That our family be able to finally have a decent meal together, complete in attendance minus the usual bickering and squabbles. That we survive, even once, a full meal without pushing each others’ buttons. Physically getting everyone at the same table at the same time is already a gargantuan feat. It would be a miracle if we could actually sit in peace and enjoy the feast me, and my mom and dad have prepared.

Finally meet someone either serendipitously by fate’s sinuous selection or capriciously through my own efforts. Someone; not as a mate, or a partner, or a fubu, or any of various titles that define the relation of one to another, but rather someone to bounce my subversions off. Someone I can look forward to spending time with, without the complexities of trying to get into each others’ pants, or the restrictions inscribed in formally dating exclusively (even though reality spells this so blatantly). Someone who would prefer my company, despite of my adiposities, or my nuanced eccentricities, or my darting opining, or my half-broken heart, or my bruised perceptions.

To receive a sincere and unexpected hug. That compressive warmth that says it’s ok, you’re safe, and everything’s going to be fine. In spite of the fact that neither of these insinuations ever hold truth. To achieve that suspension of disbelief in order to quell the lingering leit motif of melancholia.

The alleviation of my parents’ deteriorating health.

For a brother, a better grasp of fiscal reality and the understanding that I too get exhausted sometimes playing breadwinner in a household where my opinion holds little sway against his uncompromising dominion and vicious disposition.

The virtue of empathy and the capacity for compassion and acceptance for those whose days are filled with somnolent distractions against the backdrop of inner turmoil.

Personally, to achieve that consuming conviction that it’s ok and to wake up someday believing this with total abandon and complete admittance. A clarity transcending the undercurrent of disbelief.

And lastly, to set a bounded heart free.

Graceful slithering limbs caress the skin across my back. Pulsing and pulsating, its warmth lingers beyond dusk. I lay awake sleepless, cherishing every moment of a memory fast sublimating. Lucid with an expiration date.

His breath on the back of my neck was intoxicating like the first puff of that nicotine curse. Addictive and prying on my impulsive nature, one I have successfully subjugated before his arrival. Then I failed, and what a sweet sweet failure it was. Him, me, and that soiled blanket we borrowed. Beneath a ceiling of cosmic lights undulating for our amusement, across the alpine lakes with their sweet and salty breeze. I take a deep breath, a lungful further until I almost faint.

It was the sunrise that woke us. Blindly in its comforting heat, that enlivens our shared souls. We clasp hands in that endless moment when the whole world meant nothing, and we were the whole world. Complete and uncorrupted and consumed. The leaves crisply break beneath our entwined bodies, desperate to remain in that perfect embrace.

Yet I remember. That memory that remains unwritten, waiting for the day that it too will find my experience. When memory becomes reality, and reality becomes recollections.

It was morning. And I had to awake.

I hate love stories.

How they suspend reality into a misty blur of emotional exhilaration, dipped in sugarcoated contagious thoughts leaving the most intellectually acute melting into senseless abandon. How the most psychologically sound becomes irrationally affected by the slightest subtleties of the object of affection. How the emotionally stable frolic in wanton meanderings amidst myriad possibilities of a future written in the winds.

I hate love stories.

How it makes one wonder and blush in earnest hope of the intangible possibilities of ardor adulation. How the now recedes into a cacophony of possibilities against a future founded on promises and saccharine inspirations. How pragmatism is thrown haphazardly in the face of an emotional attachment against the harshness of a subculture’s competitive veracity.

I hate love stories.

How it makes one hope that love is a most achievable concept in an existence slowly devoured by responsibilities and bounded across the routinary definition of one’s comfort zones. How it elates the weary soul despite the apparent grimness of a cumbersome consciousness he inhabits. How it professes a contented happiness beyond security and sanity. How it encapsulates the yearnings of the flesh in a methodology transcending physiological machinations, bordering on the spiritual. Bridging the distance of two hearts beating in syncopation. Euphoric. Selfless. Unabashed.

I hate love stories.

How it succeeds beyond the grave and gross, the crass and catastrophic, the solitary and sporadic. How it is unbounded by the nuances of time, place and distance. How it is unencumbered by the necessities of money, commitment and compatibility. How it can move the worst into an epiphany beyond comprehension, and the indifferent into emphatic cooperation. How it can easily sublimate the socially inept and emotionally scarred into agreeable and tolerable. And even into amiable and optimistic.

I hate love stories.

How its graceful duality defies logic and experience. How its bittersweet seduction succumbs even the most perennially inauspicious, triumphant against the doubtful and jaded. It wields its dagger steadily, piercing even the most sullen hearts into ecstatic reincarnations. It moves without reason, yet the plot becomes its own mastery of meaning. Because possibility is its recurrent mantra. And this too shall come to you, despite lack of faith. Or passive yearnings not actualized. It’s a humanity served in a language undeniably bespoke by situations, yet will unfold tumultuous times into positivism. It holds its grip even in the coldest of hearts, that the frigidity of solace will soon make way for the rebirth of spring and a blossoming romance.

I hate love stories.

How they tell of victory over circumstance, and completion beyond shortcomings. How it makes even those seemingly devoid of affection giddy in anticipation for a most pleasant conclusion. How it creates a spectrum of scenarios yet will undoubtedly lead to the merging of hearts. How, in its anarchy of twisted storylines create a melody resoundingly quaint. Identifiable. Succinct. Absolute.

I hate love stories.

Because their unrealistic, preposterous at times, vaguely senseless, yet convincingly addictive. Because I can't reason my way around them, even when the script is legible from a mile away, or the plot blatantly apparent, or the characters porous to the point of frailty.

Because they envelope me in a warmth that awakens a dormant oscillation; blushing, hopeful and cheesy. Because they create a welcomed confusion that surprises the most jaded. Because they always leave me feverishly smiling through misty eyes. Silently giggling like a crushing schoolgirl, with a Cheshire cat grin plastered on my face.

Because despite my persistent refusal to watch them, they consistently, unequivocally, wholly and effectively render me weak in the knees.

Every. Single. Time.

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Photo Credit: Quinn Mists by J Michael Sullivan, 2003.
See original image here.

6:53pm
A secret glance. A stolen brushing of hands amidst the chaos in the train.
Oversmoking. Lack of sleep. Haven't eaten since 10am.

7:38pm
Pioneer. 2012. Worth the wait. Suspended the consciousness.

10:18pm
Finally having lunch. Overeating after a week of fruits.
6 bottles of beer. 2 impromptu songs on the stage.
An indifferent crowd. Sincere smiles, insincere reasons.
Stories told, and jokes shared. Oblivion awaits.

12:58am
The night draws to a close.
Promises made to oneself despite lingering doubts.
The bill was wrong. I did not drink that much.
I deny it.

2:36am
Cavite. Home. Silence.
Sleep denied, sleep deprived.
Images floating, the mind refuses to concede.
The alcohol works like coffee. But that's just me.

4:47am
Sandman finally visits. And a new dawn breaks.
A smile peeks through closed eyes.

Introduced in The Beginning.

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That evening the heavens did wail. Her downpour was forceful and persevering, like a flood that threatened to engulf the whole of Elysium Fields. The raindrops trickled its turquoise blanket across the lush fabric of the fields, cold and comforting, silently heaving in the blowing winds enveloping all in a sodden solace undeniably foreboding. In their mattress of turf Ararat’s embrace felt the most comforting to Kundush. Pulling Ararat closer, he could almost taste the ethereal scent of his breath cascading behind his shivering neck. Sending waves of caresses that still his heaving heart.

