"Patay-sindi?"

“Ang hindi marunong lumingon sa kaniyang pinanggalingan ay ‘di makararating sa kaniyang paroroonan.” How right could Rizal really be? If one’s past is all messed up, how on earth will that take you to the great morrow? Yeah, these were pretty much the questions that nagged at my every brain cell (and emotional flotsam and jetsam) during the Christ’s Youth In Action’s 27^th anniversary just this past Sunday. Who would’ve thought that I’d feel soooo out of place in that little hall filled by the kindest of faces (women were making beso with me and men were patting me on the shoulder or shaking me by the hand…those are CYA traditions but still, I was a complete stranger, wasn’t I?? It’s like being an Asian foreigner around Chicanos hurriedly kissing you as if they were all your lovers…I was dazed. O.o) and the softest of voices? Not me, apparently…no way. I mean, I was (and I believe I still am, however inactive I’ve gotten to be) part of Alleluia Community-CYA back in Elbi…I was exposed to stuff like these: beso here, beso there, pat me and I’ll you pat you back, Monday choir singing, Thursday prayer meetings (or were those on Fridays?), holy mumblings calling out to none other than Hesus, prayers said aloud in English, Filipino, Tagalog, Bisaya, Bikol, Chinese, Japanese, Flemish and only-God-knows-what-else (indeed!)…then why in heaven’s name was I completely uneasy about the whole affair??? Something was terribly wrong…I then realized that I may be the biggest hypocrite I have ever known…which is sad (and I was depressed that whole afternoon) because I’ve always been real…with myself…with others…and then that phrase looms over me, abolishing every hint of meaning in my 18-year old life: OR SO I THOUGHT.

Committing to that organization (which Papa teasingly called “my cult”…it was kind of like that, though…we were an incredibly small number who meet at night, except that we’re faithful Catholics and there was neither a bonfire of any kind nor any human sacrifices) was one of my sincerest moves in life (and I know I made ever so few of those). Gawd, I felt like a new person that time, I did. Agnosticism was not anymore an option of mine (and atheism was so out of the question even before that). Everything changed, and I mean EVERYTHING. I was a dessicated land, slowly murdered by a thousand extended summers…and then revived to life by love, a heavy June shower quenching my thirst, just when I least expected it. It was as what they called it: “a 180-degree turn.” Those days were my most peaceful. I was praying like a saint (trust me, I know…I never talked to Him much before, except when I needed something…it was kind of like occasionally running to a benevolent yet strange friend to borrow some bread). And looking back now, I actually smiled a lot then…I feel sick just thinking about it…but I know how great it was for me at that time, I was basically hopping like Little Red Riding Hood among the woods before she met the grandma-eating wolf. I know how I felt back then…to quote something that I read before, it was like “God’s finger was on my shoulder.” But like I said, that was before I met the wolf. It is true, what they say, that only the things that rocket you to an unbelievable altitude of euphoria are as capable of sending you to the pits of hell, with absolute wretchedness for company. My 180-degree turn wound up to 360…I was back at zero again. I felt like everything had just been an incredibly great lie. But see, that was my mistake: I felt…I always did…too much, in fact. And feelings, life has always taught me, are the biggest liars that put even Jude Law’s Alfie to shame.

Just now, I feel horrrrrrible...more than ever. The possibility that I have been cheating myself is just unbearable…it feels soooo not me, and yet, I’m not exactly sure of the things that I stand for anymore. But I just can’t indulge in any further soul-searching because it feels (there goes that word again) like such a repulsive form of vanity. Besides, it hasn’t done me any good in the first place, considering how much my very own thoughts have caught me dumbfounded lately. But the feeling doesn’t go away…it’s still there, haunting me. It’s like saying prayers only from memory except the ones in which you BEG for a way out of a sudden glitch…like making love to somebody and buttoning your shirt in the morning and leaving without a word…like befriending a seatmate in the classroom and pretending that you don’t know him/her once you’re already out in the halls…like promising to write and not sparing the expectant reader a single word or two, not in a year or two...like embracing an entire “cult” and feeling too attached to them and by the time you meet again, you feel like a traitor only because you can’t hug them or kiss them or pat them the same way ever again. Only because too much has happened in so little time and you can’t help but associate such sadness in your life with the very people who inspired—no, dared—you to believe in something far greater than yourself…only because you felt too, too much…that now, not much is left to be felt…but guilt and uneasiness and abandon and a desperate wish to just evaporate. It’s not their fault…and yet, you know that if you stay too close, somehow, the wounds will have to reopen, mocking you…never mind the pain, it’s the mockery that’s too much s**t to bear.

