t h e b e e b o x

Real Simple

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In an attempt to organize my life yet again, in what is surely the umpteenth time, I browsed the great Internet for clues. Hours of browsing helpful how-tos, bright ideas, tips and tricks, left me with no idea where to start. Everything flew by me, nothing stuck.

What became clear though, was that the amount of stuff accumulating in my house, my work, my thoughts, my days, my life—is getting to be overwhelming.

Accumulation requires very little effort. It’s so easy to satiate hunger—both the physical and the spiritual—with all sorts of things. With stuff. With fluff. You can rush to the nearest mall and let loose on the stores, grab things off the shelves and schlep them back home, marveling at the speed with which you can decimate a month’s hard-earned pay. Get it on, pile it up, shove it down, take it all in. Who cares about rent and bills and milk and diapers and flu shots when you can have the pretty green shoes? And look, I can even run in them!

I excelled at accumulation. I would eat sugary goods the equivalent of my righteous anger in one sitting, washing them all down with tepid green tea in an attempt at control. I would watch movies indiscriminately, one after the other, not pausing to think, skipping the intro, skipping the credits, skipping analysis. I would let the images come at me fast and furious: the ugly, the unbearably beautiful, the bleak, the bloody, the sublime. I let them all come, my eyes raw and red, my head throbbing, my mind turning into a palsy that would not let me sleep, would not let me sink into quiet. I have read a book unto its death, not stopping for hours, worming my way into the words, reading right into the dark of night, the only one awake, the breaking light outside the window falling gray as I turn the last page. Sometimes I would think of getting on a bus at the stroke of midnight, just speed across the blackness into nothing, not stopping, not slowing down, not changing direction, hoping only that the ceaseless moving through time, surely, please God, would be enough.

I have a friend, we all used to be condescendingly amused by him, he was the type who got lost in the details, plodding through life at what we thought was a pitifully slow pace. He could sit engrossed for hours looking at how light causes leaves to show the tracery of their veins, could be held captive for an impolite length of time by the shell curve of a woman’s ear, could spend days beating an idea to death, one insight at a time. He couldn’t get to the big picture fast enough for us, he was bogged down by how it was all pieced together.

The fine irony of that little story is that only now, years later, do I understand how that feels, to be burdened by all the smallest things. By all the stuff we surround ourselves with. All that we ingest, all that we take in, all that we chase after. Soon enough everything adds up, swells to a burgeoning that fills one to the point of bursting.

That friend, I visited him in L.A. last year, and he seemed distracted by the temp job, the many plans to be upwardly mobile, the travails of getting it on in the big city. We filled the hours with catching up, taking great care to get the details of our stories exactly right. For all that it mattered, what I took away from that visit was a moment that was unadorned and still achingly clear: he and I, we held hands the entire time we walked that long strip of shops in Pasadena, in those last few moments at sundown, the sky above us violently saturated orange and indigo.

It was simply that, and not much more.

The Nameless

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Even as I am spun around in the vortex of work, my mind wanders off at the oddest of moments. As I walk across the street to a waiting taxi, I think woefully about how lately, things, instead of taking on clarity or a more defined quality as I grow older, seem to be shedding identity, becoming unfamiliar, becoming less and less describable.

I’m beginning to lose definitions for things.

What do you call, for example, the awful waking up in the middle of the night, throat dry, eyes unfocused, the mind unaware but frightened? What is the name for that moment when you say “yes” when you actually mean “hell no fucking way, no?” What do you call the twist to the ankle that tumbles you out into the street, the momentary look you catch in a stranger’s gaze before he turns away? What is the name for that little hollow at your back where your child’s head always seems to find itself, even deep in sleep? What do you call that little strip of lit up flesh on your finger where a ring used to be? What do you call the blank pages at the end of books? What do you call the soft fuzz that covers the back of a boy’s neck? What is that emotion that comes after anger but before defeat? What do you call the act of forgetting to do something on purpose? What is the specific name for that stirring in the gut that impels you to flee, to race inside and shut all doors hurriedly even when you know there is no one out there?

What is it, what?      

The Last Stand

It’s a Friday night, I am tired from a hellish work week, I am almost cross-eyed from staring at the monitor. I know  I need some distraction. So as I close up shop (desk, actually) and look to the weekend, I will start de-stressing by grabbing me some buttered popcorn and plopping my aching backside into a cool chair, and tuning out the world.

It’s The  Last Stand. XXX!

Out Of Cold Mountain

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A few weeks ago, I was able to finish an entire book. That I am even marking the act of being able to finish a book as an event tells how derailed I have been from the life I envisioned for myself. I used to think that at this point in my career, I should have more time for books, less time for meetings, to dos, and plans of action.

Alas, that is not to be. But I am not one dwell on the derailment, what I do is steal time away from the everyday to sneak in some reading. When a book turned up on my shelf a few weeks ago, I half resented, half appreciated its coming. Resented because it was one more reminder of my life not turning out the way I wanted it to. Appreciated, because well, a book is passage to another world, away from this one, as long as the pages are open, other worlds are open to me.

Cold Mountain is a strange series of journeys, moving through a war, conventions of the times, moving out of the self, moving towards another person. I learned new things from the book, a few almanac-style facts that I think would be useful to add to one’s skill sets: how to survive in the wilderness. I haven’t seen the film, so it’s good exercise to be able to form images without benefit of celluloid suggestion, to form scenes not colored by cinematic lighting. It is a cruel landscape and time that unfolds in Cold Mountain. It made me realize how, shaped by the elements, what we know in one culture shifts radically in another, owing in no small way to geography. What I know of winter is that it is cold and bleak. But the winter described by the book is much harsher, a season tempered by a gnawing hunger in the stomach and in the soul.

It made me think of journeys, the kind that take you out of yourself and what you know, into landscapes that are vaster, altered, alien. To be made aware of how much we can change as we move through time and through worlds imagined and real, that for me is the gentle nudge the book gives. Not everything that is still remains in place, and all that moving doesn’t necessarily mean you are going to get somewhere. But the journeying, sometimes, is all that matters.

