the theater, but, naturally, it was really warm and unpleasant. I pretended to know what I was doing.

So, for around two hours one evening, the entire cast of Sinta! posed for my camera, trying to look wistful and lovely under klieglights and heat! Problem was, when the pictures came out, they were all underexposed! There wasn't much light in the theater, and apparently, I had the shutter speed all wrong!

That was really a trauma. I remember going to Mr. Pagsi's house crying because I felt that I screwed up big time!

Whenever I took stage pictures after that, I'd still use my Canon, but I'd always have an idiot camera with me, just in case— the point and shoot type that automatically uses the flash when needed. Just to be safe. (It cost much more to develop the pictures, of course, but the security of knowing that at least some pictures would come out more than made up for the cost.)

So, I guess it's but fitting that, after such a long time, I resume my old tasks using a camera which (to me) is a cross between my old Canon AE-1 and the idiot camera I used as back-up. Finally keeping up with the times, my dad bought a Sony Cybershot DSC-V3, which I call the seven-megapixel idiot cam. Nothing still beats a good old shutter-camera! But I guess, for now, it serves its purpose.

The pictures aren't perfect, of course. But I was happy with the fact that, like those good old high school days, I was again pointing those Sibol floodlights at those hapless actors, all the while clicking away with wild abandon, adjusting shutter and aperture now and then, and freezing the moment for eternity. I think Virgil said it best: forsan et haec, olim meminisse juvabit— sometimes, remembering brings joy.

* * *

It's been a while since I bought something pricey for myself. I think the last one was this laptop computer, which wasn't much of a gift since I needed it to write my JD thesis. This time, I've pretty much decided on getting an SLR camera for myself. Fortunately, a friend of mine who had gone on a vacation to the United States bought a new SLR himself, and I, being the gaya-gaya that I am, became enamored with his Canon EOS 350 D. All the reviews I've read say that it's a good entry level SLR. It comes with eight-megamixels, and everything else that's found in a standard SLR. Unfortunately, it costs PhP 59,950 plus 10% VAT!

I've asked people who will be coming home this Christmas to scout around for a better deal in the States. We'll see how this all pans out. Hopefully, come Christmas time, I will no longer be using the seven-megapixel idiot cam!

* * *

Dulaang Sibol is celebrating its 50th Anniversary this year, and as part of its year-long celebration, the group is presenting a Sibol Classic: Adarna, a rock-opera telling of the popular folktale of the mythical Ibong Adarna. While retaining some of the central songs, the score has been entirely overhauled. I've heard the first act, and quite honestly, it didn't sound all that shabby! And being a folktale, I image the costumes to be uniquely local and intricately made by hand. Mr. Pagsi is pretty excited about the project.

Opening night is on the 18th of November, and runs for the whole month, every Friday and Saturday, 6:30 p.m., Tanghalang Onofre R. Pagsanghan - Dulaang Sibol, Ateneo High School.

Do watch. I'm sure it'll be food not only for the senses, but also for the soul.

I know I don't usually post whole poems or works written by other people on my blog, primarily because of intellectual property issues, but really, because I feel that my blog should mind its own business. However, this time, I think I will make an exception.

A friend recently loaned me a copy of else it was purely girls, a collection of poetry by twenty year old Angelo V. Suárez. I was immediately drawn to the vividness of his imagery and the unique rhythm of his alliterations. Observe:

"of the pen, this pointless vocation,
Volition be your guide, erudition

on craft the raft that sails you thru [. . .]"
(from "Nameless Beerhouse Elegy")

Ernest de Veyra puts it more eloquently when he says that "Suárez also knows how to make his syllables sing, in that manner that makes poetry-reading audiences momentarily postpone that short trip to the buffet table and listen up."

Incidentally, the collection won third place in the Don Carlos Palanca Awards for Literature in 2004. It is, I believe, his second book, the first being entitled, The Nymph of MTV. I don't know about the first one, but I think purchasing this second will be worth your while.