*SIGH* I guess Edens are NEVER forever. So if at all you find yours along the way, don’t stay too long…you know you have to abandon it after some time, if not soon…perfect places are only for perfect people, if they do exist, which I doubt (and which probably explains why much of this world’s f**ked up). If things are too good to be true, then they might as well be not real at all. No…pinch yourself a million times and if that still doesn’t work, slap yourself or let somebody else box your lights out …but I guess the best way to save some time and effort (and yourself from a lot of self-mutilation, for that matter) would be to listen to your mother. For Christ’s sake, just give the lady a chance! She may sound like L.M. Montgomery’s annoying Ms. Rachel Lynde, but really, she’s as right as right can be (well, unless your mom’s Britney, of course).

What am I really talking about? Me neither…I don’t understand it myself. And yet I knew I had to write this because keeping this all to myself or in an unknown journal hidden beneath all my other skeletons would be to betray the very person responsible for this blog…I know that if I were to be too selfish to admit that I am a person too attached to feelings, I should never forgive myself or even dream of all things real…not when I couldn’t be. I am a hypocrite. And perhaps by accepting this, I wouldn’t be half as much as one. Maybe a community’s not really for me…I owe them a lot, and I mean, a lot…but not coming back does not mean that I’ve forgotten about the Old Man or those kindred souls He’d sent me…no, I’m not such a prodigal child. Kay Kristo buong buhay, habambuhay, ika nga. Once you’ve committed yourself to a beautiful cause, it’ll always stay with you wherever you go. I think I just prefer moving on, only that I intend to pay it forward, somehow…because looking back a bit too long will bring me nowhere…especially NOT to where I oughtta be, uh-uh.

I guess the moral of this is not to believe in everything Pepe said. He was a cat, yeah…but sometimes, it’s good to try trusting one’s own wisdom. In the end, if you fail, you’ve only yourself to blame and Pepe will be spared. Sounds fair to me.

(Hey, Scenesters!) Leave ‘Em Kids Alone.

This season, fashion experts, as greatly dictated on by the almighty “Ms. Haughty Couture,” Anna Wintour herself (perfectly epitomized by the unforgettable Miranda Priestly, the devil that wore Prada which nearly got Meryl Streep her second—if I’m not mistaken—Oscar), have been forecasting guh-rooo-vee trends. From mod to preppie to mod/preppie to mismatched Jap streetwear to more eye-poppers such as Pucci-esque graphic and LSD-induced kaleidoscopic prints (oooohh, I lurhv this season…very hippie)…the runways are anything BUT blah. I can only wonder when those skinny jeans will have to spend another dormant decade in the closet (I dunno, I guess I just love the flared bottoms too much).

Oh, but wait, there’s more. Apparently, Angie hasn’t only been caught toting a Valentino Histoire bag. Her arms were also cradling a beautiful 2-year old Somalian (hope I got that right) who owned her mini-version of the handbag. Not far away, Maddox with his rockin’ mohawk would be glaring at the paparazzi (he’s got to be my favorite Brangelina kid) while the only biological child, Shiloh, drooled her way into people’s hearts (the girl’s got her momma’s million dollar-lips, man). Now, that’s cute…pft, even cuter than their daddy, that Pitt guy. And the most famous Scientologist tyke, Suri, would happily hop along somewhere else in her classy Burberry dress with her equally classy motha beside her, Katie, herself recently sporting wide trousers and mod ensembles that just scream Jackie O. Even cuter. Hold on, though. The Maverick/Material Girl/Former-Like-A-Virgin’s also jumped into the bandwagon. No, she wasn’t seen in mini-dresses and opaque tights with ankle boots (that was Sienna Miller…great chick). She’s also got herself her own diapers to change and milk to feed…not from Guy Richie, apparently…but straight from Malawi. And just when you think it stops there, you also hear about Britney crying over losing custody of her “boo-boos” (well, aside from the “live” Gimme More performance, I mean, LETDOWN, which was her other major boo-boo) and whoa! JLo’s got another bump and this time, it’s at the front…and so has Christina...and my word, Nicole Richie?? I was actually happy to see her growing into a more normal-looking body and I thought that she just stopped all that throwing up but it turns out that the girl only got knocked up. What the eff is going on?? I’m sorry, Ms. Wintour…but it seems to me like the only reigning trend nowadays is a…cute, little baby! Lord, oh Lord. The situation’s just not getting cuter anymore. From pink poodles to bulldogs to chihuahuas, from toy dogs to what, now, CHILDREN?? Ugh, Hollywood’s a worsening freak show. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for love and peace. Make love, not war, hell yeah. BUT when you already think that having kids is another way to keep up with the Joneses, to the extent that you actually adopt clueless, homeless kids from Third World countries, or get yourself impregnated during a most serious health crisis that makes you pass for the Cryptkeeper’s long-lost sister…then…that’s just not so cool anymore, man…far out…gone…out of sight. I’m nobody’s mom but I know that having children is a colossal responsibility, a commitment that should outlive even your Gran’s “I do’s.” Gawd, it’s fun to pick out lovely dresses and toys for your small ‘uns but it’s just no f**king joke. I’ve only experienced babysitting my cousins for a day or so and I know this much: it’s not about playing house or dress-up. There’s nothing wrong with giving unfortunate children a crack at having a loving Tinseltown home. The catch? IF it were only loving. Heck, I remember reading this quote (I forgot who said it): “It’s a miracle if a marriage in Hollywood lasts as long as millk in the fridge” (I think that’s a year, more or less). And these couples aren’t even heading to the altar anymore. No, they just go off to Malibu and come back with a hump (I believe Malibu is THAT beautiful)…and they grin at us, telling us how happy they are and how they’re already as good as married and how they’ll build a home for the poor life growing in regularly measured tummies. Before you know it, the vase flies, things get broken, the big shots troop to the court and they don their darkest threads and biggest shades and use their most heavily tinted cars and justify to the public why “I oughta have the kids!” Poor children, right? Maybe not as poor as those selling sampaguitas back here but…poor all the same.