So, Am I?

For today’s first order of business, I have been asked this:

“Are you there? Like there, there.
As in a non-Nietzsche kind of way?”

To be asked this on a Monday, of all days, is particularly thought-provoking.

Living In Dangerous Times

A desk is a dangerous place from which to watch the world.

- John le Carre

I suspect that I am suffering from diminishing lucidity. It’s a condition that causes one to lose clarity of thinking, an affliction that reduces all mind processes to mud. I am a proxy server that refuses connections, I am error 404, I am a fatal head slump on the leather desk blotter.

I think I just need to go home.

A Shell That Sang

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And just because I can, I unleash before you a beach poem by e. e. cummings, one that has stayed with me over the years. It lives in my inner ear, has stayed there for so long its rhythmic flow has become an underlying heart beat.

“maggy and milly and molly and may”
e. e. cummings

maggy and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea

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Bite That Apple

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I haven’t really felt the need to justify my love for Macs—yes, those gorgeous wonders of technology that just keep getting better and better with each new product. I just love ‘em, and I don’t pay much attention to those who attempt to argue the merits of one over the other.

I don’t bite, even when PC users heckle me about buying technology that seems to them, “way too fancy.”  I just smile while they agonize over crappy file structure, virus infections, and system crashes. I know how it is, I use PCs in the office because I have no choice. And then I go home to my Mac.

Now, the Apple guys have unleashed a whole new ad campaign that places Macs alongside PCs. It encapsulates all the things I’ve long been wanting to say to PC users, especially those who jostle my elbow as they sneak a look at the screen of my little ibook. The six commercials unfurl a blow-by-blow comparison that just leaves the competition, well, wanting.

Wanting a Mac, I bet.

Book Me

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He left the book on the topmost row of the shelf where I keep the television. It is a new book, one he knows I haven’t read yet. I do not like how he continues to keep knowledge of things that pertain to me. More to the point, I do not like him presuming that all the things he used to know about me still hold true.

In return, without my consent, he took two of my books. To read, he says, in the meantime. In the meantime of what, I wonder. While I take time to finish the new book? Until such time that he can bring me another one?

I do not like this ransoming of books. I do not like the underhanded attempt at bribery. Insidious. But what harm can possibly come to me in a book? Too many to contemplate, I think. Still, I slowly crack open the spine and fall in.

Soon enough, just as he probably intended, I am completely lost.

Beach Bumming

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A hop, a skip, and a jump later, we arrive in lovely Bantayan Island. I squint under the bright sun and maneuver the strap of my one small bag over my shoulder.  Stepping gaily off the little port that extends a long arm into an impossibly blue sea, we flag down local transportation and begin the search for a place to stay.

Owing to impulse and a sketchy plan, we soon find ourselves traipsing one length of the island, trying to secure a roof over our heads before sunset. Small as it is, Bantayan that weekend was swamped with visitors—folks like us who were escaping everyday toil and taking advantage of a long weekend. The more astute booked accommodations way ahead. My friend and I however, were equal parts deranged, so we did not. We chose to leave our fate to the fish.

But the island gods (and the fish) were kind, and after a few dusty spins across the short resort row, our trusty ’sikad driver Orlando led us to a little place tucked away in the farmost corner of the beach. They had one—just one—cottage vacant. We grabbed it, of course. And so there we were:

We settled into a comfy round cottage with birds, foliage, and gauzy curtained windows that opened out into the beach.

   

After that, everything else took on a vague light for me. I remember there was soft, powdery sand between my toes. There was the heady smell of the sea, the hot summer sun on my skin. I think my feet automatically assumed this pair of slippers.

There were lounge chairs that let us look out on water that changed from clear to foamy emerald, to indigo blue, and maybe a few more colors as it spilled over the horizon. There was an expanse of azure sky that stretched for miles, pouf clouds that seemed to drift purposely, towards us.

 

Plopped down on the lounge chair in my lurid, fuschia sarong, I empty my mind of all worries, and just let the scene take over. When I look up, I see that the canopy of coconut trees have transformed themselves into green, swaying umbrellas.

There were no crowds, no itinerant souvenir merchants, no vexing videoke music, no garbage on the shore, no traffic, no beach volleyball tournaments. We lost track of time, marking the hours only by the change in the tides and the dictates of our appetites.

I remember eating this, for breakfast.

We did nothing but laze under the sun, plunge into the cool water, read salt-encrusted old magazines, sip cold beer, talk about random things, and stare out into the endless blue of sea and sky. At night, it seemed as though it was entirely possible for our sun-browned hands to touch the stars.

The trek to Bantayan Island was a loafing that was truly restorative, a balm to soothe the senses, a gentle way to jumpstart mind and heart. Sometimes, the best experiences open themselves up to us at the spur of the moment, become the sudden turn that diverts us from our usual path and into the realm of the unplanned. 

It felt great to just pack up and leave, to disconnect, even just for a little while. It was worth it, and yes, just on the brink of summer’s end, I managed to acquire for myself a marvelous tan.
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Love's Labor = Loaf?

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If all goes according to our sketchy plan, a friend and I might just be sipping some liquid similar to this a few hours from now. At a pretty little strip of beach. Can’t wait to squish some warm sand between my toes.

I might bring back a few pictures. Maybe a tan? Some strange souvenir? A few stories? Perhaps, if I am so inclined.

We love, we labor, we lose, and then sometimes, when we’re lucky—we loaf.

See ya all when I get back!

Them Bones

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I look at that little calendar on the right column and I see that I’ve been remiss in my posts. Much as I try, I just can’t snatch the time to get my thoughts down into the blog. I am constantly sidetracked. Yes, work gets in the way. Yes, real life intrudes.

Work and life are at a clash lately. And when I say life, I of course mean the life that is outside of work, who I am outside of the job that boxes me in just so. I’d like to be always careful in what I post here, since I realize that I could be held responsible (so adult!) for work related blogging. Sigh.

