Drumming No More

Yesterday near midnight I sold my drum set – my lover of three years. I sold it for the price of an undiscounted roundtrip plane ticket -- less than half its value when I bought it.

As I helped my friend load it up in a cab and watched them all roll away, the memories came like a movie flashback – one sweet, passionate moment after another moving through the pulsating soundtrack of soft and alternative beats like Burn, 214, Sway, Push, You’re A God, When It’s Over, If You’re Gone…

I knew I was sane when I sold it so I welcomed the pain when it came.

In the summer of 2002, I took up drumming lessons. I fell in love, went a little bit crazy, and bought the instrument not long after.

I bought the drum set because I wanted to impress a cute crush. I bought it because I wanted to do something wild and different. I bought it because at that time, I could.

Today, my crush no longer exists, the “something wild and different” has come to mean something else, and the cash comes in really handy for my itchy feet since I’m bumming once again.

My drum set was a smooth, shiny Puresound maroon pride – well, once you wipe off a year’s worth of dust anyway. It was sleek, it was loud, but oh so completely out of tune because I didn’t know how to fix it.

Nevertheless, we understood each other completely. It understood my need to de-stress from time to time. And I understood its need to be massaged with deep, sharp and hard strokes from time to time.

We learned from each other. It learned that my every heartache scars – as evidenced by the resulting scratchy drumheads. And I learned it pays to be loud to be heard and mend a broken heart.

We respected each other. I discovered long ago that drumming is not that easy. First of all, cleaning the hi-hat, the snare, the base and other drums, and the cymbals to make the sound clear– is no joke. Second, reading through the notes, listening to exercise tapes while making it all come together is just like juggling 3 balls when you barely know how to juggle two.

But because I loved it, I did it all patiently—well maybe not always that patiently. And since it was hard, I came to respect the craft. And because I tried so hard, my drum set learned to tolerate me and did not break when I tried to smash it.

I cannot claim though that we did beautiful music together. But the jam sessions? They were just glorious.

I know the basics, true, but I’ve always admitted that in three years, I just learned one complete song … and it wasn’t even taught to me by my professional teacher but a fellow drummer and friend. The rest of the time were just wacky playing— drumming along as you listen to the radio but not being completely sure if you’re doing it right. Well, I’ve always maintained that the not knowing is part of its charm.

So for a few years, I played. I dropped my teacher yet I continued to play. I wouldn’t clean our sala but I’d meticulously wipe off the dust from the drumheads. I let my whole body dance while drumming and our almost 50-year old wooden house would sway along. I made a racket all over Gorordo Avenue and ignored my neighbors’ hands on their ears. For me, it was like being on top of the surf and only the wave could bring me down.

I cannot pinpoint exactly when the passion faded… when the songs started to sound old… or when the drums started sounding hollow. All I know is that it wasn’t because of another man.

But maybe, like most rocky relationships, it started with not having enough time. Maybe it was because of my constant traveling the past year. Or maybe, I just didn’t have the right teacher.

My heart broke as I saw the drum set grew a bit rusty and a whole lot dusty with time. And it broke even more as I realized that I no longer have it in me to give what it needs.

Have I grown up or have I simply become old? Is the love affair really over even though you love it still?

One thing I know-- I couldn’t stand the sight of my drum set growing old with neglect like some forgotten artifact in a dreary museum. So early this year, I decided to sell it.

And because it was a good friend who bought it – I agreed to sell it cheap. He promised he’ll take better care of it than I ever did or will. God knows, he knows it much better than I do anyway.

I did not play it one more time before I let it go. I figured, what’s the point? But I let the memories wash over me. It makes me sad for drumming has been a consuming part of me for some time. Yet knowing that my drum set is in good hands comforts me too. And the thought that maybe this time, it can finally play more beautiful music under his hands, makes me glad.

Now, if only I can get over my love affair with a man the same way...

