The Art of War by Baby Allen

Here are a few things I picked up from my barely one-year-old adorable nephew:

1. Study and imitate.

I was playing the monster game with baby Allen. I scrunched up my face into my most witchy and ugly countenance -- teeth bared and lips drawn back into a snarl -- fully expecting baby Allen to scamper away in fright. But did it happen? No. He just sat there staring at me for the longest time. Not even a smile or a squeal to give me a thrill. Feeling like a fool, I went back to my room for a while. When I came out, there he was, roaring and scaring me off with his own monster rendition. I was nonplussed.

2. When you fall on your butt, stand up and try again. And again, and again, till you get it right.

3. Be resourceful, use what you have. If they trap your hands, use your feet-- or teeth for that matter.

4. Laugh when you're happy, give a hug when you're pleased, cry when you're not, and scream when you're mad. People are bound to give you what you want when they know where you stand.

5. Reach high and aim high. The rewards are usually better.

Given a choice between the toy on the floor and the one on the shelf, Allen always goes for the latter. Now, he knows how to stand, isn't that great?

6. When all else fails, scream. People will come running to help you. And after expending the energy required for that screaming marathon, you sleep better afterwards.

7. Easily forgive and forget. Nobody will pick you up if you're at war with everybody.

8. Above all, smile. That way, they'll never know what you're up to.

A Toast to Good Food, Great People

The world of media and advertising certainly has its perks. Just this week, the strings pulled me to attend not one, but two great food fests. Now I'm feeling bloated and I could see that once again my fourth mound's rising. But what the heck, when it's free food, there's really nothing else to do but eat and be merry.

Around the World of Gastronomic Flavors (June 23)

40 dishes. A banquet of Italian, Safari, Filipino, and (wait, let me check my PR) Fusion (East & West) food all whipped up by Creative Cuisine's Derek Dytian.

I've never seen the Fort (San Pedro) so lovely. Soft lights twined with the trees, giving the place a subdued glow that made the people all look so beautiful.

And because the event was launched for the benefit of Clothes for Life Foundation and the rehabilitation of Fort San Pedro & Magellan's Cross under the Cebu City Tourism Commission, the place was overflowing with the rich and familiar faces, the politicos, the wacky designers, and of course, media friends.

The food was interesting though it was kinda bland for the Filipino taste. Emi's doctor friend said the marinated fish with the unusual sauce won by popular vote. But nah, I think the barbecued chicken bathed and soaked with tequila-based sauce was the best. Hot and tender at the same time. Yuuummmmmyyy.

Then there was great music by the UC Chorus-- jazzy with a bit of OPM thrown in. It was a refreshing break from the mainstream noise. And Jude Bacalso's spiels -- so original and funny, sure fired up the night. You couldn't help but agree when this guy in a woman's dress quipped, "I don't want to be tolerated. I want to be celebrated."

Then what better way to spend the night than with a very dear and stimulating companion, Emi, who at least managed to taste half the menu in half a plate. I've got to admit, the conversation with her was way, way better than half the food there.

It warmed my heart to meet so many Cebuanos, though garbed in rich clothing, who managed to stay honest and down to earth. It reaffirmed my belief that most people who are up there are usually the nicest and simplest ones. That beneath the fancy clothing beats the heart of a true-blue Bisaya. And the true-blue Bisaya don't mince words when criticizing food. He or she'd give it to you straight-- whether it's good or not. And you can't force one to eat what he or she doesn't like, either. And it's nice to see people bonding together for a good cause -- that is, to preserve a cultural heritage. Makes me proud to be a Cebuano, really.

The presentation was great and smooth. Cheers to the designers who made every table unique and the chef for making all those food possible. And kudos to Ana of GFX for doing such a great job of putting everything together.

The heavens smiled upon us that night. It looked like it was about to rain but it didn't till the affair was over. The night was beautifully punctuated by the lone quarter moon, the quiet stars, the gentle breeze, and the clang of wine glasses.

Yep, definitely one of my best moments in the city.