The mist edges its glacial claws tugging between their entwined bodies. Exquisite memories restored before his tightly closed eyes. Of that vesper night almost twelve annums ago when the very same heavens wailed beyond his comprehension. The solices where all too bright in that darkness, each in a symphony of its own, casting vivid beacons amidst the pitch black expanse. A vacuum filled with the opus of the heavens oscillating in a rhythm that mesmerizes.

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He lost track of time, and the circadian cycles willfully ignored to remain in the path that his weary limbs needed to draw. He was cold, and painfully so. After almost three fortnights of torrential rains that surprised the elders. All those nights he was trapped in the Illuminatia, in a desperate attempt to salvage the manuscripts he had gingerly crafted as arch-scribe of the Elysia Seta. Yet he persevered, despite a hunger that threatens to cannibalize him, a sublimating hope that focuses dread, and a fleeting energy that he continually chased.

He was weak, famished and frigidly exhausted, and the split second that proceeded when he tripped on the cobbled pavement felt like a millennia in slow motion. The few scrolls he was able to reclaim from heaven’s tears tossed in midair and beyond his reach. They fell a few feet away on the puddle across the pavement, soiled and spoilt. Their poetic verses and florid illustrations dissolved in the morning dew and diluted by the pouring rain. Gone.

His legs finally gave and crumbled on the muddy bricks. Tears started flowing mixing with his saltine sweat and dripping with the pouring rain. He could taste the defeat in his lips as he clutched the disintegrating pages. Fumbling to remember what images were inscribed moments ago. Without realizing, his eyes began to swell and the sobs became wails. Calling to the heavens for a verdict undeserved.

He was unaware of a shadow approaching. An agile phantom.

“Are you ok?,” the man asked.
“I wish I was,” Kundush said.
“Why don’t you come inside and get dry. It’s freezing out here.” was the welcomed gesture.
“I can’t. I have to retrieve my scrolls.”

Without a pause, the man dove into the puddle, gracefully picking up the scrolls and fragments from the mud that was slowly thickening. Kundush stared, unable to comprehend the generosity and kindness this delightful man gave so willingly. The man was now covered in mud and sweat, yet his face remained as calm as the afternoon three fortnights ago prior to this deluge. With no hesitation, he proceeded to collect every last fragment lost in the drifting waves. When all was retrieved, he took the bunch of scrolls and manuscript fragments, wrapped them in the gauze that was tucked earlier in his rear pocket, and placed it carefully under his robes.

He held out his hand to Kundush.

Once standing, he took him in and wrapped his robes around both of them. Warm and cozy. Surreal yet utterly real. He held him between his shoulders to temper the delirious chills Kundush was now having.

“Now, can we come inside? I made fresh, hot gluchan.” he queried.
"Yes." was Kundush's muffled affirmation.
"Name's Ararat."
"Kundush."

Unconsciously Kundush reached inside the robes, and took Ararat’s arms to pull him closer. His warmth was relaxing, sending his frustrations and grief of the past three fortnights into oblivion. Therapeutic and timely. As he was led to the threshold of the house, Ararat started to hum a melody Kundush have heard before in the carallian annuals. A delicate smile slowly emerged from Kundush’ frail and tired lips. And it stayed there throughout the night.

Listen to the heart half-beating
Unsure of its fate
When the night folds in
The downpour of the past.

Feel the arms quivering
Entangled ectopic embrace
Of the solitary spirit left
When they have all moved on.

Taste the eyes flowing
His saltine streams of sorrow
Asking, wondering
If a fighting chance remains.

See his sweat glisten
Amidst the frigid solstice nocturne
Diligently persevering
Despite the dwindling hope.

Smell it, the fear
A waft of foreboding anguish
To a future of banished hymns
Where the world sings of love.

The senses quickening
Its delirious pace to shun
A defeat progressively encroaching
To suffocate the romantic man.

It was the coldest of nights. The Elysian Fields howled in the crisp, frigid arctic course that trailed its meandering waters. The time of The Transcendence was again close at hand, and as the fortnight cycle comes to its quad-centennial close, the denizens of the Elysium anticipated the coming of another deluge. That evening Kundush could not help but lay motionless and sleepless in his meadow mattress. The anxiety in his heart is brewing like the mist that threatens to engulf his very existence. “Should I bestow my minstril to Ararat?” He queried.

The Law of Ethos prescribes that bestowing one’s minstril must be done only in the most auspicious and opportune of times, preferably in that brief quanta-cycle preceding the Time of Transcendance. It is also encapsulated in the manuscripts that bestowing must only be done to whom the bestower promises eternity with. It is the contract of empathy, one that cannot be taken back once actualized. Absolute and eternal, Kundush knew that if he does chooses to bestow to someone who refuses, his minstril will be lost to the mists and he must face an eternity with the barren subsistence of a minstrel-less life. It is an existence beyond the less painful possibility of extinction.

Slowly his hand reached out, brushing against the warm skin of Ararat that lay beside him. He could not help but attempt to feel the skin he has so lovingly and longingly cared for. He knew that their time together was only as brief and passing as the tides of the Gangish. With the marigold fading with each passing day, he only had a few fortnights left to collect the edelweiss dew he needs to complete his bestowing. But he doesn’t digress; he knows in his very soul that these are merely trivial details to the more pressing decision of bestowing his minstril to Ararat. Each day Ararat’s skin becomes a duller shade of cerulean, and he knows that without the bestowing he plans, Ararat will wither into the ether, the agonizing conclusion that happens when one loses his minstril to someone who turns it down. And if Ararat does refuse his bestowing, the condition of Ararat now is a precursor to the turmoil he would have to endure for eternity.

Kundush is special. In every generation only a handful are given the divine capacity of eternal existence. This immortality usually being the advantage that elysiens use to amass wealth, power and control over those that weren’t as lucky. But he chose the un-treaded path of a life of seclusion in the arts. The creative spirit in him was too strong to ignore. It was a calling that went beyond vocation or religion, belief or necessity. He was decided to immerse his life in the intangibles of scholarly pursuits. He used to be perfectly fine with spending his days in the bosom of the books and illuminates he has dreamt of as a young elysien.

That was before he met Ararat.

“Do you ever miss Wuyue?,” Kundush asked.
“Sometimes, when the wind is silent I can almost hear her minstril.” Ararat said.
“Did you ever wish you kept your minstril?”
“Not really. I knew I had to bestow it to her. Whether or not she accepts. I was so sure then. But fate had other plans apparently. That’s why I’m here. With you.”

Ararat smiled. A smile sweeter than any gluchan that has passed Kundush’ lips. And he knew then and there that the choice has been made. He took Ararat’s arms and wrapped it around his waist, in an embrace that will keep them warm until the morning dews have dried. Soflty Ararat sighed in his sleep. Kundush kept himself awake. Humming in his mind, making sure that his minstril’s harmony was strong enough to weather the coming days.

Acceptance is a rarity in our circles. The world we inhabit is replete with discrimination both from those whose myopic detachment from the experience provide the most superficial of comprehension, and from our co-inhabitants whose egotistically-driven perspective only distinguishes between the do-able and the do-yourself. We trudge tip-toeing that we don’t ever cross paths with those whose opinions might disagree with our own. Or that we do cross paths with those whose attraction we seek, and compatibility willing, be able to pursue certain possibilities.