See, you don’t get yourself children because you want kids. No…you have them because you’re ready for them. There’s a huge difference. You have ‘em because you know that you can love them and genuinely care for them, no matter what. You don’t go toting them around like flashing the newest Vuitton monogram design or the trendiest black-and-white Louboutin wedges. You don’t spend nine months of total labor just for kicks, or sign piles and piles of adoption papers and get yourself your own little United Nations to just haul in more publicity for yourself. You can’t barf all your food out and possibly think that you can actually have another life to feed. If at all you’re sane, you just don’t do this stuff. It’s total bad scene…it’s just sick, man…SICK. Then again, it’s Hollywood. I’m telling you, Somebody’s got to give these freakazoids a Divine Spanking if only to spare the children of their, their…freakazoidness. God bless the children. Mercy…God bless the children, indeed.

Power to the Pimple!

"The most popular Muggle in the British Literati has spoken."

As I am a little bloated nowadays brought about by stress, therefore increasing my food intake (nah…I’m just matakaw, strung out or not), I get comfort from this nice, little piece of work that Rowling wrote herself. You can read it straight from her groovy site at www.jkrowling.com (AND I swear by its coolness). It’s in the Extra stuff under Miscellaneous:

For Girls Only, Probably...

Being thin. Probably not a subject that you ever expected to read about on this website, but my recent trip to London got me thinking...

It started in the car on the way to Leavesden film studios. I whiled away part of the journey reading a magazine that featured several glossy photographs of a very young woman who is either seriously ill or suffering from an eating disorder (which is, of course, the same thing); anyway, there is no other explanation for the shape of her body. She can talk about eating absolutely loads, being terribly busy and having the world's fastest metabolism until her tongue drops off (hooray! Another couple of ounces gone!), but her concave stomach, protruding ribs and stick-like arms tell a different story. This girl needs help, but, the world being what it is, they're sticking her on magazine covers instead. All this passed through my mind as I read the interview, then I threw the horrible thing aside.

But blow me down if the subject of girls and thinness didn't crop up shortly after I got out of the car. I was talking to one of the actors and, somehow or other, we got onto the subject of a girl he knows (not any of the Potter actresses – somebody from his life beyond the films) who had been dubbed 'fat' by certain charming classmates. (Could they possibly be jealous that she knows the boy in question? Surely not!)

'But,' said the actor, in honest perplexity, 'she is really not fat.'

'"Fat" is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her,' I said; I could remember it happening when I was at school, and witnessing it among the teenagers I used to teach. Nevertheless, I could see that to him, a well-adjusted male, it was utterly bizarre behaviour, like yelling 'thicko!' at Stephen Hawking.

His bemusement at this everyday feature of female existence reminded me how strange and sick the 'fat' insult is. I mean, is 'fat' really the worst thing a human being can be? Is 'fat' worse than 'vindictive', 'jealous', 'shallow', 'vain', 'boring' or 'cruel'? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I'm not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain...

