Rest in Peace, my dearest Cobey

It’s actually my brother who owns Cobey. I don’t take care of dogs anymore because I live in a very tiny apartment which has no space for pets. Although I do have a cat that roams around inside my house so you could just imagine the few inconveniences for more than 16 years.

Cobey lived in my parent’s house which has been occupied by my brother and his family. I just love Cobey. And this morning, he passed away. My brother didn’t inform me the dog hadn’t been eating for days until last night when I asked how things are on Messenger. I was just about to go out to visit Cobey this morning when my brother called up to say the dog is gone. I was crushed. I cried so hard and wailed more, like a little girl, as soon as I sat down beside Cobey’s remains. I’ve been crying the whole day.

Many people here hardly comprehend what I’m made of. And I’ve long accepted I’m a different breed. The pain of losing Cobey today opened up long-buried sorrows from my dog-caring era. I guess my brother’s partner, my niece, and my little niece were surprised to see me weep that much. But it’s just the way I am. The last time I sobbed this way was (apart from my father’s demise) eight years ago when another pet dog of my brother died — and I was informed only after more than a week had passed. It devastated me enormously bcz I loved that previous dog (sweeter one) more dearly (His name was Murphy though I lovingly call him Doggy-dog).

The previous month, a flood of memories swept through me one night in bed — thinking some of my former pets that suffered before their end. Harrowing stuff from my yesteryears I wish to lay to rest and wouldn’t want to recall so I could get on with my life. Yes, if those difficult moments would rush in my mind, they still would hurt like hell. Again, it’s just the way I am.

My love for animals and pets is of the highest form. Above anything or anyone in this world. I don’t expect people to understand that. But it’s something everyone must know about me. In the past, I wished I weren’t this kind of person. But now I am certain, more than ever: it’s a truth I am proud to carry until my very last breath.

Rest in peace, Cobey. You also will never be forgotten. Now that you’re in animal heaven, give my love to Whitie, Doggie, BJ, Stacey, Champ, Lacey, Kim, Jokat, Skippy 1&2, your pal Doggie-dog — as well as all the others up there. I love you all so much. I hope to see you and be with you all there someday.

An Odd Dream of Wanting the Baby

Earlier during dawn today I had a dream. In my dream I have a baby. It looks so much like me when I was that tiny. Delicate, fair-skinned, and oh so beautiful… like a newborn angel from above. I hold her in my arms and embrace her with all my heart. The feeling within is an indescribable heaven.

Something unpleasant is happening though. She keeps slipping away from me. Because my brother’s current live-in partner keeps taking and hiding her away. They want my baby for themselves — even though they already have a daughter of their own. And it’s my mother (who wouldn’t want to see me happy, I guess) who is inciting it all.

But I want my baby back and I’m dead set on claiming her — whatever it takes. While I’m trying to get to her, my mind, however, is weighing in on how I’ll be able to take care of my very small child, realizing the heavy responsibility and the hardships I went through as a mother before. Yet I’m determined and would stop at nothing to get hold of my beautiful baby again.

Then I woke up. The sun was shining bright outside. But I felt a little sorry that it was just a dream. How odd. Considering I’m not really fond of children. Not to mention I also dearly miss both my parents these days. There had been one or two similar baby dreams in the past. This time I want to write it down so as not to forget.

Lessons I Learned in Life – 2

Discipline is the key indeed to a finer life.

I wasn’t the dynamic type who could perform mounds of tasks or accomplish half-a-dozen set of goals in short durations. Being a night owl has made things more challenging, especially in the morning as I normally have to drag myself out of bed to start my day.

I’m a little lazy, I guess. But one thing I’m not, for sure, is being an undisciplined person. If I were, I wouldn’t have saved enough funds to go visit Europe three times. I have better money sense than most people: My earnings are quite minimal; I can, however, control my spending.

I love food and drinks and am not at all picky. My sweet tooth (for chocolates, in particular) requires tons of self-restraint. Yet I’ve never been obese. My siblings (not to mention my late mom) have had to deal with weight and health problems because they could neither discipline themselves to eat more healthily nor do exercise.