Decoding Manspeak

Ok, I admit -- for all my communications training, I still can't decode manspeak. I don't get men (well at least most of them anyway) . And because I don't, I find myself easily falling through the cracks of gullibility.

So Man 1 says he likes you. You smile.
He says he'd like to see you again. You grin.
And yet he doesn't ask. You wait.

He texts you sweet nothings. You smile.
Likens you to a movie star. You laugh. (Aw, shucks) You don't believe it but you laugh.
And still you wait.

So Man 2 says you're pretty. You smile
He asks for a photo. You stall.
He asks for your friendster address. You add him -- after you edited the darned thing you haven't visited for months.
He says your sexy. You grin.
Yet he doesn't make a move to kiss you. You wonder.
He says he misses you. You melt.
And yet, he doesn't ask you for a visit anyway. So you wait.

Weeks pass and you begin to realize that the question you've been waiting for does not really exist. What's more, it dawns on you that his statements actually end with a single dot, not ellipses.. so there's really nothing more to them than that.

So Man 3 tells you you're a spoiled brat. You fire back and say so what, he's an insensitive jerk too.
Man 3 says you look like a boy with your hair short. You cut it shorter.
He says you look like a manananggal with your long hair flying. You refuse to touch your hairbrush the entire day.
He sneers that you're too mushy and gullible. You punch him.
He says you're hopeless in the kitchen then proceeds to cook for you. You smile.

And then comes V-day, Man3 pops the question: Would you like to go out with me?
You say yes because he asked. Besides, you totally get him.

Sigh.

Just this afternoon, I got the following email from a friend. Whether it's true or not, you tell me please. After all, I still can't decode manspeak:

'WHEN A GUY SAYS HE MISSES YOU"

Guy Facts:

When a guy calls u he wants to be with you
When a guy is quiet, He's listening to you...
When a guy is not arguing, He realizes he's wrong
When a guy says, "I'm fine," after a few minutes, he means it
When a guy stares at you, he thinks you're the most beautiful thing in the world
When you're laying your head on a guy's chest he has the world
When a guy calls you everyday he is in love
When a (good) guy say he loves you he means it
When a guy says he can't live without you he's with you till your done
When a guy says, "I miss you," he misses you more than you could have ever missed him or anything else
And I say: Yeah, right. Stuff it.


P.S. O, berna... here's another entry as you ordered. Can't think of anything else. Paet.

Missing

Tuesday, 8.45 A.M. Two text beeps and the sound of my cell phone wailing rudely interrupted me from a deep, well-deserved slumber. My first thought was “Shet. It’s dawn yet! Can’t you wait for one more hour please.”

I peered with one eye at the offensive screen of my phone and barely made out a blinking number I did not recognize. Pressed the red button. A second later, my phone sang again. With a voice hoarse from sleep, I answered a curt “hello?”

The frantic voice on the other end sent an alarm and woke up the sensible me. “Is this Aileen? Christine’s office mate and friend from Beetlerock/Fairyland before?”

It took me a moment to place Fairyland. “Yes, yes. This is she. Who’s this please?”

“This is Christine’s mother. She’s missing. She hasn’t come home for two days now… her phone can’t be reached. Do you happen to know where she is? Help me to find her, please.” She was sobbing.

I haven’t had contact with my friend for about 3 months now and I told her. “What happened ma’am? Last I heard, she’s working at a call center… did she have a fight with anyone at the house the last time you saw her?”

“No, no. Everything was fine. I’ve called everyone….her workplace. She went AWOL daw. She had a text mate… this guy… the one she met in the game and constantly chatted with – Junjun, is it? Do you know him?”

The name rang a bell. “Ah yes, but all I know is that he’s from Iloilo… I don’t even know his full name, ma’am,” I said sadly. I could sense her frustration. I was getting frustrated too at not being much of a help to her.

“I’ll try calling her and I’ll ask around. Call you as soon as I know any thing,” I assured her. I heard a landline ring at the background. She spoke quickly, “Salamat, day. Please do. I’ve got to answer the other line. Maybe this is her.” A hopeful statement but too soon yet.