My reclusion, albeit social retardation, for the past few years or so, has provided me with a distorted sense of reality, and with a lack of self-awareness has left me enveloped in layers of adipose insecurities, lacking any semblance whatsoever from my previous physiology. Until recently, I argued this as an excuse to continue my refusal of social situations, and the easiest defense against a possible return to my wanton ways. Being physically displeasing is an effective deterrent from a possible spiral to promiscuity. But alas, I may have overdone it, as my somnolent survival have shown that despite the refusal to partake in the bacchanalian anarchy of my old ways, the same longing for affection and acceptance still throb beneath my extra luggage of introversions. But with a weight gain that threatens my very health, I can only daydream how it would be to feel what was so easily disregarded when I had the body, and the audacity, to think otherwise.

Recently I was introduced to a subcategory that appealed primarily because of the possibility it asserted. Thinking that maybe I had better chances of finding someone like-minded or agreeable if only I ended my denial and instead embraced my semi-newfound obesity. This is the subcategory of chubs and chasers. For the uninitiated, like me, a chaser is someone who by definition is attracted to those in the heavier side; of course this in itself has certain restrictions and subcategories, and thus chases after them. I will not delve into the intricacies and power-play that ensue in this sort of minority, as I myself am an unwilling neophyte in its rules, nor would I feign to know more than what I have lead you to believe.

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About a month ago I chanced upon a local group that caters specifically to this sort of subcategory. Being the proverbial inquisitive cat that I am, I decided to try my hand in reaching out to them. Of course not knowing anyone from the clan seemed like a big disadvantage specially that they have apparently been around for quite some time now. Yet despite this, I gambled on the possibility that these guys would be receptive on a shared-pain perspective. As often people on the heavier side do experience a certain level of social ostracism, I figured what a breath of fresh air it would be to find people of a similar wavelength or a congruent mindset.

How gravely mistaken was I.

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Arriving at a bar somewhere up north, in the area I used to refer to as my evening abode. I walked in, in a place replete with vibrant sexual tension, and inebriated souls wondering about conquests-in-waiting and wandering its cobblestone streets. Optimistic that the night will transgress in the oblivious amusement I yearn for and the connection I seek.

Something felt wrong. Eyes pry my very skin like fresh meat ready for the picking. Finding a solitary corner away from the bar counter, I conceded to regain as much composure as I can feign. Waiting for my eyes to adjust in the blinding darkness and the deafening beat I have missed for years, I sat with my bottle of San Mig Light thinking, should I be here?

My breath was heavy, my hands sweating in all its adipose glory. The decision of wearing an all-black ensemble that night afforded a certain level of stealth. But it wasn’t enough. I searched furtively, seeking a familiar face - the guy who invited me. As moments pass, a looming possibility crawled into my consciousness, a fear so consuming I had to deny it. Maybe he didn’t show up. And this is a trap I don’t intend to fall prey to, yet have unwillingly did.

For the cash-strapped and the peso-savvy, finding a decent pasta place to satiate your gluten-craving is never an easy task. The market these days is replete with commercialism way beyond the socially responsible, and the pecuniary palatable. In the race to come up with the most exclusive, elusive, imported-enriched dishes for the unassuming consumers’ picking, the culinary ecosystem has failed to retain the fact that we still are a third-world country. However one may promise to be as close-as-possible or as tastefully-resembling authentic Italian cuisine, fact is it would still fall short of being in Italy, or conversely having its cuisine shipped here by express.

What the recession-stressed epicure need is an educated option to the tomfoolery of gourmet gastronomy. An opportunity to partake in the feast of Italy and the Mediterranean, without having to lose a limb and a buck. Let’s not undermine the capacity of the consumer to differentiate between authentic and ostentatious. By merely using the frivolity of verbose terminologies the fast-food and semi-fast-food industry have effectively misled consumers into thinking that buying into their tongue-twisting templates affords a taste of the good life. Let’s not mock ourselves here; of course a lot fancy the suspended reality of dining along the isles of Greece, or amongst the quaint cucinas of Italia. But ask any decent nutritionist if the fare sold these days do have the same nutritional and health benefits that have kept the people of Mediterannea vibrant and active way beyond middle-age. I bet, the answer would be a resounding veto.

But not all is lost. Down south in a place where tiangge’s meet Terrazas, cucinas huddle beside carinderias, and the egalitarian credo is actively professed, a new food establishment has just opened. Amidst the downpour of this weekend, and the aftershock of last week’s national calamity, a humble kiosk opens in defiance to the economic climate, weather instability and political turmoil. The hard work of fellow blogger colorblind, Pasta Bibiana opens to the ravenous public, with the gusto of a famished child, and the enthusiasm of a caffeinated clerk. It proves that the health benefits of Mediterranean cuisine need not be restricted to the stratosphere of fine dining or the pompous superficiality of fast-food. It is as affordable as it can get, with the freshness undoubtedly absent in other similar establishments. The selling point was never the pretention of being Italian (despite the reference due to its etymology), but rather the promotion of a healthier gustatory choice using the lessons learned from the food of Italy, yet done in a uniquely-Filipino fashion – easy on the wallet, and as tastefully filling.

Offering a new concept of experiential food, it affords the consumer choices to personalize their pasta experience. From the refreshing spiciness of the yoghurt-based fresh-fruit pasta salad, to the subtle creaminess of a white sauce-penne combination, or the guilt-free fulfillment of a tofu sandwich, to the cleansing quality of the pandan water, Pasta Bibiana has something for all. Visit them for those seeking a new palate experience, for a food trip on a budget, and even the plain curious. Feel free to ask for assistance in picking your own personalized pasta experience. And taste why fresh is always best.

Pasta Bibiana. Guilt-free healthy, for the peso-savvy.

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Pasta Bibiana is now open for business. Come visit them at 2/F The Foodcourt of Robinson’s Place Imus, along Aguinaldo Highway at Cavite, en route to Tagaytay.

Do you hear?
Arias of longing transcending.
The space apart is irrelevant.

Do you see?
A gaze beyond recognition.
Piercing. Searching. Apparent.

Do you smell?
A waft of the scent left by the fallen.
Faint yet lingering.

Do you taste?
The bitterness in my existence.
A timid heart struggling.

Do you feel?
The quiver of my loins.
The whispered begging of my soul.

I await anticipating.
The kingpin of my conundrum.
The piece that makes me whole.

Find me know. Steady my spirit.
Hold the hand that seeks your warmth.
Caress the banished romantic,
in the safety of your arms.

Sugar-coated lies of the master puppeteer,
fidgeting the strings of the humble violin
nestled in my chest.

His was trickery in the pinnacle of its form,
emblazoned across a face
devoid of his deviousness.

Falling prey to a reality existing only in my longing.
Perturbed.
Neglected.
And willingly hoodwinked.

My mortality deceiving better judgment,
I traipse a route where logic is an absentee.
I am a helpless romantic.

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In somnis veritas - Latin. In dreams, there is truth.