My brother was the typical guy who had let his d*ck shape his destiny. Now he’s trapped with a young female partner and a four-year-old daughter — at the age of 52. At a time when he should be enjoying his life. His financial standing is shaky, he doesn’t appear happy (I can tell by the things that come out of his mouth during our conversations) and he resents me for the freedom I enjoy.

I told my sister, “He thinks I’ve had it easy? Why, did I have anything to do with his womanizing and all the poor decisions he made in his life?”

This is not to gauge I’m leading an ideal or a more charmed existence. My brother couldn’t have said it better through his assessment, “at least I wouldn’t be alone at old age.” Still, he’s constantly upset and regularly feels he’s getting the short end of the stick.

I’ve been well aware my future is bleak. I stuck with my decision, nonetheless, to remain single. Which, I believe, is better than ending up with a partner who couldn’t make me happy and who’d eventually become a burden.

My father appraised me for being mindful of what’s good for myself and what’s not. Even so, he got concerned I’d have no one in my sunset years and told me, “Get someone, accept anyone. Even a tricycle driver.”

“Papa naman,,,” was my reply (in Tagalog).

Take note my lack of discipline during the times I was in a relationship. Can’t count the number of times I lost control. How mortified I felt for my deeds in the name of love. That could be one of the major reasons I was able to stay away from the complexities of romantic liaisons in my actual existence here. Save for the burn out, no man around seems interesting anymore.

I’d rather fly solo than take the journey with just anyone. A concept not easily understood by many. I had always been determined to claim this precious period where I could delight in my prerogatives and relish the privileges I still carry.

I consider myself that much disciplined.

I’m having a great quarantine time though I
miss my weekend strolls.

Lessons I Learned in Life – 1

Nothing in life is guaranteed.

I thought I was a good mother because I gave my best. My son and I were inseparable for more than 20 years. I nurtured him singlehandedly and he was the focal recipient of my unequivocal love and attention the whole time.

Never did I suspect in our earlier years together our strong bond would turn out to be an illusion of mine. That he would leave (for good) right after I returned from my first European trip — a trip I had begged him to join so he’d be part of the realization of my dream — totally blindsided me. There had been no doubt in my mind my son and I would love each other forever. How dead wrong I was.

Which leads me to the next lesson:

Do not underestimate how money factors in the obliteration of even the most loving relationships. This one is a little sad as it has wiped out a long-term quixotic notion I’d held that Love Conquers All. It’s happened everywhere around me. Ditto for my own experiences.

There was this unforgettable scene from a mafia movie where a moustached  man in formal wear in all seriousness asked Christian Bale, “Do you know what’s the most important thing in this world?” He proceeded to answer his own question by shouting “MONEY! Money is everything in this world!”

There’s substantial amount of truth to that (If we’re gonna be truly honest with ourselves).

Religious people are happier than the non-religious.

Maybe I’d wish I were the religious kind. My country is placed prominently among nations with the greatest number of organized religions. None of my family were spiritual beings while I was growing up. Now my elder sister at this stage in her life is a full devotee as a Catholic; and half-agnostic half-atheist that I am, her fanatical demeanor gets over the top occasionally for my taste.

No, neither do I feel unhappy nor inadequate on account of my pious affinities deficiency. Nevertheless, people who belong to a religious community appear more elevated in spirits and surer of their place on earth.


Too much, you think? Hey, I’ve already seen so much and experienced a lot. I may be a dreamer, an idealist, a sentimentalist. But I’m not dumb. I wouldn’t be dubbed miss Smart, miss Sharp, and miss (very) Wise a handful of times by different folks both in my real and virtual departments for nothing.

To think I’m just warming up for this blog post… 🙂

Taken from my bathroom window April 29 2020

Of Days Gone By…

You can say my dramatic nature makes me opt for exceptionally dramatic love songs, too 🙂 . In my gradeschool days, a local artist’s rendition of this Temptation’s pop melody became a smash here; I remember my father playing the singer’s whole album while our entire family listened — under dimmed lights. When I grew older, I got hold of the original version and it has remained a memorable song eversince.

Wish that I could wind 
like a spiral stair through time 
to your body next to mine  
warm and satisfied

Wish that I could catch  
a night train to the past 
climb aboard and hear you ask 
’Darling, come inside…’

Hooked on Percy Bysshe Shelley -1

I’ve been besotted with a man who’s been dead for 200 years.