Lately though, I can feel the demands of this job choking the life out of me. And it’s not even the actual tasks or the extent of the responsibility, I’d like to believe I have a firm enough handle on all that. It’s the little itty-bitty things that do me in: the demented politics, the subtle whoring, the boxing in, the subtext that is there for me read. Apparently, to me those things are not of little consequence after all.

It’s debilitating—when you understand how these things must work, when you know that what’s being done is not just, is not right—when it goes against your gut and yet you are expected to play along. This kind of play tires me, it eats me up, it becomes a malaise that goes straight to my bones. Them bones, they complain to me, they are tired of being bogged down with such nonsense.

Gawd, the things you have to put up with to make a living around here.

Brokeback Melons

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Even in the streets of Cebu, it seems as though the much-examined Ang Lee film, Brokeback Mountain has a few runaway parodies.

While stewing in the hot confines of a taxi under suspect air-conditioning, I was jolted out of my misery by a sharp tap on the window. It was one of those enterprising ladies who hawk their wares in the streets, mid-traffic. She had on a black cowboy hat. No, make that eight black cowboy hats, piled neatly one on top of the other. She made it apparent, by way of smiles, pointing gestures, and manic eyebrow movements, that she wanted me to buy a cowboy hat. The hat looked to be of thin material and the brim was a bit narrow, but it had shades of Brokeback, alright. I’m not very surprised. Cebu is known for such timely rip-offs. Hey the newer the trend, the more likely one can get a quick buck off it.

When I shook my head and mouthed “No,” the lady just grinned and immediately switched tactics. With a flourish, she brandished before me a couple of plump melons, snuggled moistly in a plastic bag. Brokeback Mountain and melons. That’s a strangely erotic twist, I thought, and this time, I couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

To her credit, the hats-and-melons lady—although she did not make a sale nor guess my thoughts on the amusing combination of her wares—she did the same thing.

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As can be expected, the web is awash with Brokeback parodies. Here’s one for (by) Mac geeks.

Missing Girl

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And all the people that you know
Will turn their heads as you go by
But you'll be hard to recognize
With the top down and the wind blowing, blowing

 You’re Not The Girl You Think You Are
- Neil Finn/Crowded House
from The Recurring Dream collection

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As I lay in bed last night, unable to sleep, one of those wee hours, substance-fueled (just caffeine, mind you) realizations hit me. It felt like a blow to the solar plexus, it knocked the wind out of me. I realized, bluntly, that I miss my old life. That life eight or so years ago, the years before the aggregate add-ons of marriage, kids, and general gravity had set in like barnacles.

I miss being single. I long for the driftless, purposeless, aimless ambling I used to be able to do. I did all that very well.

Eight years ago, I was living on my own, I had a job I was obsessed with and was very good at. I had a rowdy, amorphous set of friends that did nothing to keep me away from all sorts of mischief. I could go out with whomever I wanted, could stay up all hours, or not come home at all. For months. Each year I would go off on a two-week vacation, away from it all, without answering to anyone. Or not caring who asked. I plunged my face into warm seawater and did not come up, it seemed, for days. I lazed about in the sun and read trash ’til my brains were fried. I had no tan lines.

I drank like a fish, smoked like a chimney. I shaped clay with my hands. I wove baskets. I spent the better part of two weeks in a small town shouting out crisp directions to grown men with the aid of a megaphone. I helped maneuver a ten-wheeler truck out a shipyard in the midst of a union strike.

I turned my back to a boy, remorselessly. I wrote long, intimately unfolding letters, shamelessly. I said yes, often unexpectedly and even before being asked. I may have said no inappropriately, but I did not regret it. I have slept under the open sky, cold and alone, but not unhappy.

I was brash, sharp-witted, righteously indignant, tough as nails, quick to hate, but just as quick to love. I could hike over mountains, swim naked in the moonlight, wrap my slim legs around a man’s hips, absolutely. I could look God in the eye and grin.

I was the first to leave, sometimes the least to care. I could slam a car door and step out onto traffic, magnificently angry, and undeniably right.

I was fierce, I could flirt unmercifully and unequivocally, I was fearless.  Yes, I was all that and shades more, eight years ago. And I miss the girl that I once was.

Last night, the past crept into my bed in a cold hush, murmuring softly like a spurned lover, still hopeful.

This is in the life that I have now, I realize that and I own up to it. Certainly, I’m not knocking motherhood and the brief attempt at marriage. Or even the job that’s had me (dis)placed just so. It’s a life that, for the most part, I deliberately set out to define. I realize that it’s not ideal, but then neither is it undesired.

I just miss being someone else, is all.
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All Together Now, Ambiguously

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Send someone to love me
I need to rest in arms
Keep me safe from harm
In pouring rain

Give me endless summer
Lord I fear the cold
Feel I'm getting old
Before my time 

Better Man, Robbie Williams
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The universe is sending me mysterious signals, and it’s using a Brit pop star to channel in. This is today’s surprise endless loop on iTunes.

A boy song. Or could be a girl song, just as well. Gimme endless summer, yes gimme! The pic above is from the William’s Intensive Care album, which features  tarot cards designed by comic book creators Grant Morrison (Animal Man, Doom Patrol, The Invisibles) and Frank Quitely (Sandman: Endless Nights, New X-Men, We3). Instant hipness, uhuh. Lots of italics.

By the way, that Robbie, when he’s not warbling about not wanting to “Rock, DJ” or some such inanity—why, the boy can actually sing.

Look Out, Headbutt!

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Romping with my boys this weekend took up all my energies. We wreaked havoc on the beddings and most of the furniture. It was more demanding than a 3-hour session at the gym! They squealed and shrieked and pounced on me. I was a goner, no match for their lithe limbs.

During a particularly vigorous tickle and tumble, Jethro bent from the torso and gave me (albeit not purposely) a backward headbutt—right on the nose bridge. Awww.  I saw black, I saw stars. An ice pack was called into duty. My nose swelled. Good thing I’ve never had rhinoplasty or else my nose would have migrated sideways, or worse, to my forehead.