I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn't seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? 'You've lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!'

'Well,' I said, slightly nonplussed, 'the last time you saw me I'd just had a baby.'

What I felt like saying was, 'I've produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren't either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?' But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!

So the issue of size and women was (ha, ha) weighing on my mind as I flew home to Edinburgh the next day. Once up in the air, I opened a newspaper and my eyes fell, immediately, on an article about the pop star Pink.

Her latest single, 'Stupid Girls', is the antidote-anthem for everything I had been thinking about women and thinness. 'Stupid Girls' satirises the talking toothpicks held up to girls as role models: those celebrities whose greatest achievement is un-chipped nail polish, whose only aspiration seems to be getting photographed in a different outfit nine times a day, whose only function in the world appears to be supporting the trade in overpriced handbags and rat-sized dogs.

Maybe all this seems funny, or trivial, but it's really not. It's about what girls want to be, what they're told they should be, and how they feel about who they are. I've got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don't want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I'd rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before 'thin'. And frankly, I'd rather they didn't give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons. Let them never be Stupid Girls. Rant over.

Well, there you go. THE MOST POPULAR MUGGLE IN THE BRITISH LITERATI HAS SPOKEN. Hmmm…I wonder which actor was wondering about this uncool “I’m fat” Syndrome that’s making all them kids stare at themselves in the mirror and obsess over weighing scales. Even I admit to be “down with the sickness” at times. Well, I’ve got big bones, man, big bones. Haha. Sounds like Madame Olympe Maxime talking. Anyhow, hope this inspires us to embrace a healthier body image. A little more flesh can’t be that bad, can it, really? I mean, 50’s pin-up girls weren’t Nicole Richies. O.o So quit making those barf trips in the john. Besides, Nicole’s so thin, people barely see her. That’s why she’s always wearing those huge aviator sunglasses. That way, the paparazzi can spot her more easily. Ahehe. ^^ (I just wish she wouldn’t take much of the “shades” credit from Bono…I mean, he’s done it first)

So what if you ain’t no size 2? So what if you’ve got pimples? So what if your butt’s got those dimples? As Tyra Banks would perfectly say it, “So f**king what??” Hey, cheer up! You’re beautiful, man. ^.~

Wake Me Up When October Ends (on second thought, just a little before it does)

Hay naku…I’m so f**king tired. I wanna sleep…but I shouldn’t. NO, sleeping would be fatal now that finals week is staring me in the face (“Jaws” musical score in the background: dun dun dun dun dun). But I do take comfort from the fact that I’ll be heading back home exactly a week from now…well, that is if I don’t screw my last exam in Environmental Science (yep, the course I love the most). Otherwise, I’ll have to take the finals (I HATE that word) aka “removals” (oooooohhh, that, too! *cries*) on the 15^th. *SIGH* I can’t believe I’m saying this but I miss Mayon. T_T (most Legazpeños take it for granted, see…well, they see it every single day of their lives so you can’t really blame them). Oh well…konting tiis na lang. I’ll pretend to sleep for now and the following days will be one huge nightmare and then I’ll have to wake up a week later or so. God, I do pray that I WILL still rise to see the light of day. And I’ll make damn sure that I’ll have THE time of my life by then. I SO WILL.

"Ang Dagungdong ng Tambol, Lagatik ng Baho, Iyak ng Gitara at Sigaw ng Damdamin at Pag-iisip: ITO ang Himig ng Bamboo" (music review)

“Me sigarilyo ka ba?” he casually asked me.

“Naku, wala po…’di po kase ‘ko nagsisigarilyo e,” I casually answered (or so I tried…I bet I was madly grinning from all my wigging out).

“Ah…ako rin e,” he lied. And then he took my signpen (which I especially prepared for the groovy happening) and my cd (another article that I armed myself with) and as he was trying to scribble what was supposed to be his name, I discovered, to my horror, that my pen had no ink…and there was NO WAY I could allow myself to waste his precious time so I panicked. My bro, who was standing next to me and the musician, must have seen the flustered expression on my face because he started shouting, “Bolpen! Bolpen!”

“Ito, ito,” a gracious friend offered her Black Panda.