In my late teens and early twenties, I had been wishing to acquire an appreciation for poets and Gothic poetry from the Romantic period of the 19th century. Until a few stanzas by a poet named Percy B. Shelley caught my eye and made quite an impression on me. Most of his works are still too sophisticated for my comprehension — yet I thought his writing style suited my taste; something which I could grow to love more and more.

About a decade ago, I was blown away by the magnificent script of Frankenstein. That it was authored by Mary Shelley who at 16 years of age ran away with my favorite bard Percy was all I knew.

Then a few weeks ago, I discovered a few Tumblr residents who have become big fans of Mr. Shelley — which got me more interested to peruse more about his life and works. And what a surprise. A most delightful surprise.

First of all, I will have to say, Victor Frankenstein is Percy Bysshe Shelley. A man who is very much devoted to the enrichment of his mind. An ultimate aficionado of all kinds of knowledge. He’s into natural philosophy, chemistry, mathematics, and natural science. Not just that, in spite of his hearbreak and misfortunes, he never ceased being a lover of nature. Of the moon, the stars, with the heavens and the various paradise of the earth. I’ll be talking more about P.B. Shelley as the embodiment of the Frankenstein-monster creator in my next post.

Second, there is no doubt Mr. Shelley contributed profoundly to the development and authorship of the masterpiece-novel that has been solely credited to his wife. More on that later, too.

I had searched and read brief biographies and some historical facts pertaining to Mr. Shelley on the internet till the wee hours of the morning. By now I can safely describe Mr. Shelley as a heavyweight of a man due to the following traits and characteristics: passionate, intense, imaginative, radical, way way way ahead of his time, opinionated, politically minded and involved, impulsive, highly intelligent, creative, eloquent, a loving friend.

There are not-too-flattering description of him, of course: he was somewhat mentally disturbed (but most brilliant people are like that), a bit bipolar, morbid, prone to hallucinations (by reason of his complex and imaginative mind), radical conformist (experts have judged him as such yet I believe he had good reasons for being so — because of his status, circumstances, and obligations).

The official portrait of Percy doesn’t do him justice. I believe he’s way more attractive than the inferior paintings done on him.

Percy Bysshe Shelley was a genius and a man of deep substance, no doubt. Exceptionally appealing, too, despite his oddness and idiosyncracies. And I am crazy about the guy.

+++ to be continued+++

a much better poet no doubt

One or two of my major job problems have been somewhat solved so I’m feeling a bit relieved, kind of peaceful and ready to celebrate the coming festive season. In fact I’ve put up a few Christmas decors inside my workplace. At home, I continue the never-ending process of cleaning up, organizing, and discarding unneeded stuff. Yesterday while sorting out papers to throw away, I found a piece of paper my son had left four years ago — it contained a brief poem drafted by him, probably in high school (for class homework), as he wrote under its title “written by me.”

Relics and Remnants

Yes or No?
— a question
long unanswered
by the man who seeks
what has long been sought
by Judas on his death.
Is the Answer found
on the beach
where footprints are washed away
by the unstoppable ocean?
Or is it in the relics and remnants
caused by the reason
of the existence of the question?
The Answer will not
be found in the wronged,
but in the wrongdoer,
for the Answer lives,
on the relics and remnants
restored to their past glory?
crumbled to dust?
Yes or No?

Hm, I don’t want to dismiss my son’s composition as balderdash especially when I’m reminded of the fact I compelled him to read all the classics in the school’s library during his elementary years. Compared to me, he’s thousands of times more well-read and quite an excellent sophisticated writer. I wish this only child of mine had kept writing poems.

My nephew recently told me he’d seen my son’s active Linked In account and so I took a peek the night I learned about it. Yeah, it seems he still works in the same firm. He’s now the company’s product engineer, maybe a promotion from his previous role as senior design engineer. And he freelances as a technical writer, too. Big time. But he looks so so thin and frail in a group photo… I get worried but I try to stop myself from thinking and being concerned anymore. He has made his decision. To live his own life without me. So I’ll do the same for myself.