And so, as an exception to my rule (and because it can be justified as Fair Use under our IP laws), I post katrains for quit, a poem for his girlfriend Kit (the title is a play on the name!). Read the poem aloud, and listen to the sonority of the words. I'm sure that like Kit, you too will fall in love.

katrains for quit

there are no shadows when it comes to you—

only nightscapes. or should i say: it is night in that part

of the world where your shadow falls obliquely like a shroud,

your shadow whose weight is the absence of thought,

all thoughlessness and wingflutter, whose surface

is smoother than the edges of night, each finger a wingless

butterfly sharper than shoulder blades where caterpillars

blossom into song. your shadow whose forehead

is the biblical wilderness the messiah prayed in

for forty days and forty nights, adorned with thickets

and traitors, deer and despair. whose mouth dismantles

planetary systems and detonates stellar clusters,

whose breath is submerged in ethereal moonlight,

whose breath is moonlight, whose face is moon with lips

of moonrock. night falls when you close your eyes,

my love, and nothing stirrs except my heart.

When I was a kid, my yaya would sometimes have a hard time putting me to sleep at night. And so, to motivate me, she would tell me stories of ghosts and goblins who took little children they found still awake, especially after midnight. It worked, most of the time.

Sometimes, however, I remember I would wake up in the middle of the night, in total darkness, and, being alone in my room, I'd imagine all those ghosts and goblins lurking about in the shadows. I'd hide under my blanket and feel safe.

Guess what? Twenty-six years later, my yaya was right. Ghosts and goblins do lurk about after midnight, taking those whom they still find awake. But ghosts of a different sort, more sinister and persistent: memories and insecurities, mostly, truths from which one cannot escape: like how great it is to fuss over someone, and realize that she really doesn't need the fussing; or to still miss moments, and not know exactly how to deal with them; or to try to hold on to anyone or anything familiar, only to find that you can't, because people have grown up and people have forgotten; or to find that you are alone, and stupid, and lost, and sometimes not good enough, and that you are numb yet hopeful, but for what?

Problem is, though, I am not a kid anymore, and blankets no longer keep me safe. Closing my eyes no longer makes the ghosts go away. Especially at 3:16 in the morning.

And if I told you that I loved you
You'd maybe think there's something wrong
I'm not a man of too many faces
The mask I wear is one
Those who speak know nothing
And find out to their cost
Like those who curse their luck in too many places
And those who smile are lost
from The Shape of My Heart by Sting


Of course, people only meant well. . . .

Ever since some friends realized that I was back in the mainstream again following the conclusion of the 2005 Bar, it seems that one of their prime preoccupations is to get me out dating. I'm not quite sure whether I should be flattered with all the attention— either they think that, after all those years of studied solipsism, I am finally "ripe for adjudication," or that I am too much of a loser to find anybody on my own. In any event, the message I get is clear: Get yourself out there, Peej. Date around. Live a little!

I would just smile at the suggestion, feign embarrassment, and say, in a sheepish voice, I don't think I'm ready, e. Sorry. And I give out a hearty laugh: it was too showbiz an answer, even for my tastes.

In my younger days, this resistance and skepticism to dating around was probably fuelled by this purely ideal conception of how falling in love should be. Then (and perhaps, still now), I felt that dating around was purely unnecessary, because the person I would fall in love with would be my best friend, in the Harry-met-Sally serendipitous sort of way. I imagined myself just waking up one morning and realizing that I love her. And we'd live happily ever after.

I knew, also, that this resistance and skepticism came from a purely mental prejudice spawned probably by insecurity and considerations of practicality. Indeed, meeting an almost total stranger, spending an afternoon or evening with her, the whole while making mental calculations on whether she is worth a second date— it was just not worth the stress, or even embarrassment, much less, the gastos. I felt that the whole proposition was just too artificial, even contrived. And while one may have been motivated by initial attraction (one did ask her out, after all), this was pretty much the start and end of it: the realization of finding out at date's end that she was only really worth a second passing glance was too disappointing (I imagined) that it was enough to dissuade me from even going through with the effort in the first place.