Canadian Food Fest 2004 (June 25)

It was a CDN-sponsored event but that didn't stop me from feeling right at home with the crowd in one of the spacious rooms at Waterfront. Well, it helped to have the gracious presence of fellow adventuress, Dani, and a handful of familiar faces from the media. The affair was on time, so I was late. The speeches were unusually short, so I missed it-- thank God. I didn't know it was purely cocktails. Good for me I stuffed myself first with snickers and pringles before coming over.

Again, I found the cakes a bit bland. The shrimp-something was interesting. The pale chicken was surprisingly tasty. They said the roast beef, pork, and mini burgers were mouthwatering but I've stopped being crazy over those kind of food a long time ago. But the wine, ahhhh, so smooth and tasteful. I especially loved the red. I didn't drink anything at all but the wine. Had about two glasses. Yeah, yeah, the crazy and talkative ayin surfaced again, but hey, I managed to walk from there to the Village without falling on my face, so I was fine.

One unusual thing happened that night though that made Dani say I was meant to be there. A stranger asked for me and she introduced us. Told me he read my stuff. Made me feel giddy and warm all over, and that was even before i had my first sip of wine. Wow. Nothing really beats an unexpected compliment. We talked for awhile and we parted.

To Mr. Anthony Yu, THANK YOU, kind sir. When words are scarce, it's people like you that make me "rage, rage against the dying of the light."

I capped the night with good moccaccino, great talk, and a handful of Marlboro Lights. Now my nose hurts like hell but even that isn't enough to dim the night.

Thank you, manang, for the privilege.

To My One and Only Popsicle

Dear Popsicle,

Happy father's day!

After almost 26 years of being your daughter, now I can honestly say that I'm truly blessed to have you as mine. God knows you’re not an easy man to live with. You’re moody, rude, and have got the shortest temper I know. But one thing about you Popsy—you’ve never made us doubt that always, always, you love us first.

My earliest memory of you is you giving me a piggyback ride around the house, pretending to be an old man and dropping me while I shrieked nonstop. I remember how you used to tickle my tummy with your whiskers while I begged you to stop though I didn’t really want you to.

As early as three or four, I remember how I used to drag you to bed with a book and badger you to read me a story. You’d pretend to be tired, but always, you’d give in. And you just didn’t read them. You acted them out, changing your voice, making the story more alive. And I’d lie there, more fascinated by you than the story itself. And though I’ve heard it so many times, you never failed to make each story fresh again. Because of that, you gave me my first dream —- to be a writer, a storyteller just like you.

At 5, you caught me stealing. You were so mad, you belted me. I hated you for a while but later that night, I heard you talking to mami. You were so guilty, I guess it pained you more than it did me. Bro and sis used to say that I’m a brat. But I didn’t mind. Cause every time you’d tell me that I’m your brat, it didn’t sound like such a bad thing.

Around 9, I became more aware of your fights with mami. Of the many nights your breath smelled of beer before you kissed me goodnight. You’d wake up, easily irate and shout at the maids for being too slow. Curses spewed so easily from your lips -- Tonto! Porbida! Peste! How easy it was to hate you then.

Around 12, I was torn between loving you and hating you. You were difficult, but then, even at your worst, you never, ever raised your hand to us. You’d shout and send us to our rooms, and in your temper, you’d hit the wall instead of us. One day, it actually dawned on you that your children were beginning to fear you. In fact, I wouldn’t come near you anymore if I knew you’ve had a taste of beer no matter how you’d call me out with my pet names. That was when you decided to do something about it. You pulled yourself out of it -— started attending AA, talking to a priest, went to counseling sessions with mami. It didn’t happen overnight but you were getting better. And when we asked mami what made you decide to stop, she simply said “You, his children. He was afraid he’d lose you.” I love you for that Pop.

As a teenager, I began to understand that you were a man tormented by broken dreams. Mami used to say that you dreamed too much but were too spoiled by your privileged childhood to actually work for them. You were born the crown prince of Medellin, and so have never learned the patience to serve. You were too lazy. Even the simplest chore, you’d assign to someone else, it drove us nuts. It still does now. But then, I’ve begun to understand you and perhaps forgive you a little.