Throughout all this, Jethro didn’t even blink, he just kept on playing. Literally, a hardheaded little kid. Well, he’s not my son for nothing.

Jim? Your Name Is Jim?

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There is an oxymoron for the condition I have observed in my sweaty neighbors at this workout place I go to—it’s gym giddiness. Maybe it’s the rush of adrenalin, or the inadvertent release of pheromones in the air, or maybe just a pronounced sadomasochistic streak, but people actually seem to be happy to spend time at the gym. I’ve never seen so many smiling, grunting, sweaty people in my life.

Sure, I am sold on the total fitness philosophy, the healthy lifestyle, the habit of torture, er… tenacity that would merit a slim physique. But mainly, the gym for me is a place where I release the tension and the blind fury that will otherwise manifest in a conference room brawl at work, with me going for the jugular vein, life draining out on the Pledged-wood surface. A safe stress outlet and a shapely butt, those are the things I want out of gym.

For some folks apparently, gym giddiness is linked directly, inexorably, to positive self-perception. Self-affirmation. Self-love. By that I mean intense, serious, narcissistic affairs.

There’s the guy with the awesome upper body mass but with the stick-thin legs, pumping away 25 pounds to firm up already bulging biceps. There’s the endless wall of mirrors, all the better to reflect the adoring expression on his face as he gazes at his image. A few 15-set repeats, and then it’s switch to the next bicep, different side, same adoration. I almost expect him to kiss his reflection in the mirror. And if he did, I wouldn’t be surprised.

A Crocodile in Hand

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  The Gypsy Tea Room has these fun little pillows you can smoosh on the couch.

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One of the fun things friends and I did during our Bacolod escapade was go to a tea/coffee place, whimsically named the Gypsy Tea Room. It’s a merry mix of refreshment parlor, trinkets shop, trippy art, henna tattoos, and since gypsy is as gypsy does—a bit of chiromancy, or palm reading.

A soft-spoken gypsy gal perused each of our palms in turn, making pronouncements that had us alternately giggling and shrieking. I, for example, apparently have a sex line. The two other girls (and much later, my gurl Snow, who was spurred to have her palm read by our giddy stories), do not. For the curious, having a sex line on one’s palm, according to the palm reader, means you have a successful sex life. Uhuh. Much good that line does me. A thrilling thing to discover, nevertheless.

It became a small cause for alarm though, when the palm reader ominously told me that I have a crocodile mouth on my palm. It’s an itty-bitty line that intersects with the heart line, creating a pointed V-shape reminiscent of a croc’s mouth. This is supposed to represent an obstacle that keeps one from reaching one’s full potential. The cure? Have the croc mouth pricked by an arbularyo (medicine man). Yes, get it pricked, maybe draw blood, and I guess, neutralize the obstacle.

I’ve yet to locate a true-blue medicine man around these parts, so for now, the croc stays.

Pi In Your Face

 

Today is pi (pie?) day. Get it? March 14 = 3.14 = Pi.  I remember my struggles with pi, the bane of the equation-challenged.  This pi in the face is a throwback to my student days, oh so long ago. As a concept, I struggled with it, I didn’t find it easy as pi(e). Heh. Pi, which is the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter, is a never-ending number, so the math folks say. Some people even find joy in it, the perverts.

Well okay, so it’s all geeky-cheeky humor. Whatever, today it just made me chuckle. Tee-hee.

Costume Change

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Yes, it’s all gone to yellow. What better way to rise out from the doldrums than to change one’s costume, eh? I wanted an intimation of the summer colors soon to come, so the flowers are blazing yellow chrysanthemums. I’ve always liked mums, I like that they are quite commonplace, and therefore unpretentious. Mums are such humble blooms, albeit with a fresh and cheerful beauty. 

Those mums were part of the slew of pictures I took during a trip to Bacolod in January this year. I've yet to blog about that, and even as I sit here, I can hear the time passing. There is a hum that underscores the days going by.

The bee is just there, happily buzzing in the dense caress of the petals. And so am I, still here, buzzing away busily in my little hive.

My Word!

¹wan·ton
Pronunciation: 'won-t^&n, 'wän-
Function: adjective
Etymology: Middle English, from wan- deficient, wrong, mis- (from Old English, from wan deficient) + towen, past participle of teen to draw, train, discipline, from Old English tEon. 

1 a archaic : hard to control : UNDISCIPLINED, UNRULY b : playfully mean or cruel : MISCHIEVOUS
2 a : LEWD, BAWDY b : causing sexual excitement : LUSTFUL, SENSUAL
3 a : MERCILESS, INHUMANE  <wanton cruelty> b : having no just foundation or provocation : MALICIOUS  <a wanton attack>
4 : being without check or limitation: as a : luxuriantly rank  <wanton vegetation> b : unduly lavish : EXTRAVAGANT
- wan·ton·ly adverb

That is my word for the day today, courtesy of those online dictionaries that throw a random word at you each day, for free. I get a lot of new words this way. I munch on them like one would on crackers.

Wanton. Even the very sound of it seems faintly indecent, don't you think? How's this for alternate meanings: wanton = slutty dimsum. Haha! It's very apt, all four meanings of it detailed above. It sums up my day perfectly.
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Boot Camping

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Towards the end of January this year, my life was like boot camp. Both my kids got sick simultaneously, with what would turn out to be a mean attack of gastroenteritis. One had to be taken to the hospital and strapped to bed, a needle stuck into the back of his hand. I remember saying to a work colleague a thousand miles away how, before having kids I was practically fearless. But that day, seeing my three-year-old son weak and pale, all cried out on a hospital bed, his cheeks hollow—I felt fear clutch my heart in its icy grip.