In my plight to seek a possible long-term partner, or in moments of weakness and the lapses of judgment a potential short-term lay, I have come too often across people whose brand of self-entitlement and ego transcend what could generally be accepted humane. We seek people whose wavelength and intellectual acuity, or physical and emotional compatibility flow in congruence to our own. In every opportunity that presents to reach out to another human being, we sift through the rubbish of those whose intentions only seek a momentary answer to their physical needs, or the boosting of their egos in the consummation of a conquest. We take effort and time to present ourselves in the most agreeable and respectful manner, may it be for a possible friend whose online travails and communications provide us but a mere glimpse to their actual sentiments. Yet we push through, headstrong and hopeful. That maybe we'll get along with this one, if only for a change.

But alas, luck is usually not on my side. And the oft friendly banter you established beforehand quickly turns into selfish egotism once the meeting has been actuated. What you nurtured as a possible friendship quickly takes a wrong turn into one that is physically-motivated and sexually-driven for the other party. Rejection becomes the tenet of the one whom you have mistaken to have made an honest connection with. And in this cycle of rejection and disappointment I have come across a plethora of excuses whose well-meaning intentions been thwarted by motives formerly kept at bay, despite the honesty I have provided in terms of my physiological standings and amiable intentions. To the numerous people who have betrayed the trust I have so willingly entrusted, this is for you.

Hindi na kita mami-meet. Kasama ko boyfriend ko eh. Umalis ka na lang.

May emergency pala ako, next time na lang.

Nakita na kita, sige lakad na ako. Your not my type.

I saw you. Sorry, lumakad na ako.

Nakita na kita, mataba ka pala. Sorry. Hindi na ako magpapakita sa iyo, hindi kita bet dude. At huwag ka na ring mag-text dahil I will NEVER meet up with you again.

Saw you, sige.

Magkita na lang tayo kapag payat ka na.

You're not want I'm looking for.

(and the best so far) Bye.

Despite these, and so numerous others, I shall keep my hope up that there are still good-natured souls out there, whose intentions are laid out in the honesty of their words. These few are precious gems amidst the fake brilliance of our superficial generation, and the decrepit meanderings of social vultures that inhabit our urban consciousness. May there be more like them. And when you do meet one of them, be sure to wear your heart on your sleeve, and reciprocate the honesty and sincerity they offer. The genuine will never tarnish.

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To him who did not betray my trust, and who have quite surprisingly been a beacon of reason and understanding that has shed light on my dimming existence. Beyond what you have experienced, your lack of jadedness is a breath of fresh air that invigorates my spirit, negating my weary disillusionment. Thank you.

Ayala Avenue, Makati City
12:56pm 03 August 2009

The noon sun was blazing as throngs of people marched towards the intersection of Ayala Avenue and Paseo de Roxas. All were in high spirits as anticipation grew exponentially from the impending appearance of our beloved former president. Risking a reprimand from my superiors, I trudged in mid-step hurrying towards Insular Life Building. The heat was excruciating, un-alleviated by the downpour that greeted us this Monday morning. Despite the arid conditions, and my formal attire, this was of little relevance to an objective that goes beyond the semblances of personal comfort. Foregoing my lunch break, and ignoring a possible crash later that afternoon, I kept my steady pace. This was the least I could do for her. To pay my possibly last respects to a great woman whose unwavering integrity paved the way for the reestablishment of our nation's democracy. Her willing kindness shone hope that our humanity can still weather the most daunting of circumstances, and my humble sacrifice amidst the afternoon heat and an aching stomach seems trivial and incomparable to what she has so willingly offered to our country, despite the choice of a sheltered life for her brood, beyond the prying reach of her and her late husband's detractors.

I offer here pieces of what transpired in the streets of Ayala, Makati this afternoon. In offing to those whose circumstances prevented them from the opportunity of paying their respects to our beloved heroine. May this be an entry that I will look back later on to remind myself that once Martial Law was a reality, and the multitude of advantages and freedoms we relish today is indebted to her, and the countless masses that chose to fight in the face of a looming adversity. To uphold what is our birthright, and ensure a future of better days for our generation.

Maria Corazon Cojuangco Aquino
25 January 1933 - 1 August 2009

This morning the cerulean sky casts its downpour of tears on EDSA. Along its hurried streets and busy motorists hurrying to the first workweek of August, the asphalt glistens like any other day yet a disquieting gloom permeates the masses being moved in the thousands. This is no regular rainy-day Monday. Beyond the wet roads and the slippery traffic altercations is a stillness of an absence that we feared will come more sooner than later. The heavens wail in mourning of the passing of an unequivocally singular soul whose struggle for the upholding of our treasured democracy have inspired generations the world over. In a time when political turmoil besets our land and the blatant brandishing of corruption has become the de facto practice, we mourn in silence to a lost spirit, further igniting the flames of social unrest.

We seek validation in the faceless masses whose devotion has kept the lines along Greenhills, Mandaluyong headstrong. We pause in contemplation that beyond the strife that we face each day, and the poverty that engulfs our fellowmen, we are all one and the same. People of a proud nation seeking the justice we deserve in the eyes of our elected leaders, whose selfish meanderings have proven that in this day and age of gender and social equality, the elite inhabits our halls with the prideful indulgence and a false sense of self-entitlement.

In every man and woman, elder and child, burns a longing for the very values her late husband, and she herself, have stood for, for the past three decades. In each of us is a Ninoy, whose voice, although wavering and still at times, remains a reminder that equality and freedom is a birth right. We may oft times be undeserving of this in the manner we conduct ourselves towards our countrymen and in our affairs, but the truth is we do have the capacity to change all of this. Not all is lost amidst the darkness of our social dissolution, nor is failed in the impending wrath of economic downfall. Change is achievable, and it starts with the man whose face gazes beyond our silvery reflections.

Our nation weeps in the gaping absence that will never be filled. She has left us with a legacy that remains to be vindicated. A heroine wise beyond her years, whose integrity defeats her own social standing.

She will be sorely missed.

Let us not wait for another loss to effect change in our consciousness. Free will is a gift that comes with the responsibility of our race. It is the very thing that sets our species apart from our fauna brethren. Yet it also is the very thing that deems us at times worse than them. May we find direction in the life she has lived and realize the change that our generation can initiate. Here and now.

Let her color shine brightest in the darkest of our hours.

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Postscript 12:48pm
The crowd was emotional as she passed through the streets she once threaded some 23 odd years ago, catalyzing a cascade of events that lead to the downfall of a dictatorship. I will, time and opportunity permits, upload the footage and images I took of her brief visit to Makati later this day for the benefit of those whose circumstances prevented them to pay their respects. May we never forget who she is and what she stands for.

27 July 2009 9:36 PM
The multitude of characters I come across during my daily commute is a veritable microcosm of our social disparities. From the amiable to the pretentious, from the hurried to the catatonic, from the verbal and ostentatious to reserved indifference, a spectra of personalities inhabit the four corners of public transportation.


The bubbly girl whose endless banter never ceases to render you oblivious to the traffic, or the brooding guy whose eyes cannot deny a broken heart yet attempts his earnest to feign strength and a firm control of his emotions. The social-climber that perplexes by her unending rant of expletives against the inconveniences of commuting, yet refuses to either take her car out or shell out for a cab. Every commute presents a plethora of characters that keeps me entertained throughout my daily diaspora. There are a few, however, that never fail to either irk, irritate, disappoint or infuriate me: the nudgers who continually pushes you away whenever even a sliver of the clothing you wear touches them; the spread-eagle who will not, under any circumstances, move his legs together for fear of (1) diminishing his masculinity, (2) crushing his oversized sacs, or (3) lest he feels he's not getting his money's worth; the clinger who refuses to respect personal space and either pushes himself to you, crosses his arms effectively pinning down yours, or rests parts of his body in the depth of slumber (this of course does not apply to guys who have other intentions, may it be sexual or pecuniary in nature). But last night I met a guy who was actually all three.