Now that I am twenty-six and less maniacally melodramatic, with so much time on my hands, and the idea of the rest of my life beckoning just over the horizon, the idea of dating around now presents itself again with alarming reality. Everyone I know seems to be encouraging it. Put yourself out there, they say. Date around. We're all grown up now, anyway. Live a little.

Have I been missing out on something?

When I was still in law school, I would often hear my non-law school friends tell stories about their latest dating escapades, down to the last sordid detail. They were pretty excited about it, every time; sometimes they even thought they were finally in love. It didn't matter where they'd meet them: at a bar, in the mall, in internet chatrooms, for chrissakes! Date after date, week after week, they seemed intoxicated with the independence and the sheer complication of it all. They would often even tell me about certain and occasional anonymous make-outs. And these friends of mine were girls!

I'd voice my concerns, of course, telling them to be careful. They said, they knew what they were doing. They were young, they said. It's not like they were going to get married. Live a little.

Looking back on those conversations, I realize now that my then youthful skepticism on dating around has now somewhat been softened by the ambivalence and toleration of growing older; yet, I also find that this same skepticism is still strangely reinforced.

Indeed, while I am wont to understand the mechanics and motivations behind people's fascination with hooking up and dating around, I am also now more keenly aware of the reality that the activity is really just a game people choose to play to keep one's self occupied on a Saturday night, perhaps, while waiting for the right one to come along. It is a diversion— albeit an effective one— from the oppression of waiting.

Not that there is anything wrong with this. After all, there is much to be said about having company without complications; getting together without getting tied down. (Some would even say, coitus without commitment.) The ease with which some give in to these "meantime meetings" is equaled only their willingness to become "meantime men" and "meantime women," just for the sake of having. I am reminded of a quote from the TV series, The Wonder Years, which I think captures this same quiet desperation: "All our young lives we search for someone to love. Someone who makes us complete. We choose partners and change partners. We dance to a song of heartbreak and hope. . . . all the while wondering if somewhere, somehow, there's someone perfect . . . . who might be searching for us."

Indeed, I make no judgments. I think I have known enough of loneliness to understand their reasons. But still, I remain skeptical of the idea, if only for myself (and for myself only).

You see, I realized, quite suddenly, that I am not getting any younger. A friend thoughtfully pointed out that on my twenty-seventh birthday in June, I will officially be entering my late-twenties. Imagine that! Closer to thirty than ever before! It was as though my last living memory was being twenty-two, with the world at my feet, and without realizing it, I turned twenty-six, without much to show for myself. For me, time stopped, but the world continued turning. And while this fear of growing old alone may be an exaggerated over-rationalization, the point is that I do not have much of myself left to spend. Conquests are costly, and I have too much to lose.

In short, what I am trying to say, I guess, is that I do not want to waste my time with meantimes. In short, I want to play, for keeps.

Make no mistake about it, though. I do respect those people who have the energy to plunge headlong into relationships, if only for the meantime, just as those who can meet total strangers and shortly afterward feel that they have found their soulmates. I envy those who are not afraid to go after their happiness, damning the consequences, simply because it felt right. I even sometimes envy people who can go from one conquest to another without feeling diminished by it. But I guess that's not the shape of my heart.

Not that I won't go out, or that I won't meet people. Or that I won't find the courage to, one of these days, take that crazy leap into the darkness. But always, at the back of my head (or perhaps, at the bottom of my heart), I will be thinking of forever. Life is too precious to be played by trial and error.

* * *

Because I am new to blogging and maintaining my own blog site, it was necessary for me to learn the redimentary ins and outs of webpage design. While I had dabbled with graphic design in college, I knew absolutely nothing about designing a website. It wasn't as easy as I thought it would be: where layouting for magazines and publications had Pagemaker and Photoshop— making it possible to drag and drop the page elements right on the screen— webpage design also required a thorough knowledge of HTML script, which, naturally, I know nothing about.

And so, if ever this page looks remotely tidy and functional, it was only because of the helpful hints and thoughtful suggestions of Doranne Lim, graphic design and photography wunderkind of the law school.

Thanks for all the help, Berk! I owe you one.

Ya no la quiero, es cierto, pero tal vez la quiero.
Es tan corto el amor, y es tan largo el olvido.

I knew when you said you never wanted to talk to me again, you meant it. And I gave you your distance. I understood completely; I had hurt you, and I admit it. I told myself that it was for the best, because you had hurt me too.

Our silence was my finality.

So I wondered why, after so long, I found myself uneasy when they talked to me about you. I did not say anything, of course, but my smile, I'm sure, gave me away. Why do you still persist in my memory?

Where are you?
What could you be doing?
Are you okay?

I told you before that, in spite of everything, I've managed to keep only good memories of you. Only you have taken care of me. That way. And I know it. I will be forever thankful for that kindness; sometimes, totally undeserved.

And so, on an oppressive evening such as this, half doubting whether it is really you, or just the idea of you, I have to admit certain things: that I do sometimes miss you. Still.

I have the suspicion that I sometimes take myself too seriously. I guess that's always been my temperament: I sometimes love to over-think things and situations, mainly because I fear failure, just as I fear being wrong. The ironic thing is that, notwithstanding all these insane mental precautions, I still end up burning in the end. Naturally, what am I left to do, but to perform a lengthy post-mortem, and brood? It's a vicious cycle.

I guess I just like being tragic (or dramatic, as some friends call it). Or maybe, better still: self-conscious. Or even self-absorbed. After all, it gives me something to write about! (Com'mon, admit it, it's much easier to write about pain, tragedy and failure than happiness and joy. . . . it's closer to the human condition, I think. And much more universal.) Misery loves company.

Or is it because I just like dwelling on the past too much? Or cannot learn to forgive myself?

I dunno. Just thinking out loud. (Told you I was a nutcase!)

"Fecisti nos ad te et inquietum est cor nostrum
donec in te requiescat"
from The Confessions by St. Augustine of Hippo

I finally yielded to the boredom of the evening and the loneliness of the day, and so I decided to take another of my classic long drives.

I had spent the whole day at home today— or at least, close to home, since I spent it with my family. Following a noon mass and lunch at Amici in Makati (Spaghetti Pomodoro and Pizza al Funghi, of course), we visited my brother Joey at the crypt of Mt. Carmel Church; then promptly headed home. I was in my room by four o’clock. The rest of the afternoon was spent checking e-mail, reading Hemingway, and watching some television (Father of the Bride with Steve Martin was on Cinemax).

After an early dinner, I couldn’t stay still. My brother had gone out for a movie, my dad visited my grandmother (who, I heard, was having another of her melodramatic fits), and my mom, I presume, went for some window shopping. And so, to assuage my restlessness and utter lack of human presence, I decided to get into my car and drive, without any inkling as to where exactly I was going.

Where this joy of driving came from, I cannot quite remember; only that being in my trusty eight year old Honda CRV gave me a feeling of peace, security and control that sometimes escaped my often insane, if not lonely, everyday living. Bad days in law school would find me driving to Tagaytay, for example; and lovely afternoon dusks found me along Masterson Drive in Ateneo, in Loyola. There was a serene security behind the wheel which I could not find anywhere else— a feeling that I could go anywhere I wanted, simply by willing it. And, of course, my car was the perfect place to talk to myself without looking like an idiot. Sometimes, I even heard myself answering back.

Tonight, it was no different.

As though by sheer force of gravity, therefore, I was there again with my open window along the well-worn roads of the Ateneo, empty now on this day of remembering, doing my usual rounds through the ever-familiar grade school, high school and college buildings. Not satisfied with the journey, I turned back onto Katipunan, then Libis, and headed towards Makati.

I think it was somewhere between that stretch of Libis and Kalayaan, with Vienna Teng’s Eric’s Song on the radio, that a strange realization dawned on me: that I had become comfortable with being alone. Not that I did not want or enjoy company; but that on evenings such as this, when everyone seemed to be living their own lives, I had learned not to rely on the presence of people who were, inadvertently, absent, in order to fill my cob-webbed loneliness.

Not that this was easy; but that it was necessary. To expect anything more would just set me up for disappointment. And while I knew it was dangerous for one to be too comfortable with being alone (someone said that it is a sure-fire recipe for single-blessedness!), I have somehow learned— maybe, grudgingly— to be secure (or insecure) by myself. (After all, who was it that said that we are most ourselves when we are by ourselves?)

Make no mistake about it, though. Being alone (or being lonely— although the two are not exactly the same) is difficult, even wrenching, at times. But I think there is much wisdom in the following reassurance a friend texted me, just this evening: She said, “Do not resent the loneliness. Think of it as a place from where wonderful things could begin.”

And so, I drove into our driveway at about eight-thirty this evening, much earlier than I had expected, considering that none of my family had yet arrived home. I got out of the car and wondered whether any of them even had a clue about this strange diversion of mine, and why my gas tank was almost always empty only four days into the start of every week. I entered my room, and the usual silence greeted my arrival, and for a moment, I asked myself whether I would ever meet anyone who would be crazy enough to know my loneliness, or perhaps even brave enough to attempt to fill it; someone who would, in fact, make my old trusty CRV superfluous, because I was no longer alone. The question lingered a moment in my mind, then I was reminded: you’ll be sleeping alone tonight, as all of us will, no doubt. We all sleep alone.

In the comfort of this alone-ness, therefore, I embrace the loneliness. It makes the waiting even more meaningful, I think; and the finding— a surprise all the more magical.

I can’t wait!

[Thanks, Stuckie. You saved me tonight. Though I know I can be such an insane dork sometimes, you love me nonetheless.]

Carl Sagan, the author of the novel Contact which was later made into a motion picture starring Jodie Foster and directed by Robert Zimeckis, was, in fact, a leading astronomer who played a crucial role in the Mariner, Viking, and Voyager expeditions which sent spacecrafts to other planets in our solar system. He was interested in showing the existence of life elsewhere in the universe. As author and commentator in the popular PBS television series Cosmos, he communicated his wonder at the universe in a manner which infected many of his viewers (it was, in fact, the highest rated television series of all time!). In his best selling book of the same title, he had the following dedication to his wife, Ann Druyan:

Sagan died in 1986 after a bout with bone disease. Years later, when asked about Sagan and his death, Ann Druyan shared the following:

"When my husband died, because he was so famous and known for not being a believer, many people would come up to me-- it still sometimes happens-- and ask me if Carl changed at the end and converted to a belief in an afterlife. They also frequently ask me if I think I will see him again. Carl faced his death with unflagging courage and never sought refuge in illusions. The tragedy was that we knew we would never see each other again. I don't ever expect to be reunited with Carl. But, the great thing is that when we were together, for nearly twenty years, we lived with a vivid appreciation of how brief and precious life is. We never trivialized the meaning of death by pretending it was anything other than a final parting. Every single moment that we were alive and we were together was miraculous-- not miraculous in the sense of inexplicable or supernatural. We knew we were beneficiaries of chance. . . . That pure chance could be so generous and so kind. . . . That we could find each other, as Carl wrote so beautifully in Cosmos, you know, in the vastness of space and the immensity of time. . . . That we could be together for twenty years. That is something which sustains me and it's much more meaningful. . . . The way he treated me and the way I treated him, the way we took care of each other and our family, while he lived. That is so much more important than the idea I will see him someday. I don't think I'll ever see Carl again. But I saw him. We saw each other. We found each other in the cosmos, and that was wonderful."

* * *

Today, we remember the lives and celebrate the memories of those who have gone ahead of us: parents, brothers, sisters, friends. Because I have not really experienced the death of anyone truly close to me, I cannot begin to imagine the sense of loss and emptiness which accompanies the experience: how one so vibrantly present could be so deeply and finally absent.

For Ann Druyan, as for all who have loved and have had to face the deep silence and inevitable parting of death, I suspect that what the French philosopher Gabriel Marcel said rings true: "to love someone is to say, ‘You will not die.’"