I was eerily calm all throughout this crisis. I called my sons’ doctor, made arrangements for Jeremy to be admitted, and then packed for the hospital. I left detailed instructions for the yaya staying behind with the baby, who was also vomiting intermittently, crying for me. I herded Jeremy and his yaya into the emergency room, got all the paperwork in order, bullied nurses into submission, held my son down firmly despite his heart wrenching cries so that an IV needle could be inserted into a delicate vein. Twice, because the ER nurse couldn’t get it right the first time.

Only after things had calmed down, when we were finally in our room and Jeremy was fast asleep, that I opened the narrow wooden closet next to his bed, stuck my head in there, and cried silently for about a minute. I just let the tears come, all the while staring at the dark grain of the wood, inhaling the faint scent of Lysol. After that shaky minute I was fine again, I think.

It’s during times like these that I feel blatantly how hard it is to fly this parenting thing solo. For a few days there I had to shuttle back and forth from hospital to home, running ragged at the edges, trying to be in several places at the same time. There was the constant worrying about logistics: check on the baby at home, rotate shifts with the yaya at the hospital, buy meals, make sure money doesn’t run out, keep the fridge stocked, pay bills on time, check on what’s happening at work. I got by on two-three hours of sleep a day. My body kept on going, navigating on autopilot, fueled mostly by adrenalin.

Well, this is what it takes then, now I know. I’ve had a sampling of nasty things to come. I would have to be strong in so many ways, at all times. I always knew that. But to stay sane when you are being pulled in all directions, besieged by worries, running on empty—well, let’s just say it’s a little bit hard. But one must plod on, I guess, and so of course I do.

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In The Red

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Even with eyes closed, I see clearly how my present has overturned the past. Years ago, today would have been a day invariably colored with all the hodgepodge accompaniments of the occasion. Flowers, yes. Chocolates, yes. Books, trinkets, the insufferably cute stuffed toy, check. Emotional inanities and furtive displays of affection, check.

Today, it is just another day with random greetings on the phone, a wayward email from the ex insisting on false pleasantries, work continuing to pile up, random meetings, mommy duties.

In the evening I suddenly decided to quit obsessing over work and go home. On impulse, I open a bottle of red wine and pour myself a glass. I nibble on some leftover chocolate, handing some of it to baby Jet, who proceeded to spread brown mush all over his cheeks. After a while, the boys get sleepy and go upstairs, leaving me to the TV. There's nothing much to watch, and with my erratic schedule, I seem to have missed all the good shows. The wine lulls me to a pleasant state of languor, and I let the hours pass.

On the table I pick up the red handmade card my three year old son brought home from nursery school. There were three fold-out hearts cut from red cardboard, with glitter smooshed on them. They contained the letters i, a squiggly , and a  u. On the inside, it said ‘I Love You, Mom and Dad! Happy Valentines.’

My son doesn’t know how to write yet, so the letters on the card were written by his teacher and traced over by Jeremy’s little fingers. Trust in the care of strangers to mess up the sentiment.

What forces have conspired through the years to bring me inelegantly, to this—drinking alone on a supposedly red-letter day for love? I had good wine, I had chocolate, the equation is two-thirds complete. And yes, I did get some wet sloppy kisses before this day was done, so I guess the occasion is properly marked as well.

However you spend it, happy hearts’ day, everyone.

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The Shape Of Things To Come

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Overnight it seems, I find myself coming home to a clubhouse of toddlers. There are little communities of Lego blocks underfoot. Long outgrown shoes look out like sentinels on the stairs. Kiddie cutlery vies for space on our table. Stuffed toys mutate, temper tantrums flare, little hands make a frantic grab for me.

Yes, time does fly. My boys are about to depart the town of babyhood. This fact hits me hard one lazy afternoon as I was looking at their pictures. Their limbs are longer, their features more defined, their individual characters are forming. Suddenly, I realize that one day, they will have other preoccupations that will not involve me, there will be rooms with locked doors, there will be dozens of pimple-faced friends, there might be late-night whispered phone calls, and there is the possibility of, oh my gosh… girlfriends.

I have no plans to counter the inevitable. My only plan is, this year, I will have more piggyback rides with my two boys. I better get in shape.

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Time’s Up

I was standing in line at the department store, waiting for my turn at the cashier's. Right behind me was an elderly couple—gray-haired, frail looking, very senior citizens. The little old lady was clutching a pretty pair of sandals and looking impatient. I empathized with her; our line really was taking so long. It turns out the woman in front had an item that was not tagged. I shifted impatiently foot-to-foot while one of the store staff went to find a price tag.

The little old lady turned to me and said, “They are taking so long aren’t they, for a single item?” 

I nodded, “Yes, they are.” 

She clucked her tongue at her husband, shaking her head, “See this, they are wasting our time.”

I just nodded, yes, again. I smiled dispassionately at her husband, who was rolling his eyes as if to say, “I’m sorry, she usually gets this way when we shop.”

He was soon to receive his comeuppance, though. As I stood there watching, the little old lady deftly elbowed her way to the front of the counter.

Her tiny head with its gray curls bobbed emphatically as she leaned over and called out loudly to the cashier, “Hija, look at me, I am old. You are wasting time that I haven’t got!”

Exactly.
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Jumping Right Into 2006

So did you have a blast ushering in the New Year? Happy 2006! I was stuck in vacation limbo for a long while there, I enjoyed the time spent away from work way too much. I almost regret going back. But responsibilities beckon to those of us who have to earn our keep. And so I am back to the grind, although in my mind’s eye I still have a margarita in hand, salt crust white on the rim, yellow liquid dancing in the light.

I have no New Year’s resolutions, I’m just vowing to improve my life in every way that I can. Sound good enough? Hell, yes. No looking back, just moving on, head up, eyes homing in on a future that, if only for the sure fact that it will be different from the tribulations of 2005, is a future worth racing after. A future that is filled with so much possibility, a future worth striving for, surely before I croak.