At 16, you rebuilt your ties with us. Your temper and our fear were still there but we also knew that you were trying so that made it easier for all of us. You became my official driver, my cheerleader, and my staunchest defender. You drove me and picked me up on prom night when I failed to get myself a date with a car. You wouldn’t have let me go with one if I had anyway. You wanted to shout to the world when I won best debater and claimed that I was cheated when I lost the race for student council president. You actually strutted on stage every time you tied my medals it was almost embarrassing. And then my friends became your children too, and my enemies, yours.

At 17, I felt that you wanted me to take up a suitable pre-law course. I took up MassComm instead. You never pushed, though. And when I had my reports published, you were the first one to grab the paper.

At 19, your ceaseless smoking used to drive me out of the house. Finally, in rebellion, I stole one stick from your pack of Hope short and went to the roof and had my first long sniff. Now, every time I smoke my Marlboro Lights, it makes me think of you and that night. I don’t know how you’d react to that, Pop.

When I was 20, you made one of your dreams come true. You went home to Medellin and built mami her dream house by the sea with your own genius and sweat. I was so proud. And when I, your youngest, graduated from college, you moved there with her to retire. And there, I know, you’ve found your peace. Every time we come to visit, it always seems that you and mami are honeymooning again. It’s lovely to see you both so sweet and so happy. Both of you didn’t have it easy and it warms our hearts to see you working out a new life together. That’s how I truly understood that marriage is a commitment. That it’s not all about passion and romance. You both decided to love and made the choice to stick it out and that’s why, I believe, that the bond you have together is so strong. And that’s why I’m afraid that I’ll never be able to forge that bond with someone else. Or that I’d want to.

At 25, I came to a crossroad in my life. I decided to leave CannonCreek, my comfort zone of three years. I told you first because I knew you’d understand about dreams, about the restlessness that make my feet want to go places. Quietly, you asked me about my plans and you just nodded. I worried that mama will be worried about me. You told me not to and that if worse comes to worst, I could always come with you to Medellin and we’d fish for a living. You’ll even build me a boat you said, and amidst the tears, that made me laugh. And as we sat there on the porch in the dark, watching the city traffic with your arm slung around me and your cigarette’s smoke clouding the skies, I finally found the strength to write that resignation letter.

Oh, you’re far from perfect, Popsy, but you’re always there. And if I had the chance to live my life all over again, I’d still pick you and thank God for it.

I love you, Pop. I know you already know this but still I hope someday I’ll find the courage to show you this piece so you’ll know why.

Not a Reason , a Season, But a Lifetime

To my best bud eril (the henry with an L):

among my vampire friends
who sleep by day, live by night
and think nothing of dates at the stroke of midnight,
you are the one who drives me crazy the most.

you come and you go
for a moment or a spell
and then text me sweet nothings
at 3 AMs as well

you ignore me when you want
confuse me when you can
and makes me laugh when you can't

but you, even though you drive me mad
with your sardonic smile, farts, uncommon sense and all
have your moments, too

and when i doubted the threads of time
began to wonder if you, my friend,
have come for a reason, a season or a lifetime
you floored me when you simply said
yin, to me, you are a lifetime

Writers' Circle, Session 1

Where: Because East, West went North
And Marquis' Cafe planned to sleep early,
We finally settled at Bo's (good old Bo's) near Capitol

When: Wednesday, June 16, 2004, 10 P.M. till midnight

Theme: Unrequited Love

My piece:

************

Letter One

Dear Mr. Apartment 3B,

Hello there.

As your nearest neighbor, I’d like to welcome you to our humble abode. It may never pass for the great grand palace of the northern front (or any front for that matter) but what it lacks in beauty and structure, it makes up for history and character. And for us fortunate to live here, that's enough to call it home.

I heard you were moving in today and I hope that the place is much to your liking. And to be blunt, I do hope that you’re way, way more suitable than apartment 3B’s previous owners were.

Ugh, they were just terrible—newlyweds, if you care to ask. A couple who just couldn’t keep it down. Not that I don’t understand their need to celebrate -- they just got married, duh. Or so I tell myself every time the shrieks get too much to bear. But then, did they have to do it every hour and rub it in to those who aren’t getting any? Oh well.