He sat with his legs way beyond his space in the seat. I would've forgiven him if he was tall which makes sitting upright a challenge in a cramped bus seat, but he wasn't. He was my height. The bus was packed so tight that a can of tuna would be ashamed. So I figured, I better ask him to allow me some of the space which I actually paid for. I asked "Pare, pwedeng maki-usog?" To which he replied with an indifferent stare, gave me a look-up-down, and proceeded with his current obliviousness. I had two choices: (1) repeat my request, and (2) concede to his retardation. Of course, being the passive non-confrontational sort, I chose the latter.

So there I was, in a cramped bus with but a morsel of my derriere hanging on the seat and was only prevented from falling off of it by the multitude of people standing along the aisle. Of course, the road to the south is replete with potholes and various road faults that the bus cannot help but sway in its navigation. He, being a retard, disregarded this and incessantly shoved me whenever the bus tilted by arm towards him. Of course, this too I forgave in lieu of his apparent idiocy.

He finally fell asleep, and to add insult to injury proceeded to rest his shoulder on my arm. This, I tried to nudge since I was already uncomfortable in my current position, which he ignored and continued to make a comforter out of my triceps. I was enraged. But I contemplated the repercussions of inciting an argument in a cramped bus. So I sat still.

Sometimes life throws us such complexly overwhelming circumstances just to test how far our understanding can go. I detested the guy's lack of manners. But it would be disrespectful to those standing if I argue over the question of proper seating space. Maybe someday he'd meet someone who did not have the composure, understanding and passivity that I mustered that night. Let him teach this guy a lesson. But for now, I resolve to being an observer.

We are afforded a glimpse to our own psyche when we learn to every once in a while choose only to observe those who surround us. Men are the mirrors to our own consciousness, and it is in the attempt to comprehend the actions of your brothers that you gain an understanding of your own.

Nasaan ka na? Kailan ka ba dadating?

Umuulan na naman, alam mo namang sa tuwing umuulan at nata-trapik ako kakapanhik-panaog ng Cavite lagi na lamang sumasagi sa isip ko na sana may inuuwian akong yayakap sa akin. Hindi lamang upang painitin ang nilalamig kong katawan, ngunit para iparamdam sa kapit ng iyong bisig na wala akong dapat ikabahala. Na ligtas ako, at hindi na muling magagalusan sa pait ng mundong umiikot para sa iba. Dahil may sariling mundo tayong kaloob sa bawa't isa.

Hindi naman ako nagmamadali, alam ko namang kung sakaling itadhana ng panahon na maligaw ka sa aking landas, maaring umusbong ang pusong ipiniring ko ng matagal. Ngunit hindi mo rin ako masisi dahil may mga gabing ang simpleng yakap mo lamang ang papawi sa luhang pilit kong ikinukubli, sa hapong dibdib na nagnanais pumiglas, at sa nangungulilang palad sa makalinga mong haplos. Malamig ngayon, pilit ko iyong iniinda. Ngunit ang paghinga ko'y hapo sa takot na baka hindi ka na dumating. Na maaring ang pangungulila ko ay siyang tanging pinagkukublian ng katotohanang hindi ako ang iyong mithi.

Sa bawat gapang ng bus na aking sinasakyan, ang katabi kong mag-irog ay walang-puknat na nakikipag-harutan sa isa't-isa. Yumayapos. Nangingiliti. Magkayakap. Habang ang lalaki sa harapan ay panay ang sulyap sa konduktor na nagtataglay ng matamis na ngiti. Ang magbabarkada sa likuran pinipilit palipasin ang limang oras na biyahe sa maharot na kantiyawan at sariwang sabi-sabi. Tila bang ang panahon ko'y sumasabay sa usad ng mga sasakyan sa kalsada. Habang ang mundo sa paligid ay umiikot, naiiwan ako sa nakatali kong pagkatao. Pilit dinadala ang responsibilidad ng pamilyang hikahos, habang ang damdamin ay nagaagaw-buhay sa lamig ng gabi. Nangungulila.

Sino ka ba sa dagat ng mga mukhang nakakasalamuha ko araw-araw? Nakilala na ba kita? O hanggang ngayon ay salisihan pa rin ang ating patinterong pihit? Hinihintay mo rin ba ako? O baka naman abala ka pa sa kanyang iyong kaulayaw ngayong gabi?

Magbubukang-liwayway na maya-maya. Titila uli ang ulan. Hayaan mo't mapapanatag ko uli ang aking kalooban, ihahanda ang pusong humarap sa gulong ng buhay na pilit kong pina-iikot. Nakaraos na naman sa mga bumabagabag kong pag-aalinlangan. Sa mga takot sa kinabukasang baka hindi naman darating. Napagtanto na ang panahon ang tanging hukom sa lapat ng ating kwento.

Baka bukas, ang unos ay titigil upang salubungin ka ng aking balikat.
Baka lang.

Arise, oh heart as ripe, as true;
Though the darkness fail this cold.
The loins speak of tales untold;
Fate shall set you free anew.
The evening, unleash its splendid fangs;
To whom that is most unbeknownst.
And tears will dry, as sweat will flow;
Inebriated amidst the night’s glow.
Though concrete pavers lined in dew;
Will witness tales that’ll ensue.
Headstrong, proud you’ll face its lure;
By the integrity whole and sure.
-red the mod 03:16am 16 July 2009






The heavens are silent tonight. It is the calm before the storm, the sweet serenity preceding a tempest. There are days when the heavens wail, and we are made most aware of its defiance against our own transgressions. But tonight all is silent. The foreboding fear is far more menacing when we are left clueless in the dead of night. Despite our valiant attempts to regain composure, certain things must be faced only when the moment permits. Only when time deals its aim. Only when the situation is immediately apparent. Only when faith unfurls its mighty shroud before our eyes.

I sit now in contemplation of a long lost book. Whose pages echo a story so exquisite and eloquent we cannot help but bask in the comfort of its epiphanies. We have lost that book to the turbulent tides of the current, to the phantom mists of our ambivalence. Yet I here I am once again seeking its comfort in spite of its hurried absence. An era has ended with the closing of its covers. It is but a mere memory of the nonchalant wisdom it once offered me. In its place a longing trembles without a voice, and I look beyond to the copper hues of the heavens awaiting indications of its former spark. I reminisce what very little my memory can afford, to relive his words that lance my existence with a knowing beyond his years. The cerulean sheets lie naked in the bosoms of history. Time will come and the storm will pass, in its wake we will forget the book it took in its Diaspora. But here and now I would like to remember.

Almost two months ago a blog closed. And a vow of chastity was made. I will never be privy to the prior series of events that lead to its untimely termination. If anything, I can only profess my deep admiration for the words that strung stories and lessons we have been so luckily audience to. Suffice to say, what it represents has lost its ground, and a new chapter must then be written. In it, the knowledge gained from the past chapters will seek validation in the forthcoming volumes. It was a big loss to blogspace, whose hurried ramblings seek only the momentary distraction of more than a few, and we pry our days in yearning for its melodious meaning. But fate has dealt its cards. And a new chapter must commence.