Meanwhile, there’s no time for me to hunt for worthwhile sites to read. I guess it means I should write more often — which is fine because writing gives me pleasure. I had really wanted a blog diary but I’d always fall by the wayside. Blog overhaul might be the answer.


apoetreflects: “ “There is some realm where feelings become birds and dark sky, and spirit is more solid than stone.” —John Gardner ”
I like the pic yet I’ve no record where I got it. Hope I won’t be sent to jail for this.

“There is some realm where feelings become birds and dark sky, and spirit is more solid than stone.”

—John Gardner

Happy Birthday, dearest one…

One of my biggest regrets in life — your very last birthday completely slid out of my mind because of my stupid work at the time. And when I visited you soon after, I said “Hi, papa,” your reply was something like “I don’t want you to be my child.” I kept failing you my whole life. I promise never to forget your birthday again. Yet you’re gone now. I am deeply deeply sorry.

How I wish you were still here, especially in these times when I’m certain I am not as strong as you were. But you hanged on for as long as you could. And I am determined to prove to you and myself I am indeed my father’s daughter.

I love you very much, Papa. I miss you so….

the woman my father loved (emended): my autobiography 7

Originally published: Aug 25, 2016

Because I saw him irregularly when I was a child, my longing for my father’s love and physical presence was a mainstay throughout my long youthful episode. His constant absence at home intensified my deep devotion to him. Papa’s actual residence became an enduring mystery to me — as much as his whereabouts which I felt sure nobody really knew, not even his first legal family. “Where does his heart find loyal shelter?” Secretly, I might’ve been carrying the notion there was a third woman in the picture — another woman whom my father trusted could provide the right cushion for a full rest down of his body and spirit after the night had fallen. A notion of mine which the years to come would prove to be true.

Fast forward to more than a dozen years:

Her name was Lucrecia. Both her looks and her intelligence were nothing to write home about. Unsophisticated, uneducated – unmistakably a native from some faraway province.

But it was her character or perhaps her bearings that won my hidden admiration: her strength, diligence, resourcefulness, attentiveness. Knowing my father, I wasn’t surprised she turned out to be the kind of woman he was proud of. Their partnership began when she became his all-around assistant at the nightclub he used to own. They were together for the longest years. 

But it was a love put to an end by the complexity of our family situation.

Somehow my mother was able to convince my sister Lucrecia’s daily visits and presence in the house to look after my ailing father were ruining her image to the neighbors. The issue of money got in the way, too, as my sister had all the authority; the dispute between them got uglier and uglier. I had to remain civil in my dealings with Lucrecia and kept my distance so as not to add to the convoluted condition and out of fear I’d earn the combined wrath of my mom and my sister.

My sis and my mother made the joint sudden and final resolution to ban Lucrecia from the house. The latter had to give in but not without a fight (taking her case to the municipal hall). The outcome: She was given an amount of cash as settlement. She had no choice but to completely stay away from the man she loved and took care of for four decades or more.

My father, who was bedridden had no inkling as to the events that were taking place. I was told to be tight-lipped about the reason for Lucrecia’s unexpected disappearance. My sister persuaded me Lucrecia’s permanent absence would be best for our father and the rest of us. Since my voice had been deemed weightless for as long as I could remember, it’d be futile to go against their decision. And I had my own drama to deal with as a single parent caring for a sickly child and all. I was fed up with my own circumstances and tried to find solace at whatever temporary pleasures that would come my way. I also wanted to be happy, not be miserable due to this incessant flesh and blood theatricals. I myself couldn’t understand what I’d been feeling and going through. Yes, excuses that I have come to regret and currently pay for.

I never saw Lucrecia again.

I could sense how it broke my father’s heart so much. He thought Lucrecia simply got tired and abandoned him. I couldn’t tell him. His knowing the truth would be pointless. It’d devastate him, not to mention the family feud would escalate and things could only have gotten worse. His downward spiral, however, began as he moved on to heavy alcohol consumption; which my sister, my brother, and my mother came to allow – he was in his late 80’s anyway, they rationalized. I bid him to stop drinking, but he expressed his wish to end his life. He was clearly committing suicide.


Except on Father’s Day, nobody else really comes to visit my father’s grave. I have no idea what has happened to Lucrecia. She would visit from time to time if she had known. She must not know for sure where the love of her life now rests in peace.