Anyway, I digress. I bet anyone’s better after those two anyway so I’d like to extend my warmest welcome and hope we get along. After all, it helps if you like the person to whom you intend to borrow sugar or milk from time to time. Don’t worry, you can borrow some of mine too.

Hope to see you soon,

Ms. Apartment 3A


Letter Two


Dear Mr. Hunk from Apartment 3B,

As I write, my tongue is still hanging out. I can’t seem to get it back. Not after I had my first glimpse of you. Gawd, you’re gorgeous! They didn’t tell me you were gorgeous. Why the hell didn’t they tell me you were gorgeous?! Oh well.

Do you know that you have the eyes of a hawk and the walk of a tiger? So purely male -- just how I like them. None of the salon-made nails or hair a lot of these metrosexual guys seem to sport these days, either. But I’ve got to say, hunk, that your delicious butt definitely wins the asset race. Simply yum yum!

Wait, what’s that I smell? Is that pasta? Don’t tell me you cook, too. That’s just simply too good to be true. I’ve got to see this.
…

So it’s true. I just took a peek from the small slit of the narrow wall that divides us and saw you with my own two pretty eyes cooking in your kitchen. Wow. I didn’t know men like you still exist these days.

I have one word for you, mister -- perfect. You simply are perfect.

And I do believe I’m falling in love.

Hope you notice me,

Ms. Apartment 3A

Letter Three

Dear Mr. Gorgeous from Apartment 3B,

No day could ever be as perfect as today. The sun is shining, the birds are singing and the air smells great. Most importantly, you smiled at me today.

Encouraged—and yes, yes, dazzled by that smile -- I approached you and introduced myself. So we talked for awhile. It was the most stimulating 5 minutes of my life. And then, it was nice meeting me, you said. And that I had the most beautiful hair and eyes you’ve ever seen. Was that flirting, or what! You couldn’t have made me happier.

Of course I played it coy and cool. After all, it wouldn’t do to make you think I was so needy now, would it. Knowing you men, that will just scare you away.

But don’t worry, I plan to bring out the big guns tonight. You’ll never know what hit you when we meet again for the dinner that you’ve graciously invited me to.

I can’t wait,

The foxy lady from Apartment 3A

Letter Four

Dear Mr. Jerk from Apartment 3B,

How could you?!

I thought we had a date. How could you forget so easily? After I bathed myself and put on fragrant perfume, just for you, you carelessly overlook me for that—that tramp!

Couldn’t you see that she’s perfectly unsuitable for you? Didn’t you see how thickly she uses makeup--- no doubt trying to hide the hundreds of pimples and blackheads that scatter all over her square face! Or how about the way she dresses? She might as well have gone naked. Do you honestly want a girl like that?

So what if she has a pretty smile? I’d bet she’d bore you to death with it. Take it from me, she’s not right for you!

Pause. Breathe in… out. Stop reading for awhile as I count to ten. Stop reading! Breathe in… out…

Okay, okay. I understand how you might be vulnerable to a girl like that—short skirts, long legs, big boobs, and all. After all, you’re just a man. I guess it’s up to me to show you better, huh?

The fight isn’t over yet. Just you wait and see.

I forgive you,

Still the foxy lady from Apartment 3A

Letter Five

Dear Mr. Apartment 3B,

I hope by the time you read this, you have found it in your heart to forgive me—even just a little bit. Please, before you make up your mind about me, allow me to explain.

You’ve overruled my original defense—love. So I shall give you what’s left -- insanity.

For indeed, I may have gone being more than just a little unwell. How else can you explain loving someone at first sight? Or the fact that I’ve given someone, you to be exact, the power to determine how my day turns out – good or bad depending on whether you’re kind to me or not. And how could I have shed all sense, dignity and morality just because I so want to possess you?

Believe me, this hasn’t happened to me before. This does not happen to sane beings. Yet, it did to me now. Call me crazy, but if this is what love makes you, then so be it.

I admit I may have been, ahem, a bit vicious. Okay, okay -- very vicious. I only meant to push her really, she was sitting too close. But then she had to kiss you.

The next thing I knew, I became hot all over, the blood for war went singing through my veins. You were mine damn it. I saw you first. I kept thinking how lovely it would be to scratch her back and wring her pretty neck. Before I knew it, I landed on her back with a snarl.