“Ayan, mas maganda pa ‘to,” he said as he signed “N8N” on my cd, and looked up at me, smiling. He was obviously mocking my inkless signpen but all I could do was grin (did I do ANYTHING ELSE? O.o) and say, “Oh my God, you rock, thank you po talaga…sobrang galing po ninyo. Thank you.” And being the silly girl that I’ve always been whenever I see my object/s of affection (I literally RAN AWAY from one after saying hi…yeah, total bad scene), I kept on bowing to him and he did the same. Haha…I didn’t expect Nathan Azarcon to be that amiable. He’s always been my favorite among the four of Bamboo, but I didn’t expect that he’d be so good-looking that “upclose and personal.” I mean, I knew that he was hot all along but in real life and within the reach of my yearning lips (haha…nah, I didn’t have enough guts), he was sizzling HAWT, man…total cat. And Kiko? (I just call him that, which is a desperate way of creating the illusion that Francisco Manalac and I are actually close) I couldn’t find him after their performance (at the Bahay ng Alumni for the UP Underground’s 5^th anniversary just this last Tuesday)…not even Vic and Ira. It seemed like each of them was assigned separate wheels just so they could avoid groveling fans…and it just so happens that I got lucky. Hehe…nobody else thought of running after the boys behind the building right after they left the stage. But even as I followed my great instinct (ehem, ehem), I was only able to bump into one…bummer. Then again, the bloke was my manok, so I was still a happy, little kid locked up in a candy store (Nathan…yum, yum…haha).

After my most fortunate encounter with the bassist who turns his axe into lead (that night until I slept, I couldn’t stop smiling O.o), I’d to get back home so early into the evening. I mean, it was only 9:30 or so but I just had to catch the 10 p.m.-curfew, so there…plus I really didn’t mind…I was a satisfied kid. That’s what sets Bamboo apart from the ordinary rock scenesters…they SATISFY…performance to the max, man. If you think they sound good on the radio, wait ‘till you hear them boys play “Noypi” live and I swear it’s like you’re listening to it for the first time, despite the fact that it’s enjoyed a lot of airplay eversince its release…a sort of anthem, actually. There’s something about that skinhead with the huge eyes and the most haunting voice you could listen to forever. I mean, he’s not even the friendliest, kindest, sweetest rockstar there is. He’s famous for being indifferent and somewhat cold but I dunno…he just has this charisma…this “I don’t care if you hate me” sort of attitude that you actually end up not hating him AT ALL. Heck, I even named our dog after him. O.o Just watching him do his thing there onstage, jumping and singing the way only HE can get away with…no offense to Jimi, but I just gotta call it the Bamboo Experience…awesome all-time high. He made it sound like a kicka** repertoire of revolutionary gospel songs. I swear, there’s that much passion that he injects into every lyric, y’know. Kaya kahit sino, madadala. I mean, he was singing this head-banging song and he was glaring (one of his trademarks). And I was lucky enough to be at the very frontest front so he made his way to me and gawd, he glared at me while he sang a line…and I thought I was gonna melt, man…*SIGH*…I think I’m in love. O.o

What’s weird is that after their encore, nobody was even screaming, “More! More!,” y’know, unlike in so many other concerts. So what does this exactly mean? Were they sick of Bamboo? Did they not care about their performance? Did they lack appreciation? Hell, no. They were satisfied, AS ALWAYS. And as each and every one of their gigs ends, all that they deserve is CRAZY applause. I’m telling you, people don’t need more because those guys and the music that they offer is more than enough. Like if I ever was a part of a band, I thought, I’d even refuse to do the opening act for those monsters…only because anyone else would’ve paled in comparison…really. Their lyrics all make sense and not just rubbish that rhymes (ex. “To be is all I gotta be and all that I see and all that I need this time. To me, the life you gave me, the day you said good night.” I mean, what’s THAT all about? At first, it sounds like a complete rip-off from Hamlet and then it just doesn’t mean anything. O.o), the orig songs are all well-written and whenever they do covers, they pick really interesting ones. My favorite’s “Break On Through” originally by The Doors (check it out for yourself at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LCJV1V7QQnk). And if you browse through their music, you’ll notice that there’s not one genre that they stick to. From Bob’s “unrequited love” reggae anthem, “I Don’t Wanna Wait in Vain (For Your Love)” to the guitar-smashining “F.U.” to the bittersweet melody of Carole King's "So Far Away." They’d even bring new life to Buklod’s “Tatsulok.” Of course, it should also be noted that Kiko raps in “Mr. Clay” and “Hallelujah” and that ideal birthday song, “These Days.” There is NO formula, man. They just do what they do and they’re not even indie but when it comes to their sound, they OWN it…they don’t have to live up to something…and they still click, mapa-underground man o mainstream. THIS is what Pinoy rock bands are supposed to be. Oh and did I mention that they’re all hot, too? It doesn’t hurt to look as good as the music you're making, right? Total eyecandy…especially my Nathan. Ha! But what are my chances, really?? To them, I’m just “one of the fans.” But I refuse to be known as such. No. I am a certified BELIEVER. And all that I shall utter of them are words that would’ve been fitting even for the Grecian Apollo. And I’m doing this all for free because I BELIEVE. But of course, if at all the time comes that Nathan will love me in return and ask for my hand in marriage…well, EVEN BETTER. Anytime, baby, anytime. ^.~

P.S. The following are the gods...lotsa thanks to Krinkle, a cute photographer clicking away right beside us during the concert...you can check out more photos of the event at her site, http://sm16.multiply.com.