A better year—that’s what I will promise myself. I will live well, be more gracious, aim for the lofty, love more.
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Possession Obsession

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These past two months was a hectic time for me. Work was uncommonly stressful, I got sick, the kids took turns getting sick, our little household had a yaya turnover, my finances took a nose dive—all upheavals and high drama. For some days there, I felt like I was hanging on by a thread, all the while watching the strands slowly unravel.

I scrambled to resolve all those things, and while some of these predicaments miraculously resolved themselves (optimists can will things into becoming), it was the yaya situation that really did me in. Backgrounder: I have two rambunctious boys, aged 3 and 1. Each of them has a yaya, since I am a working mom and I know toddlers are not to be trifled with.

Yaya Ying is Jethro’s yaya; she has a tiny frame, arched brows, and is a haughty mestiza. Jeremy’s  Yaya Viv is 38 years old, big boned with wavy hair and a strong grip. In her wake faucets break off, kitchen knives chip, hinges hang loose. Despite this shortcoming though, she is reasonably efficient, she does not shy away from the multitude of house chores and is patient with Jeremy most of the time.

But one night, Yaya Viv woke me up with frantic knocks on my bedroom door. I rushed to open it, and there she stood, her eyes wild, clutching her blanket. She said she thinks she’s being possessed. Not dreaming, not having a nightmare, but possessed. Okaaay. A thousand alarm bells went off in my head, all chiming, ‘psy-cho, psy-cho, psy-cho, psy-cho.’ Yaya Viv said she heard strange voices coming out of her mouth—first the voice of a man, then a little girl's, then an old woman's. She mumbled something about a black spirit hovering in the ceiling of her room, which is down the short hall, from the bedroom where the kids, Yaya Ying, and I slept.

The Morning After

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Three of us sat down to a late night drink under half a roof and a smattering of stars. There was fragrant French wine (red), juicy jamon serrano (moistly pink), and a warm balmy night (inky sky). Across our table was a nice view—vaguely Spanish looking guys who languidly drank beers and swirled cigarette smoke. Two of the guys were cute. I was glad to note that my 35 year old libido is apparently alive and well, and more than willing to ogle.

Inside the Cuban-themed resto/bar, people were clearly on their last round. Some were using the merciless Latin music as an excuse to gyrate in pairs near the bar. A couple of foreigners were flirting openly, laughing high and loud, showing off their artfully slanted profiles in the amber light. A trio of trannies did a let’s-pretend-we’re-drunk conga outside on the patio, Adam’s apples bobbing in the glow of Christmas lights. It was a Pedro Almodovar evening, a dream-like revelry with touches of the bizarre. How very appropriate.

I was sloshed on wine and atmosphere and laughter and stories; inebriated in a really good way. I went home in the early morning hours, home to my soft bed, snuggling close to my sweet-smelling little boy. Sleep came swiftly; I don't think there were any dreams. And that’s how I marked my 35th.
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The Bee's Beerday

Image above taken from an e-card sent by the lovely Jane.

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Hey Internet, today is my birthday! I hit the big three-five today, no kidding. This bee is getting a bit long in the tooth, but still as gorgeous as ever, haha!

I love how the Web pulls us all together virtually, even when we are in reality, thousands of miles apart. This week I have been receiving lots of electronic greeting cards; it’s been fun clicking on the links and getting an animated greeting, mostly humorous. E-cards kept trickling in from Chicago, North Carolina, LA. Thank you, beautiful people!

My father even had an old-fashioned card sent a week in advance, safely tucked inside a glassine sheet. Inside, his lovely penmanship said, ‘Love Always.’

I’ve been noticing it, the not so subtle changes in the way I celebrate the onset of age. The older I get, the less festive the celebration. What else can it be but maybe that party pooper virtue they call maturity. Is it a virtue, really? Apparently, the older one gets, the faster time runs out. Even the time supposedly allotted for celebrating one’s accumulated years on this earth.

Anyway, I’m just not into making a great big fuss on birthdays, and I hate surprises. In the city where I used to live, my birthdays were just vague, alcohol-suffused occasions—friends made sure of that. For some years there, a few of my birthdays were spent with the boyfriend of the moment, and that made them vaguely erotic as well as alcoholic. That was another lifetime, of course.

Today, old separated woman that I am, I just threw a pizza blowout for the folks here at the office, and boy, are we stuffed!

Later there are plans to go drinking with some friends, and who knows where the night will take us. A few drinks and some small talk will take care of the commemorating. Before I know it, in a few hours I’ll be 35 and a day.

And so it goes.

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Found Poem

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I have been trying to put together a complete folder of my poems, and by rummaging around various piles of old papers, I got a small surprise—a poem that I had always thought to be lost—now found. This was a college-era poem, and I remember it was whipped by panelists of La Salle's creative writing workshop. I was quite ecstatic back then because the poet I much admire, Elsa Coscolluela, was the one who read this poem to the class.

I wish I had the original paper with their comments on it. They liked the poem on the whole, they appreciated the attempt at cutting, the letter-like appearance, the fluid tone. But I also remember distinctly, one panelist said it suffered from too many adjectives. Yes, one could be faulted for using too many of those. I thought about that comment then, I thought long and hard, I viewed the poem sideways, turned the words around countless times.

Finally, I made two tweaks, and left the poem to fend for itself. Am I guilty of neglect? You be the judge. 

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No Rest For The Wicked

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The trouble with having an all-too real life is that, eventually, it interferes with the virtual one. I have not been posting for days now, not because of a lack of things to say, but rather due to the lack of time in which to say them.

Poetry has suffered as well. I have this poem percolating inside my head, but it cannot get out. I imagine it trying to escape, a swirling of words up there, leaking out into my blood, boiling in my veins, trapped like a swarm of tiny, glistening fish.

My body took a beating and kept on running, although last Friday it gave out on me, letting a fever hold sway over my faculties, sending me to bed delirious with gray visions.

Work has been a trying time, taking up all my energies and most of my humor. It is a challenge, sure, but the fun part sometimes dwindles to less than zero when you have to contend with a thousand and one neuroses.

All in all, this rant only homes in on the fact that I desperately need a vacation.

Oh, to see clear blue skies uncluttered by power lines! Oh, to hold a cold drink in hand, listen to the true laughter of friends easing away the blahs. To see the pattern of stars and maybe a big yellow moon, bulbous and authentic in its fullness. To wake up late in the mornings and not have to rush through the day like a windup toy. To lie in bed reading and day-dreaming, no worries, no cares, with nothing and no one to disturb the mind’s random flights of fancy.

Soon, my lovely, soon.
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Holidazed

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Christmas is finally making itself felt around here. The office already has a bunch of Christmas activities going on—the same yearly contests with new, mostly giddy participants. I find the holiday cheer slow to spread this year; even the shops at the mall seem shy with their glitter. At night, the lights are not as plentiful, maybe because the electric company is a Scrooge with its taxes and jacked-up rates. I see few bedecked trees in the houses in my neighborhood. When I peek into their windows, it looks as though Santa is not expected.

A bit sad, yes, because what’s an excuse to celebrate without the desire for it?

At home, I do not have decorations up yet, since we will be spending the holidays somewhere else. But I’m thinking I should make the effort, even if technically, once my vacation kicks in, we’ll be seeing the decors for just a few days. It would be good to set the boys’ eyes a-glow with some glitter dust and a few strings of lights. Christmas, after all, is mainly a kiddie holiday, right?

On the web though, the holidays are in better shape. Take a look at Kaydee’s spread and you’ll see a profusion of sweet-faced angels, chubby bears, shimmering red and gold ornaments, and other holiday bits and pieces. Despite the business owner’s brief rant on having such busy days at the shop, the pretty decors are very inspiring. Who knows, this might spur you to get started on your own decorating as well.
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Surreal In The City

Some days just defy comprehension. Today for instance, is a day that will be listed up there in my annals of strange days. Those kinds of days when all signs seem to point to a U-Turn, an urging to go back and start over. Maybe the temporal plane is a bit askew somewhere, eh? Whatever the reason, today the city just went bonkers on me.
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Surreal 1
I decided to go out for lunch and run a few errands on the side. I had a check to en-cash, so I head out to the bank branch in the mall and wait patiently in line. When I reach the counter and hand over my check, the teller asks me for some identification. I give her my company ID. She looks at it, looks at me, and then does a double take.

She says quite loudly, for all the bank’s clients and the two security guards to hear, ‘This doesn’t look like you.’

I blink. Then realization swiftly dawns on me. My ID had an old photo from 3 years ago. I had close-cropped hair then. I looked like a boy. I looked nothing like I do now. Which is to say gorgeous, er… OK, with longer hair.

I explain, ‘No, that’s still me, but see, I just have long hair now.’

The teller raises a well-defined eyebrow. ‘Would you happen to have other ID?’

Clearly, this is not a woman to be trifled with. And besides, she has her hands on my check. I rummage about in my wallet, and luckily, I find an SSS ID that showed me with long hair. Presto! I was in. The teller relaxed, the guards backed off, everyone in line sighed collectively. I am given my cash.

As I step out from line, the guards even politely wave me off with a hearty ‘Thank you ma’am, have a nice day!’

What a complete turn around in treatment a confirmed identity gets.
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Surreal 2
Newly flush, I head to my customary Japanese place for a quick bite. While waiting out my order, I did what I usually do, that is, people-watch. Little did I know that today, the tables will be turned on me.

Over at the next aisle, outside the glass doors, in one of the little tables, there was a woman who had dark Jackie-O sunglasses on, and she was staring at me. Her head did not waver; she kept her eyes on me for an uncomfortably long period of time. I stared back. She removed her glasses and looked straight at me. I tried to place her in my memory of strange middle-aged women acquaintances, but no, I am positive, I do not know her. She kept up the staring contest; I don't think she even blinked.

Thankfully, my food arrived, and her waiter handed her the check. And so contact was broken. She left some bills, stood up, and cast a last full look at me before she picked up her bags and sashayed away. The entire episode was unnerving, to say the least.

But the shark’s fin ramen was very good.
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Surreal 3
And just when I thought this day would slowly recover from its general strangeness, I pass by a line of shoe stores. Nothing odd about the shoes, which by the way, were on sale. I was just ogling a pretty pair of heels when, out the door, a twenty-something girl rushes out and heads straight for me, unseeing. I turn sideways and flatten myself against the glass windows just in the nick of time, to avoid crashing into her. She sails right through, as though I wasn’t there.

And still you might ask, what was so surreal about this? Well, for a moment there, we were pressed close enough so I could clearly see—this girl—she had a glass eye.
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It All Adds Up

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Just today I ran into a gaggle of accountants. I find this most peculiar, because it happened in broad daylight. The folks who crunch the numbers aren’t usually known to bask about freely in the noonday sun. Anyway, they came out of this hotel in droves, all very chatty, frissons of giddiness bouncing off them as they invaded my path.

There was jolly Samuel, who was babbling about how the presentations added up so well. There was talk of some great management of cash flow, very tight cost accounting, ledgers and balances and debits dancing merrily.

Melanie, tottering a little on her obviously spanking-new high heels, nodded her little head vigorously in tacit agreement, approving at how accurately the numbers reflected the data analysis.

There was grim Jim, the sole doomsayer, with his brow knitted together, muttering, ‘There was not enough time…not enough time…’

And there was chunky, sweaty little Mars, who was off on a planet of his own, seeing as he was interested only in, ‘Where are we going to go for lunch?’

How did I come to conclude that they were accountants? I mean, aside from the talk, obviously. There was a banner right outside their hotel, hawking an Accounting seminar. And how did I come to know their names? Well, they all had bright yellow sticker nametags on, for crying out loud.
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Weighing In Vain

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Every few months I resolve to get back to living healthy, this means I think about getting back to the gym, cutting out those extra fats from my diet, eating more nutritious food, easing up on the sugar, getting enough sleep. This attempt at a life change is usually driven by the sad fact that I no longer seem to be able to fit comfortably in my pants. And certain skirts.

For me, the added weight is usually a sign of added stress. I gain weight when I am generally unhappy. So. Well, maybe the stress could be less of an emotional state; maybe it just means that I have too much on my plate, figuratively speaking. And then also, literally.

But I will do something to remedy this state of affairs. Yes, I will. Soon.
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Posta Prioritaria

Me talkin’ Italian? Si! I mean, I wish! I wish I had the same peripatetic life as that lucky dude kaydee, who went on a little Italian jaunt just recently. And he who loves to go gallivanting sent me a postcard, whoopee! Very lovely view, too. Thanks, D!

That bit of blue and gold is the Piazza del Campo, in Siena, Tuscany. Sigh. A quick googling revealed it is also wine country. Ahem. Me thinks the dude did some drinking on the side as well. Big grins to you, kaydee. Where are you off to next, I wonder?
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Got Time?

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The thing about holidays is, they bring about a false sense of order. Yes, in the suspension of routines, you are duped into thinking that you deserve the few days off; that work, domestics, and all sundry will cease to make their demands on you. That you have all the time in the world. Such is how the sands flow in the days of my life.

And the long holiday that's still unfolding finds me in a cafe, reconnecting to plasma, er... the internet. I thought I could get by living without the Web, but who am I kidding, the claustrophobia kicked in full-strength today. I just had to get out of the house and steal a few hours for myself, otherwise I would go crazy.

That's the other thing about holidays—too much time. Suddenly you find yourself face up on your newly-made bed, staring at the ceiling, awash in time. So far I have done two weeks worth of groceries, cooked seafood paella, fried up some chicken lollipops, instigated a clean up, romped with my boys, supervised the laundry, did some grooming, napped 4 hours straight. And I still have lots of time to spare. It makes me nervous, makes me feel as though I should be doing something I'm not.

What's happened to me? I used to be so ready to embrace the moment. So ready to relax, to let go, to be swept away by the current. I used to be the girl to count on for random out of towns, extended runaway vacations, that last drink before the bar closes. Now even with plenty of time to squander, I run out of things to do to fill up the void. Now as time eddies around me, I find myself stiff and unmoving, perhaps afraid, perhaps at a loss, not knowing how to be. And all around me I keep getting word of people—some near and dear, some fond acquaintances, some recent friends—people with time running out on them.

Maybe it's different when your time is no longer wholly your own, when claims on it have been staked with a finality that cannot be undone. Now that I am somewhat of a prisoner in my own time, I measure it out by increments, I try to contain it, I try to use it wisely, I try to allot time for all the things I want to happen in my life.

I sure miss those days when everything seemed to flow more randomly, when events just happened to me even without my doing anything to cause or control them. I miss those days when there was no routine to speak of, when you just went wherever it is that the day wanted you to go, when everything else was just killing time.
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Tag Twenty

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I just found out that I was hit by (a) coffeemug, who said I should write 20 random facts about myself, and then tag the same amount of people as the number of minutes it took me to complete the list.

1. I used to be a heavy smoker, belching out 1 1/2 to 2 packs of Marlboro Lights Menthol on most days. Then I decided I wanted a baby, so I quit cold turkey. I'm glad to say I haven't gone back to the habit.
2. A genius film director once told me he would like to film my then budding love life in black and white. I thought it was a fabulous idea at that time. Now I'm just wistful.
3. I am a comics fan, I have a 10kg FedEx box of them under my bed, and some near my bed on rotation-reading.
4. I will not eat squash voluntarily, but I will cook it for someone else.
5. One riotous summer while on vacation south of Negros, I made out with a blond-haired, green-eyed guy. He was Swiss as cheese, and charming as the devil.
6. I make a mean paella, be it negra or tomato based.
7. My secret vice is poetry, both to read and write. I don't think I can ever give it up.
8. I have moles all over my face, like a constellation of stars. I've been thinking about having some of those moles obliterated; who knows, that might jumpstart my karma.
9. I went to the hospital alone at 2AM, on board a taxi to give birth to my second baby. That was how I learned that hospitals don’t allow self-admission of patients. I also learned the depth of my courage.
10. I recycle paper, plastic, and jam jars.
11. Nobody knows it, but I was part of a rondalla group in elementary (oh, geek out!). We had a brilliant music teacher, but I always suspected she was just a little bit deranged.
12. I listened to George Michael, Elton John, Madonna, and Duran Duran in high school. I can gay it up with the best of 'em.
13. An ex boyfriend once forbade me to wear shorts to school. This was in college, and that was the end of the relationship.
14. I love the smell of gin, because I have a particularly lovely bit of nostalgia attached to it.
15. I've had a couple of brown-robed monks praying for me.
16. A nun once left me with bruises along the soft flesh of my arm after a really over-zealous session of acupressure.
17. The untimely demise of Gigabyte, my pet river turtle, taught me a valuable lesson in responsibility. He died because I forgot to come back from what was supposed to be a three-day vacation.
18. I took up snorkeling to overcome my fear of the open water. Next, I want to try bungee-jumping.
19. I had a memorable experience with pot once: we were in Mindanao country, the people were bored, the stash was potent. I think I got so high I couldn't stop laughing all night, and the next day I woke up tired and aching all over.
20. If I had a baby girl I would have named her Zoë Ysabella.

With all those work interruptions, it took me fifteen-some minutes to pull this out of the hat, but I will only infect tag three people: snow, the gurl as a verb, and gurl on peacepond. Get to it, lovely ladies.

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Got Ya, Gaiman!

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All right, so I had a good weekend curled up with some boys. Anansi Boys, to be specific. Gaiman is a rock star, no doubt about it. He is a literary wonder, yes he is. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun at his expense.

Just recently, I found out that writing is just one of Neil's many talents. It seems he has a thriving singing career on the side, as well. Look at the evidence.

Separated at birth, or ingenious disguise? Should I duck now? A