In a few hours the vow of chastity will be lifted. Whether or not its lifting will unveil a pandora’s box, we can only listen to its oscillating pulse, whose wavelength echoes the span of the heavens. Blue and bejeweled, or pitch black and paralyzing. Seek comfort in the hope that the lessons of the past will find cadence in the beating of the heart. And that integrity will succeed against the allure of the mundane.

You say you want a heart? Why would you want a heart? A heart will never be practical until it is made unbreakable.
–The Wizard of Oz

When the storm arrives, do look up in the heavens. Maybe up there you’ll see a glint of the Jomanian Constellation, whose magnificence provided radiance beneath the crowded tracks, and across the glistening streets. Remember what we learned, and respect what we are. Men of the night. Resilient and strong, whose virile dominance waver occasionally, but the core retains its virtues. There is always a choice, and although it never presents itself so eagerly, we need only to seek bearing from what our hearts will never deny and our humanity confirm.

I am a mere observer to the tale of the soul. Whose very words speak of a burden that we cannot comprehend. The same burden all of us carry in varying degrees, in various permutations, in all morphologies and phenotypes. My empathy may never be enough to fathom the depth of its sentiment, and the intricacies of its plot. One can only hope for him. The same hope we have for ourselves. That beyond the superficiality of our cultural anarchy, the few will never be forgotten. And that integrity still has value. And that love is an achievable possibility.

- To Pulsar, Darkstar, Kitsune, and Mugen

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Postscript 12:03pm
As of press time, the heavens did wail. The trails of the forthcoming typhoon lashed its turquoise tears this morning, bringing with it torrential flooding of semi-epic proportions. Aguinaldo Highway is now a lake, the very reason of the tardiness in the posting of this entry, and the author being 4 hours late to work.

How does one lose oneself?

It is neither abrupt and distinct, whose adamantium fist falls with certain finality, nor sinuous and foreboding, whose creeping embrace engulf with such voracity. It is subtle and discreet, slow and cumulative. Like the constrictor whose venom lies not in its fangs but its ability to subjugate, in the most graceful and understated manner, its prey to a demise that is as heartless as it is painful. A lingering cut that never bleeds, but suffocates your very core.

I fell for someone whose apparent phobias and insecurities constitute the better part of character. Playing the trusted friend, I blindly and gingerly aided him in all his debauched ramblings, and failed attempts on romance. Slowly without me realizing, I have fallen into a spiral with him. Doing double-dates with girls I could barely look at, or drinking parties with little to do but stare at each other. Sarcastic as it may seem, the longing for connection found its translation in means that can only be defined as equal parts hypocritical and in denial. I was smitten, but with little chance of achieving any of the bases with him, the sentiments were resolved as a humble footnote to a supposedly strong friendship.

A friend beckons.

It starts with the most humble of gestures, in aid of an affection that will never find its voice nor will ever be requited. It is a lowly mantra echoing in the depths of my psyche, a hypnotic trance that finds translation in gullibility. Slowly, you let go in the obtuse belief that tacit affections will preternaturally find its way into the heart of the heartless, a song whose tune will seek only his ears. Inaudible and inspired, but silent nonetheless.

Problems arise.

The burden of your family beckons your resources. The call to responsibility have always been one you are keen to thwart, yet fate has a humor as pungent as its sarcasm, and you find yourself welcoming with open arms, in lucid defiance, a fate far less than you preferred. In a time when you have envisioned wanton abandon in the frolics of the flesh, or the booming beat of the calling dancefloor, or the blinding lights of the nether times, of friends and lovers and acquaintances in cohorts, you find yourself slaving over matters well beyond your chronology, considerations as perplexing as the anatomy of a lost lover, but devoid of the warmth and exhilaration, in the bosom of the keyboard whose sweet embrace only serves to meditate your fading fire. Maturity fed bucket-full’s to a gaping mouth held by circumstance. Learned from the streets, now strapped in domesticity.

In every failed relationship, and in every failed attempt at one, you lose a part of yourself to the person. Love is a bitter pill whose fruits are as extreme as its pits, while committing licenses the other party glimpses of a vulnerability you would normally safeguard. It gives right for him or her to cause you pain, the same manner affections can uplift in bliss. And in every passing chapter to your spirit's book, pages are torn sacrificially and in offing to those whose brief stay merited your attention. Despite supposed lessons gained in each unique instance, you fall on the next chance only to, briefly, subtly, taste in passing love's piquant nectar.

Rejection is a salve whose bitterness is the hardest to swallow. It poses issues that feed insecurities one tries vehemently to pacify. Shifting between periods of sober contemplation and inebriated debauchery I find myself filling voids left by unsung songs, joining gaps caused by sacrificial pieces of my heart, to the faceless crowd whose superficial understanding of my existence only dwells on what can be achieved with minimal effort. From what can be gained in my emotional weaknesses and intangible investments; without the risks of vulnerability or the opportunities for genuine connection. I was nothing more than a willing subject, whose days are spent seeking validation in the bed of people whose backs turn in the return of sunrise, or in places whose only comfort afforded is the recoiling abandon of inebriated oblivion.

Lost. To the spiraling mundanity of pain and retribution.

With each rejection, my wounded psyche is fed with a hunger more uncompromising in its appetite. Fearing a growing indifference, I led myself from one arm to another, seeking valuation of a faint and fading self-worth. Despite my wavering emotional integrity, I capitalized on my improving physical assets in the erring assumption that this is the only way a genuine attraction can be achieved or discovered in the pathos of our subculture. There I was objectifying my own worth for the price of a few hours of detached ecstasy.

Bound. To a life of denial and distraction.

Months pass, then years. With the growing jadedness in my heart threatening the hope for romance I have longed to find in the most awkward of places, epiphanies have been set aside for the few morsels of attention, whether from pity or a passing fancy or the thirsty momentary lust, I can elicit from whomsoever I can lure or who can lure me. And without my knowing, I lost what should’ve been of greater value to me. With each failed attempt, more and more I am bound to a losing battle of my own doing. Before long, even the few cards I was able to deal against the voracious flesh market of our generation was slipping beyond my grip. Looks fade, my once physical arrogance now covered in layers of a thickening adipose wall. The amiable demeanor whose presence tended to enlighten a party is replaced with insecurity beyond comprehension. My humanity enforced against a once proud existence, fated to smite my transgressions against personal integrity, honesty, sincerity and love.

One day you wake up a mere shadow of your once shining melody. All the potential and capacity for ardor and recuperation are still there yet the notes that defined your heartsong are but a jumbled mess of off-key timbres seeking its own harmony amidst the anarchy of compositions and memories. You are bound to the notes whose remnants remind of a past brilliance, and you hold on to a hope that one day you’ll regain that seminal sensation, and the notes will again fall into place to resurge in an opus that has long awaited its audience in the company of a love that is as requited as it is genuine.

Hoping what was once lost is regained in the rediscovery of life. Hoping what was bound in the shell of a lost confidence is freed to an understanding beyond one’s failed history. One can only speculate to what conclusion this journey will lead to. Fear is my companion, and hope my ally. I shall thread this path with the blind myopia of my hermitic existence, but with the awe and bewilderment of a child learning to walk for the first time. Time will be my jury and sole audience in the search for liberty from a self-imposed prison. Solitude will heal what fate has dealt, yet the callus and scars remain as reminders of my numerous failures. Redemption would lie not in finding the other half of the melody, but in relearning my own song beyond my responsibilities, beyond my faults, and beyond my disappointments. In salvaging the strength that fear has stolen and the courage that pain has hidden. Only then will the lost be found. Only then will the bound be freed.