*drool*





my little drummer boy





now, there's my rockstar...and his adorable glare. *SIGH*





isn't he BEAUTIFUL? *.*


light. peace. love. i'm outtie.

The Day I Broke Mama's Heart

"I am the Moon and the Lord is my Sun"

“Are you sure about this?” my roommate asked, her wrinkled eyebrows painting genuine concern on her face.
“Uh-huh.” I turned away, slightly smiling. I was ashamed. And when that feeling creeps into my system, my best defense is feigning a smile.
“Are you really, really, reeeeeeaaally sure?” She was obviously worried.
“Yes, I am.” This time, I looked her straight in the eye. I wanted to sound firm and look dead serious. And maybe I was able to. For right after my reply, she turned to her study table again and didn’t say a word…until about three minutes later, when she suddenly asked, “But…does your mom know about this?”
Aw, f**k. I never thought of that. At that moment, it was my turn to be quiet. And I couldn’t smile it away.
It has been the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do: get a tattoo…a real one. Henna’s just a waste of bread as it wouldn’t even stay on my skin for more than a week, considering that the artist assured me that it’d last for two. Before, I was all about henna. But Cat, one of my closest buds, discouraged me. “Aw inda, gagadanon ka ni Mama mo. Kung mapa-tattoo ka man lang, dapat su totoo na, ibahan taka pa o,” she snapped. Well, I got the henna anyway, but I had to bring Kayen (another sister God forgot to gave me) along. And I was happy…for a while…a really LITTLE while. As soon as two days passed, the image was already fading. What a waste of P180…Cat was right. I have then since sworn that the next time ink had to decorate my body, it’d be for real…forever. But Mama sternly warned me to “not even dare think about it…unless you really are planning to betray me. Please lang, don’t disappoint me anymore.” *SIGH*
I'm pretty open with my Mom, see…she’s a total gal pal…definitely my better self…except, of course, when she nags me (and I’d rather put on earphones and deafen myself with Whitney Houston’s “indaaaaaaaaa---yaaay” on a loop), then she becomes my mother. We do get along…I mean, I can talk to her about really personal stuff that would’ve made any mom flip out. But we don’t agree on a lot of things. I’m in love with freedom, she values prudence. She’d chide me for opening up to some trusted friends about what goes on at home. She said I was being too outspoken. “Always show the world only your best side. Then, when you can already get away with it, that’s WHEN you can b**ch around,” she’d tell me. For Mama, to be able to survive the judgment of this cruel world, you can’t totally be yourself, you can’t choose friends, you have to be pleasant, if not always, at least most of the time. But that’s just not my philosophy, man. Subconsciously, though, I think I’ve somehow implanted her line of thinking into mine. College came and I wasn’t so antithetical anymore. I felt this constant need to not offend anyone. And of course, I had to get the kiliti of my many instructors just so I could make sure that I’d pass my courses. I also realized that college without any friends (whether they’re true or not) would really be a drag. Besides, it wasn’t so bad. I mean, by opening my world to more people and not just to those who share the same interests as mine, I was actually able to find some of the most important friends in my life…those who I never thought could get along with me…apparently, people are right when they say that the truest of friends can be found in the most unlikely of places during the most unlikely of times (I met one of mine in the bathroom right after I took a dump, haha). And I guess, having gotten into UP, I was sort of “humbled.” Tama nga sila, once you walk on Oble’s grounds, mapa-valedictorian ka man, achiever o drop-out, rich o poor, anak ka man ng Dekano o ni Mang Danilo na janitor ng CAL building, YOU ARE ALL EQUAL. In a way, when you’re in there, you sort of feel like nothing, y’know. And the only means you could get to be a hero is to make it ALL THE WAY from zero. By then, you’ll actually BE something. I guess this is what Mama’s always told me about.
Kase “Mother knows best,” they say. But aside from her counsel on social relations, I never seem to take her seriously whenever I have to decide on other things…academics and romance, for instance. I always march to the beat of my own drum in those matters, only to find out in the end that Mama’s been right all along. I expect to hear her “I told you so” but she graciously reserves that for lighter moments (“Told you he’s an a**hole! Bansot naman nga siya!”…a mean way of comforting but I swear it’s never failed to make me smile). When I’m really burned out, she’s my therapist and best friend and mother all rolled into one. “It’s just that I don’t like it that you still have to get hurt to finally learn your lesson,” she once told me, defending her endless lists of do’s and don’ts. So who’s the better teacher: your mom or experience? I’d say, “mom”…but experience is a lot harsher, and you learn better that way. It’s the whole “moth and candlelight” scenario. Rizal’s still right. Seeing from the perspective of a parent, I guess the most painful thing, even WORSE than divorce, is when you already have to let your kids go…for them to grow up. And I’m not just talking about letting them get their own pad and all that indie stuff. Nah…I’d still rather go home for sem breaks and Christmas and summer, thank you. I still love eating Mama’s spicy tofu with scallops and coleslaw being served on our table…and bicol express…and grilled porkchop…and dinuguan…and laing…and---