The rest went hazy after that. I believe there was scratching, maybe even biting. But please believe me when I say, I never meant to draw blood. Well, er, maybe I did. But not that much anyway.

I’ve never seen you so furious. And boy, were you scary. I was confused at first because I thought you’d be proud of my fighting prowess, especially when I was fighting for you. But apparently not, I realize now, particularly when the victim was your wife.

Newlyweds. Again. Sigh.

Why is it that I am always hounded by them? They never do me any good.

Now I feel so stupid. I see how competing for your love may prove futile because you’ve already given your heart to another. I see now that you were kind to me, not because you liked me back, but because you are basically just that—kind.

And sweet… and gentle… and sexy… stop! What am I thinking? I can’t go back there again. Not yet anyway. Erase, erase, erase.

I am so sorry that I caused you and your wife some distress. Okay, a LOT of distress.

I don’t blame you for not wanting to see me. So to ease your pain a little, I am leaving for awhile. Well, I don’t really have that much choice after you had me evicted from my beloved apartment of 7 years now, do I? I just hope that with time and space, you’d learn to forgive me and smile at me again the next time we cross paths.

And believe me, we will cross paths.

For even though you cast me so easily aside just like this, my love is strong enough for both of us.

I understand that you don’t see or welcome that now because you’re clouded by the intoxicating romance of young love. But it will fade. They always do. I’ve seen this pattern time and again. Why do you think your predecessors in that apartment no longer live there? They had one big messy annulment that’s why.

And when your time comes for that, I’ll be there, waiting to comfort you in my arms. You’ll see her for the shrew that she is and realize that no woman could ever be as loyal as I and love you the way that I can. Yep, she may have won the battle but the war is far from over.

For now, I’ll leave you to your peace. A wise woman knows when to fight and when to retreat. But this I promise you, I shall return.

Oh, parting is such sweet sorrow.


Always yours,

The cat who’s no longer in Apartment 3A


P.S. I didn’t know the view from the roof could be so awesome. The stars make me think of you, sweet prince.


**********

Discussion Excerpts

Pre-Reading

B: What is it? A poem or a short story?

Me: Not a poem. But I don't know what the heck it is, either.
Just read.

MD: Four pages?! (groaaaannn)

Post-Reading:

B: When was each letter written? There sould have been times

***

K: For even though you cast me so easily aside just like this, my love is strong enough for both of us... I understand that you don’t see or welcome that now because you’re clouded by the intoxicating romance of young love. But it will fade. They always do.... And when your time comes for that, I’ll be there, waiting to comfort you in my arms. You’ll see her for the shrew that she is and realize that no woman could ever be as loyal as I and love you the way that I can. Yep, she may have won the battle but the war is far from over.

...Wow, this sounds so like me, yen. These lines couldn't have been more true... (in re: the frog prince saga)

Me: Bitaw noh? I guess, subconsciously, I might have written that with you in mind

***

MD: Crazy! This is simply crazy! Could any woman actually be as crazy to write this?

B: Yeah, just like a horror movie

Me: Of course, love's supposed to make you crazy... Turns us to stalkers... mohad...

MD: No, no, it's beyond being crazy in love... Case in point, she actually went to the roof just to stalk her lover? I say, this woman is crazy, period.

Me: (shrugs) It's not that crazy. It's normal for cats to live sometimes on the roof, right?

(Silence)

B: Wait, are you saying that this woman is actually a cat?

K: Really?

MD: A cat writing?

Me: Well, yeah... I used a cat character using a woman's voice.

(laughter, scanning of the pages)

B: Well, that explains a lot

MD: Thing is, it wasn't really established that the character was a cat.

B: Yeah, we thought it was just a woman describing herself as a cat..

Me: (eeeekkk, Strike one, soweee) Yep, the character is a CAT, guys. A female one. And don't even talk about bestiality, because that's totally beside the point.

Note: And, of course, because these guys are naturally perverted, the topic went from unrequited love to sex and just that. Well, at least the story made them laugh

*****

P.S. Emi, you asked "what session?" Well, here's a glimpse. Just coffee, chocolates, Marlboro Lights, and possibly vodka ice (if east, west is hosting) in the pot. Definitely no cokes and no MJs. Hehe.

Kiss The Rain

Rain. It drips, it flows, it floods, it cleanses.

It's been raining for days now. And the murky river from nowhere gushes out again to rid A.S. Fortuna of its familiar garbage and stench. The roaches and rats scamper to ride out the waves, hoping to settle in a more stable spot not too far away from home.

Never mind that I'm stuck in this sickly building, a few stores away from my favored food as my stomach groans and grumbles. Never mind that for the nth time, I might be missing out again my regular jogging session in the Big Oval. And never mind, that once more, my all-too-white pants will get drenched as I absolutely, ever, refuse to be bothered by an umbrella. So what's new anyway?

The point is, the season of cleansing has come. And that is enough to make me forgive the little inconveniences for a taste of a much awaited change.

It makes me smile to think that this season marks an exciting moment in my life. After such a long time of floating, I'm finally beginning to fight my way back. I have set the wheels in motion to shed the tight dress of boring routines and depression. I am finally reclaiming my freedom. Barely two months more and I'll be out the streets of A.S. Fortuna.

What lies ahead is as blurry to me as the sight of a world overcome by sheets of rain. Sometimes, it chills the bone to think of crossing an unknown river just to get to a land that promises nothing more than the probability of a much more fulfilled life. Perhaps it's better, perhaps not. But I know the incessant wondering about it would be enough to drive me mad and make me drown.

So I'm moving on... in hope and with much faith. One thing I've learned from Peter of CannonCreek is that the best way to learn how to swim is not by testing the waters but, just simply, to dive. So come what may, I'll forge the life that I was meant to live. And like the rain, I'll learn how to spit and claw till the fear and blocks cower away to nothingness.

Ah, rain. It shouldn't have surprised me that this life altering moment comes during this season. After all, it's always been a blessing to me.

In fact, I've had some of my best moments under the rain -- shooting balls with a friend, braving the raging storm from SM to my house, splashing like a kid alone at the Sports Complex, playing tag with a cute crush, and simply walking home while daydreaming with a rain-battered ice cream cone on hand.

And then there's the way the earth smells so ... so...clean after a thorough washing.

Yeah, life is good! ;)

A Soul From The Past

When I was a young Christian, I remember asking my spiritual guide if she believes in reincarnation. She told me then that no, we only get to live life once and then there’s judgment – whether a soul goes to heaven or hell.

Although, I had great respect for her and I truly believe that she is of God, somehow the answer didn’t quite ring true for me. I wanted to believe her but my heart was telling me otherwise.

For how else can you explain the lingering whispers of the past, that sense of déjà vu that tells you somehow you’ve lived a certain scene before? What do you make of the recurring dreams, so elusive and yet so familiar? Or how do you explain the instant connection you feel for a person you even haven’t met before?

At that time, I didn’t know any better myself so I let the answer go. That was 10 years ago, but now, I’m haunted by the same question again.

You see, I couldn’t shake this nagging feeling that I’ve just met this soul from my past—how many lifetimes removed I have no way of knowing. Yet somehow, certain events lead me to believe that there is a karmic debt owed -- whether on his side or mine, I do not know.

And I guess, it’s no great coincidence that at this particular point in my life, Jaime Licauco’s book “Soul mates, Karma & Reincarnation” (the only local book on this subject, I’m told) just landed on my lap. So I read it. I admit that I don’t agree completely with everything he said or wrote but, just like a crack of lightning, one line from his book struck me:

The soul never forgets.


Meet The Man From My Past
Commit the oldest sins, the newest kind of ways.
– W. Shakespeare

The first time I saw him, I didn’t like him. He was fair of face and seemed to know it. He dressed well and strutted instead of walked. Shallow, I first thought, and so brushed him aside. But life has its own plans and I found myself thrown together with him and soon enough, we became close.

To my surprise, he had an old soul, just like what I always thought mine to be. Oh he’s vain and overly concerned with trivial things just like most guys are in this generation, but there are moments he takes me aback with his nuggets of wisdom and rare perceptions of life. I’ve seen him selfish, but I’ve also seen him kind and generous, and yes, loving. He was a rare find and I loved him.

Then one night, I dreamed about him. The details to which are blurry to me now. But the feeling remains that somehow in that dream, he laughed at me – mockingly. We seemed to be in this fight and then he told me something that seemed to scorn my pride or my vanity. And then I woke up. Weird, I thought. Weird enough that, laughingly, I told myself to forget about it.

Days, weeks passed. I couldn’t explain it but I found myself getting annoyed with his little antics. There were moments I didn’t want to talk to him just because. I wanted space from him and I didn’t know why. I didn’t relate my feelings to that dream.

Perhaps because I was feeling guilty for feeling all this without him doing anything to me, I made the extra effort to overcome it. So I was kind and caring and for a time it worked.

Then one day, he wronged me – though now thinking about it, it wasn’t really a big deal. But just the same, like a broken dam, all the bitter feelings came rushing back. I was mad and furious and so I cut off my ties with him.

I admit it was a bit severe over a little bit of something. But I couldn’t bring myself to smile at him even when his eyes told me he wants me back. I see the confusion in his eyes and a part of me cries with him. I don’t understand it myself and my heart, this time, is unusually silent.

And now, I seem to be waiting. Waiting for what exactly I don’t know. In situations like this, I’m mostly proactive and confrontational, but this time, I’m paralyzed.

Days, weeks passed. And as I wait, life goes on. Sometimes, earthly matters make me forget all about it. But there are times the feeling comes back. I don’t understand it but there’s an echo in my soul crying out—why won’t you fight for me? Don’t I matter enough that you’ve let me go? I see him wanting to give up, cluttering his life, replacing the void I’ve left behind. And I cannot help thinking -- déjà vu. It’s all so familiar. We’ve been through this before.

It’s not really that I want things back the way they were. But I seem to want him to love me enough to give back what I’ve lost to him. Does that make sense? I want him to fight his insecurities enough to show me that it matters. That I matter.

I know he’s unsure and scared but the way I see it, the ball is in his court. My gut tells me that if I cross over, pick it up and serve it first, this thing will never be resolved. I’ll always doubt and wonder and it’ll be the same cycle all over again.

Time, it seems, has gotten way from us. He’s so far now. I don’t know if we’ll meet again in this lifetime. But the karmic debt has come knocking. I guess both of us are not old enough yet to resolve it now. Perhaps in the next life… or the one after.

But I pray, let it be now and let us find a way somehow. For I really want this lifetime to be my last.

She Took The Road Less Traveled, And That Made All The Difference

In school, she was one of the pretty ones. Her face was both her blessing and her curse. Oh, how the guys tripped over her. The upperclassmen adored her. And oh, how our lady mates wanted to scratch her -- preferably with a sharp edged knife -- in the back, out of envy and yes, out of fear that she was luring all the Grade A guys away from their lair.

She was stunning. She was artlessly naïve. She was my best friend.

I’d like to say that we were like two peas in a pod, but frankly, though I’ve read this phrase from time to time, I cannot really picture what this means. So I’ll just tell you that we were closer than any twin sisters could get.

Have you ever known someone who can easily finish your half-sentences the way you want them said when you’re at a loss for words? Or understand exactly how you feel with just one look or touch of the hand? Or someone you’re always around with that people automatically ask where she is when you’re not together -- and the answer to which, of course, you always know?

Well, she was like that to me… and more.

Like most teenage kids, we had big dreams. And we planned them together—on the soccer field of UP High, in between classes, on the mountains of Camotes Island, and even during our occasional picnics to the cemetery. She wanted to be a beauty queen, a star, a face in front of the camera. I wanted to be a writer, a director, a star behind the camera. We’d play around. I’d watch her sashay around the tennis court and she’d look over my scripts. Then we’d take turns praising or lambasting each other.

When she won the beauty crown in her mother’s hometown, and I got my name published in our school paper, we both cried and thought – yes, we were on our way. Funny, we complemented each other so much that, at that time, it never crossed our minds that we wouldn’t accomplish our dreams together. Boy, we were so clueless.