Of all modalities of valuation, chromatic theories pose the most varied and subjective platform. It deals with the distillation of a group of attributes to a value that is both visual-centric and has a flexible representation. The very poetry of this methodology lies in its apparent simplicity of summarizing causation and result in a manner of inabsolute vividness. From spatial quality analysis, cognitive and behavioral modification to environmental perception, color has been a succinct tool whose varied permutations reveal information on a deceptively autocratic sense. It is this very characteristic of chroma that has led me to choose such a platform to facilitate my search for elucidation.

From hereon, my drafts and drivels, allusions and assertions may be loosely categorized on these various, but in no way exclusive, chromatic families as outlined below. These are forms of the color red, whose essential spectra of connotations I have abridged into genres of chromatic qualities, and thus must I define these permutations and their general representations.





RED - The base color. It is the source of all the hues. It deals with issues pertaining to my greater being. A higher consciousness seeking reason and purpose.
BURGUNDY - The color of the Learned. A deep tone of royal precedence whose purpose seeks the truth in existence. The introspective.
MAROON - The academic. His path lies on the learning gained. The moral compass.
CRIMSON - The warmth of blood, whose passion embrace and engulf one in its mad totality. It is somewhat irrational and impulsive, assertive and prideful.
PINK - The soft beating of a romantic repose.
FUCHSIA - The proud brandishing of sexuality and sensuality.
RUBY - Exquisite and refined, it seeks the superficiality of the tactile over those of the intangible.
RUST - The degradation of the core. The slow death whose lucid hands encroach upon the proudest of metals. It is foreboding and secretive.



These colors are facets of my ongoing search for self. An unending cycle of permutations leading to an eventual regaining of what was lost and that which has been newly found. It is my heuristic compass whose varied tones deal my life cards in a kaleidoscope of monochromes. It is all of me, and none of me. It is proud and reserved, meditatively impulsive, complexly self-apparent. It is the spectrum whose shimmer is a foil to my psyche, yet is as counter-intuitive.

These are which approximately defines my existence, yet in no capacity contain the full breadth of it. It is my color and I will own it. Schizophrenic as it may seem, we are but consolidations of our own multitude of beings, a cacophony of chroma cast amidst the carefree chasms of life.

27 May 2009
7:30 in the evening

Against my better judgment, and in revolt to my typically workaholic ways I left the office at a time I would normally be just warming up for creative calisthenics. And as fate would have it, its sordid comedy played out in chapters as I led myself blind to an event and a venue I know little of. Feigning a courage I once mustered and mastered during my frivolous phases, it was a decision laid on the grounds of a possible social interaction I have missed for a while, and the validation of an existence that cannot be gratified by my professional acuity. I needed a breather, and seeking solace and gaiety amidst a faceless crowd would've been an opportune time to extract relaxation. And there, in the ghost town that was once Katipunan Extension, along its dark avenue of tree-lined intimacy I found myself at a bar tucked along its hurried streets. As fate would have it, despite objectives I have set forth for the evening, a pleasant surprise was its ironic retort.

From the prodding of a friend, the invitation was set for an event that is equal parts memorable and landmark for a social retard as myself. The abscence of a social life was detrimental to my decision to actually attend the event. The hussle defined as my professional existence, amidst the gargantuan responsibilities fed bucketfulls to my revolting psyche have led me to lose the capacity to maintain the semblances of normalcy. In this hurried existence of work-house-work spirals, music have always been my solitary salve. Listening to the radio or sound-tripping during my daily exodus to and from the south, I can only seek solace in my lowly cellphone's basic music functionalities. So I was pleasantly delighted to attend with the promise of a new music player, whose functions and features would greatly improve my aural experience. Besides the lure of a free gadget, the invitation of experiencing sociopetal interactions alluded to the piquant desert I have longed for to taste.

So there I was, in the pouring rain, with nay an acquaintance and friend in sight and risking being hit by the indiscretion of cars that impale Katipunan, I arrived at Route 196. I was welcomed by the organizers with the warmth of an old friend, the acceptance of an established colleague, and the respect of a seasoned writer (which I undeniably am not). Leading me into the bar, amidst its emo-chic environs I was duly introduced to the other bloggers present, as well as the succeeding bloggers that arrived. Surprisingly, the informality of the situation allowed me to loosen inhibitions, interact and identify with a group that gravitated towards the sofa-end of the ante-room. And soon, I was partaking in a gustatory and alcoholic feast amongst a crowd that had the elation of friends long known. I felt at home and accepted, and to the guys who allowed me to encroach in their small get-together despite being a newcomer with no previous relations with them, words will always fall short to express my gratitude.

Vidyut Kaul, the consumer marketing manager for Philips Consumer Lifestyle, was also present at the event to explain in detail the price points and advantages of using Philips' new Go Gear line. Its sleek minimal looks gave little clue to the plethora of functionalities the line offered. Besides the capacity to approximately achieve the sound quality and clarity lost during the transfer between analog and digital formats, the Go Gear line also has sound isolation, allowing musicphiles to feed their affinities despite being in the epicenter of noise we lovingly call as the urban wastelands. In addition, he also spoke about the Philips' Bandwidth Virtual Battle of the Bands, an online competition seeking to discover the unsigned and untapped talents of our fellowmen. It was equal parts uplifting and inspiring to learn that such a consumer-driven company be interested in supporting the innate Filipino musicality. This I believe is a sign of good things to come both for our struggling local artists and Philips' presence in the country.

I personally prefer the Go Gear Luxe line, with its bluetooth capability of tapping to your cellphone during phone calls, but as fate would have it, we were given the 4GB Go Gear Spark, Philips Go Gear line's entry level model with the FullSound and Sound Isolation features. Not meaning to sound an ingrate, surprisingly it had a lot of the features I have long desired in a holistic music player: good ergonomics, discrete elegance, sound brilliance, radio and recorder functionality, ease of navigation and updating, and the list goes on. Now, I can't leave the house without it, and its minimalist aesthetics becoming a foil to my mod style. I have warmed up to it, and will very unlikely lend it to any of my brothers any time soon. Apple's Ipod Shuffle, with its easily-compromised clip, basic mp3 music rendering, lack of a navigation screen, spare player functionality, and higher price, falls way short in comparison to the Go Gear Spark's understated and effortless elegance.

With upcoming and popular local bands Paraluman, Duster, Ernville and Pedicab, whose brand of music resonates this generation's passionate sentiments, the night was capped as a visual and auditory smorgasbord only a brand dedicated to true musical experience can achieve. Thanks to Philips for giving us a taste of the future of the digital music experience.

As the night progressed, from the bottles emptied, and the friendships established, of social issues discussed and mundanities expressed, I found what I have been seeking for quite a while: a group that despite the differences in backgrounds and preferences are joined in their passion for music and life, and an understanding wisdom that being different is not necessarily a negative. That life is what we make of it. As I trudge tonight the slippery avenues to the south, with only a Go Gear Spark craddling my ears, I relish that evening whose realizations and experience engulfed me with such willingness, to the people of Philips for a music unparalleled, the organizers of the event whose patience is amazing, and the no-longer faceless crowd whose acceptance unplifted.

A few days ago I was fortunate enough to observe a preaching on the bus ride en route to our house. The preacher in question is a well-toned colored man in his late 30's whose stature and bearing present a well-to-do lineage. He got on the bus a clear half an hour from my stop and directly proceeded in proclaiming his intended agenda for the night. Being the cynic that I am, I listened intently on his teachings and assertions with regards to faith, salvation and the purpose of life. He had a small leather-bound bible in tow, was dressed in crisp white sleeves that have been ironed patiently, dress pants and the necessary shoes and belt. The absence of a scapular and/ or a rosary, and the characteristic messenger bag made me question if this guy had any pecuniary motives.

He started with aplomb, once I got over his distinctly South African accent I could not help but get mesmerized with his oratorical finesse. Modulations and inflections aside, he had the air of a seasoned public speaker, whose message delivery, regardless of content, will surely illicit attention from his audience. Sure, I had reservations with taking his preachings ad literatum, yet I could not help but consider the validity of his pronouncements by the mere style of his actuations.

The grace of God was given to us by way of His son's death, and we as children of God have the responsibility to spread His word. Rejecting the teachings of Jesus is rejecting the grace of God. And he who refuses to spread His word is falling short of attaining His grace. We must be a nation of preachers and share the teachings in order to achieve grace. Repentance is not enough. The teachings must be followed in all aspects of our lives. Do not ask what my religion is as I will be insulted, religion is not important. What is important is to be a nation of believers.

I am agnostic, that I do not deny. I find nothing overtly revolting with his words but I do object with a few. With no intentions of discrediting his faith or the validity of his convictions, I believe for the sake of enlightenment I must expound on my own opinions. It seems to me that this absolutist view on the scripture is a misguided interpretation of the requisites of faith. Theoretically speaking, salvation is achieved through the actions of repentance and faith. Repentance is the acceptance of one's misgivings, either by the sins of omission or commission. Faith is the belief without seeking proof. This should not be confused with blind faith, whose repercussions entail a superficial understanding of the requisites of believing.

I have always held the scripture in high esteem, but do understand that it is a guide to the manner by which our lives must be lived in commune with our fellowmen. This is not absolute. The words were written by men whose inspiration, although divine, was also open to the interpretations of their age. Translations have both diluted and distorted the meanings of the text. But what I do believe is the distilled virtues the scripture teach, whose learnings are universal values that remain unbound by the definitions of religious affinities. Rejecting the teachings is such a strong statement. But "must be followed in all aspects of our lives" is just as erroneous and extreme.

I started to have doubts with this man. Yes he posed such valid and provocative arguments, but the manner of expounding is tantamount to the condescension of an armchair believer. Being a nation of the faithful is far more effective than a nation of preachers. Sharing the word is a virtuous exercise, but it also requires reciprocity from your flock. Faith is neither learned nor taught from the scripture, it is a virtue gained by personal choice and conviction. Then he took out a wad of envelopes and proceeded to thread the aisles giving out his requests for donations in support of the Nation of Preachers. The punchline came when I was handed my own personal request. It had neither a name of an organization nor the name of the preacher. What it did have was quotations from the scripture coupled by a cellular number and a p.o. box number from Marikina. Which got me thinking, what legitimate religious group would refuse to define their actual affiliation and refuse to give an actual address of worship?

Then the envelope read "Edify His Word." Why chose edify? By edify you mean to define permanence and absolute complete distinction? As in, to put on a pedestal? It was a mere confirmation of my observations. Despite his charismatic delivery, his was a lesson on textbook preaching. Afterwards, while collecting the envelopes from the sleepy crowd of commuters, he proceeded to stop to forgive and pray over every single individual who refused to part with the contents of their wallet. It saddened me how the act of spreading the word has been distorted to this sort of financial propaganda that infuses public embarassment as an effective way of coercing cooperation from the mass' ungiving wallets.

I looked at his searching eyes. Not with hate or irritation, but a quiet sadness that professed my disappointment. I gave back his empty envelope with the firmness of my convictions. Bless you sir. He nodded and quietly moved on to the next passenger.

My distress aside, I tried to sympathise with this man's attempt to brave the recession. It was a double-edged sword, by professing the scripture it afforded a certain momentary hope to the audience, and by parting with a few change we supported this man's plight from financial difficulties. Whether or not his was a legitimate mission and cause, the cynic in me would lightly contemplate that a lesson was still gained here.



Faith is found in the most unlikely of places. There is no formula in its sublime workings. Whether we gain it from the ritualistic canons of structured devotion, or the epiphanies of a life-changing experience, from the friend whose shared lessons give us enlightened insights, or the preachings of a faceless crowd whose words echo the books, faith in all its simplicity is still faith. The manner by which our faith is catalysed is inconsequential and hold little import against the fact of being truly faithful. We are a nation of creative people, our resilience lies on our ability to quickly adapt to the necessities of our time. And the way by which we earn this faith is as varied as the permutations of graft and corruption.

I am thankful to have been a witness to his preaching. And in me it stirred a belief that for long I thought have been sent to oblivion. My faith was renewed, not by the realizations of his teachings, but by the recognition of the knowledge that I have been with faith. Stronger than words gained from another man, or ambiguous text read from a book. I am thankful for him still, for allowing me to find what I've always had.

He departed from the bus with his envelope and book. A few moments later I got off at my stop. I smiled, thankful to God for affording me work that saves me from desperation. Thankful for the safe trip and the opportunity to see His handwork in the most unlikely of methods. God does work in the most inexplicable ways. Oft hard to comprehend, but lyrical and eloquent nonetheless.

Drawing first blood hurts the most. Only by the pain of the initial drip will one be able to transcend the superficiality of the process and afford a comprehension of its context. It is oft said that the healing process begins with acknowledging the pain, yet this offers little guidance in achieving recovery. Truth is, we must trudge our own paths of healing; regardless of the source and reason of distress, and the depth and period of mourning.

Perhaps the most unbearable of sorrows, even more than the palpable physical injury or the loss of a loved one, is the grief that cascades in the loss of oneself. Depression has many names, and even more varied symptoms, and it is fairly typical and quite innocuous for one to pass valuation on the apparent banality of another's depression. Depressed? Maybe I am, or maybe I'm almost. Either way, I cannot deny the poignancy of my existence from a sense of loss of who I once was. Change is imminent, and let this channel be a witness to the struggle I must pursue. Moreso than finding myself, but to define who I am. Beyond the obvious and mundane, behind the walls of preposterous theatrics, beneath the stern competitiveness.

So here I am. Decidedly initiating a process whose eventual conclusion I will never foresee. Left only with the caviar of faith I can muster, and the courage I can feign; to ensue an unraveling of memories, and the facing of personal demons; in the hopes of learning lessons I failed to realize then, and finding solace in my own reflections. I do pray that my readers be as patient and amiable to my prose as they are to me.



As blood curdles every passing moment, when coagulants engage in a frantic daze to prevent further loss, in the brief period when the sting of our lifeline drains from a cut, transformation occurs. The hemoglobin in the blood oxidizes from being in contact with the free oxygen molecules in air, turning color from the intense ruby to the dull tar, from the thick viscose consistency to rubbery remnants of the letting. When our very lifeline is spoiled, from being the elixir of our veins, to the lowly stain on a shirt. That is when descension is complete.

Red is the new black.