Okay, I’m salivating. Point is, you can’t keep it from happening, man. There will come a time that you have to bear that certain “emotional distance,” just so they can learn on their own. It’s like teaching the kid to ride the bike and finally giving the wheels, the pedals and the brakes enough trust to whisk your child away, setting out against the wind. Sad part is, you know that the tyke will have to fall somewhere along the way and get bruised and cry. That’s how it is. Just when dejected lovers thought that theirs were the most miserable of lives on earth would they have to realize that parents have to deal with a far worse kind of “letting go.” After bringing them into this world, making sure that NOTHING would harm them, some people turn up in their lives to do JUST THAT…and it’s inevitable. After giving them the best kind of comfort that you literally shed blood and sweat and empty your checks for, they go off doing the whole Hugo Boss drama, “setting their own rules” and screaming at you, “I’m a big girl/boy/fag/dyke now!” Men can promise you forever and still break your heart and women can dump you for somebody who looks like Matteo Guidicelli but it’s just all there is to it: they all come and go. Whereas with children, they’re your own blood, man. After working you’re a** off to make them feel loved and cared for, after getting too attached to them for your own good that you can even die for them if the time ever calls for it, after EVERYTHING, you have to let ‘em kids go? F**k life, right?
Don’t get me wrong, though. I still got the tattoo. Well, at first, I ran away but a month later, I decided that it was time (plus I had to sort of redeem myself after a most embarrassing act of cowardice). Busy weeks piled on top of one another and I wanted a release from all that academic zombie machine. I just turned 18 and it wasn’t really the happiest occasion, and I was totally down, flunking exam after exam and I knew I just had to do something…other than skin him alive, of course, since I’m all for love and peace. I was a mess and I’m not ashamed to admit it…fine, fine, I suffered, but only because I chose to. Some people just keep it all in, see. Mga taong me natatagong kulo, ika nga: Wives who play martyrs to mama’s boys but who secretly wish to scratch their moms-in-law’s eyes out; goodi-goodies who keep their eyes on the ground all day, only to contemplate world domination; nuns and priests who try to turn up the volume of God’s voice (the “science” of “con”) if only to drown out the call of temptation. Those people. They must be the saddest on earth…like Eleanor Rigby…and Fr. MacKenzie in that beautiful ballad John and Paul used to sing together. They think that the best solution’s to move on in a huff and continue doing their daily routines, believing that their hearts are whole when the shattered pieces actually trail along the way…like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs…only that it’s not a gingerbread house at the end…no, life is NOT a gingerbread house. And I was getting sick of it. I wished I could quit school for a while and just…think the time away (maging tambay). What went wrong? WHAT DID I DO WRONG? I did everything right, at least in my own judgment, of course. If only my parents weren’t working eight hours straight every week for my education, I would’ve left school and applied to be one of Bamboo’s groupies, just like what Cameron Crowe did in his younger years (which inspired his semi-autobiographical film, “Almost Famous”). But since that is not totally the case, then I guess I’d just have to bare sh**ty happening after sh**ty happening…and decently deal with it, just so I could say that I was in control. So maybe I was crushed but I’ve always known myself to be strong. I’d choose to suffer and drink and sleep my schoolwork away. Whatever that was happening to me depended on MY SAY, nobody else’s. “You chart your own destiny, remember?” I’d remind myself of my motto when I was still 13…and didn’t know a thing on earth. Yeah, it was back to my naïve days again. I thought it was the only way I could compensate for all my foolishness and lack of foresight.