I was worried. I began to text people but a friend beat me to it.

His text: “Do u knw d l8st? Chris s missing... Asa kaha tong bayhana?”

Reply: “Boanga btaw. Ts nt lyk her to not go hom & not tel any1. Obedient child bya to cya.”

When we traveled to Dumaguete and Zamboanga City, Chris was the first one to text and call her parents on her whereabouts and tell them she was safe. And she did this before and after we boarded the air/seacraft, when we reached the hotel, when we left the hotel, before going to sleep, on the way to the airport… well, you get the picture.

His reply: “Na, basta gugma, it changes things ra ba. Lisod na if nagpadala to cya storya sa lake.”

A few more text exchanges with friends ensued. What really happened? Where could she be?

Did she really run away? Was it because of love?
Is she stranded somewhere where there’s no signal? Or was her phone stolen?
Was she angry with anyone at home and left to cool off?
Was she vacationing somewhere and was afraid or forgot to tell her parents?

Nobody knew for sure. Each one put in their two cents worth of possible reasons. Yet everyone was afraid to voice out what was in everyone’s worried mind -- another possibility, a scarier possibility:

Could she be lying somewhere… raped, injured or dead?

Everyday, you read or watch the news and you know that these things happen with boorish regularity. And everyday you feel yourself becoming numb, detached, indifferent and impatient. Even bored. And sometimes, perhaps churlish enough to be amused by some of the circumstances.

But you realize with a jolt that it’s a different thing altogether when you try to replace the deformed faces on the tabloids with that of a friend. Scary.Painful. Hurtful. Not funny at all.

Tuesday, after 8.45 A.M. I did not read the papers nor turn on my TV.

But I started to pray. And hope.

Playing Maid of Honor

Contrary to what some may think, not every girl dreams of walking down the traditional wedding aisle of ever after.

I'm intimidated by weddings. Some ladies picture gliding in glorious gowns. All I can think of is the three-inch heeled shoes one has to wear for hours just to accent a gown too white and beautiful you're afraid to touch it. It's enough to make me want to grab my torn rubber shoes and run.

I'm bewildered by weddings. Why do couples want to subject themselves to months of nerve-wracking preparation, endless debates over motifs, difficult suppliers, in-laws and coordinators just for a few hours of saying 'I Do' ?

I'm bored by weddings. I'm sorry to say this but hey -- same script, same characters, same costumes? I just couldn't understand why people would want to spend ridiculous amounts of money to produce what suspiciously looks like to me an over-rerun stage play.

So I try to escape weddings as much as I can, which unfortunately is becoming more and more difficult at my age. And then, fate, apparently, has a twisted sense of humor.

Just recently, to my horror, I received not one but three proposals from friends on their way to the altar-- "Will I be their maid of honor?"

It sounded like a bad joke. Felt like the poor lass in that King Kong movie who got cast into a role she didn't even audition for. Why me of all people? A thousand and one reasons why I couldn't sprang to my lips each time I was asked. But in the face of couples so obviously in love and dear to you, how can you say anything but "Yes"?

So there I was last month, clueless, thrust into a significant supporting role in the first of three weddings in a long while I could not manage to avoid.

And it was as I expected. Being maid of honor, I got side tickets to the rollercoaster ride of frustrating last minute changes, tears, arguments, misplaced invitations, wrong table arrangements, high heels, heavy gowns, and more. And I found myself thinking -- if my friends manage to survive this madness, then it must be true love indeed.

And it was more than I expected. Being maid of honor, I got a front row ticket to a surprising show of love and pure passion. After everything's said and done, I realize that these are what carry you through and that the more you work for it, the more it matters.

And somehow, it was humbling. For then I finally understood that while the road of love may not be as blissful as we'd like, it's actually the crazy moments that make it all worthwhile.

Yes, I may not be a big fan of weddings, but these guys who dare to brave the madness are among the few reasons why I still believe in happy endings.