I remember, it was an innocent twilight after classes when conversation with our two other best friends suddenly veered towards God. We were all watching the fading light as we pondered why life was so shallow, so seemingly meaningless, so miserably sad. We debated our purpose and cried over the underlying, yet nevertheless, throbbing pain felt by our generation. We took comfort in nature and wondered over the cycles of life. And as the first star shone brightly in the night, we thought of God.

That moment marked a new quest in our lives, a curve on the familiar road we were treading on.

Naturally, like most things, we explored it together and we were both blessed. Oh, the joy of discovering God, I’ve never known or felt quite like it with anything else. It was so pure. And suddenly everything was so clear. In the course of knowing God, we discovered our real gifts. Life began to look different. Inside, we were both changing. But later on, I realize, she was changing more than I was.

I guess you could say she heard a different drum. She had a different calling. And while I was rejoicing in my own gifts, sadly -- and terrifyingly I admit -- I could no longer hear the same music that she was. I couldn’t understand then why she was dancing to a different beat when we were both serving the same master.

For a while, I tried to keep up with her. I tried to learn the steps that were so effortless to her but then I was clumsy. It was downright frustrating dancing to music that you don’t hear. In my heart, I knew my feet were meant for something else, for another road. And as I saw the world inevitably split between us, I was shattered. Just as she was.

So I blamed God. I hated her. I backslided for awhile. She, on the other hand, was wise enough to embrace her path. Though she was hurting, she had joy. And soon enough, her life inspired me. It made me think, too, of the life that I was meant to live.

It’s a rocky road but I’m moving on. My heart has begun to heal a long time ago. I’ve learned to forgive her. And I’m beginning to a find a measure of the peace that we all eternally seek. God really does work in mysterious ways.

It’s been months, even years, since we’ve spent time together. But still, when I meet a face from my past, they ask me about her—how she is or where she’s been. I tell them honestly I don’t know but that she’s out there somewhere traveling in another island, another country, another plane. I see them momentarily impressed about one who’s been all over the world.

What does she do, comes the follow-up question. I tell them she’s a pastor. And then there goes that incredulous look, the wide eyes, and the demand to repeat what I’ve said. This time, I specify with a cheeky grin, “She’s a youth pastor.”

The beauty queen turned pastor? Some laugh. Some mock her behind her back. Some feel misguided pity. Some call her a fool. Most don’t understand.

I just shrug it all away. For deep inside, I’m proud of my friend. For though she has taken the road less traveled, I know that most of us won’t ever find, or can’t even imagine half the joy that she has found doing what she does. And that’s what makes her truly blessed, and some of us the pitiful ones.

Yes, our roads may diverge now, but I know someday my heart will find hers again. And when that moment comes, we will have a grand time catching up and telling tales of the adventures we’ve lived and left behind.

For the meantime, cil, here’s a toast and a dare – bottoms up!

God bless you, sis =)

When life gives you lemons, ask for tequila and salt!

A clang, a toast, whistles and cheers, and then, bottoms up!

It's funny... sometimes life tastes just like tequila -- fiery hot, bitter, and never easy. And yet, if you drink it right, it oozes out a smooth, tantalizing flavor that pumps the blood, warms the belly and leaves you wanting for more.

When I got my first taste of tequila, I knew that I've found my drink. Oh yeah, I've heard bitter tales about it from those who've gone before me. That's why, in defense, I did not sip, but gulped down my first shot-- bottoms up!-- and that, I believe, made all the difference. And I was fast to grab the lemon and wise enough to taste the salt. And in that instant, I knew that's how life is supposed to be.

Every time I have a drink, I do not mind the bitter flavor for I know it clears the mind. I do not fear its fire for I know it awakens the senses. For me, it's all passion and wonder contained in a shot glass.

That's why, I realize, life should never be lived in sips. You only prolong its bitter taste if you do. It's either you choose to drink all of it or not at all. It's either you embrace all of it -- its unpredictability, its different flavors, its constant change-- or not at all. Nothing in bits. Nothing in half-measures.

So go ahead, fill up your shot glass to the brim, swirl it if you can (never mind the spills), lick the salt and don't forget to suck the lemon. Most importantly, drink it bottoms up!

For life, no matter how funny or twisted it goes, always is beautiful and wonderful!

So, let's drink to that. Cheers!