But then one day, one REALLY early day (ugh, a 7a.m.-class, man), one really early bad hair day, I was running late for the first exam in my most favorite subject called Environmental Science (that was sarcastic, by the way). And lo and behold, there was this HUGE sentence painted on this cement tube thing…y’know, some of those used in construction sites…uhm, I’m not sure…it’s just this really long, gigantic cement cylinder lying on its side…usually. The vandal read: “YOU THINK YOU’RE IN CONTROL? HAHAHA…BLESS YOUR SOUL.” Tangina. Whoever wrote that knew how to ruin an already-messed-up day…no, an already-messed-up-really-early-environmental-science-exam-bad-hair-day. I almost freaked out, man. It’s like the whole, wide world suddenly turned on me. Before I knew it, I was back to teenage angst days again, just like in good ol’ high school…terrible. Gawd, I was desperate…physical pain just didn’t scare me anymore. In fact, I was sort of longing for it. I had to get back in control again…a better kind of control. I HAD TO GET SOME INK. That would have to end my senseless self-imposed calvary.
So there…after doing research on Filipino tribal designs, Baybayin, tattoo aftercare and the whole shebang, I marched to my closest chance of acquiring HIV. I mean, I even found the artist on the net, since it’s been greatly recommended that one looks for a well-known, professional inkman. I still ended up going for my own design, though. “Para wala kang kapareho,” Edwin Miraflores, my inkman (a really good one at that...DOH Certified, licensed and everything...you can reach him at 09204129799), suggested. And after he drew the draft on my lower back area, where I’ve always wanted it to be, he got out his killing arsenal, err, tattoo equipment. There were these really long, thick needles, thicker than the ones you usually see in hospitals…and this weird-looking apparatus the size of a miniature percussion revolver…and it did seem like it, too. Naturally, I freaked out. “Kuya, what’s THAT?” I asked. I tried to sound casual, of course, to seem more interested in “the thing” than scared s**tless (which I was). “Oh, we just call it…” he seemed to ponder what it was called. “…a machine…yeah, just the tattoo machine.” I dunno if he was trying to make me feel more at ease but there was nothing comfortable about a “machine” being used on me. Nevertheless, we got down to work and I just had to sit there for an hour. If my tattoo was bigger, I could’ve sat there the entire afternoon but as it was only small (a painful P700-2’2’’ masterpiece), it only took sixty minutes, tops. But as I was getting worked on, I couldn’t help but think about Mama (well, I DID have to meditate on something else other than the machine literally scraping the skin off my back). “Don’t even dare think about it…unless you really are planning to betray me. Please lang…” her voice resounded in my head. It was conscience talking. But I wasn’t guilty. No…I was sad. If she saw this thing on my back, would she really think that I betrayed her? I realized just then that these days must’ve been the hardest for her. It’s when she has to let go. I mean, my brother and I, her only children, are now studying away from home, which is probably what's behind all her fussing whenever she sees us (and she visits us often, too). She’s become so paranoid that she’s even stopped watching the evening news because “there were too many crimes being reported from Quezon City,” which is, obviously, where UP Diliman is. Poor woman. I feel her pain, I do. But that vandal had some truth in it, y’know…there really are some things that are beyond your control…even the very children that you bore. And every second that the “tattoo machine” buzzed its way on my skin was a second that marked my individuality and the freedom that comes with it.

"Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you…."

Kahlil Gibran wrote it so perfectly. Somehow, I want Mama to understand…all this “moth and candle” thing.
It’s been almost a month now since I finally got my ink. And Mama saw it already the last time she dropped by. I actually had no plans of telling her about it YET, much less showing it. I intended to reveal it when the right time came. It was just total accident…I bended over…right in front of her. I know, I know…sheer stupidity. And she was somewhat dazed when she asked me where I got it…and I couldn’t say anything except a sincere “Sorry, Ma.” She chided me a little but for the rest of the time, she was as quiet as I. In the taxi, not one of us broke the silence. And it was getting even more fragile by the minute. But I couldn’t dare look at the woman beside me as much as she probably couldn’t dare look at the person she thought was her daughter. I was ashamed, again, not exactly what could be remedied by a fake smile. She was frustrated, not exactly something that she can easily get over, unlike broken curfew rules and stuff. No, I had a feeling that what I broke was something more terribly serious than a curfew rule. I tried to distract myself by looking out the window, staring at Manila passing by. Silence. And then, I heard her sniffing and I could feel the movement of her hand as she wiped a tear.

"… You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable."